Mike Maden - Drone

“Our people? You’re talking about the animals who butchered tens of thousands of innocents—those are the people you partnered with. The greed, the corruption, the violence—all of it must end if our nation is to have any hope of real democracy.”

“A dreamer’s dream, Cruzalta. This is Mexico,” Hernán laughed. “You can’t change a whole culture by changing a few names on the office door.”

“Perhaps not. But we can at least try, and if we fail, we can fail as men , rather than living like a pack of vicious dogs.”

Madero trembled with rage. “How dare you speak so poorly of your own people, Barraza. It’s the politicians who corrupt the people, not the other way around.”

“You have many enemies, Barraza. Some closer than you think. Get out while you can,” Cruzalta said.

“I have no fear of enemies. The people love me, especially after the attempt on my life,” Antonio said.

Cruzalta reached into his pocket and pulled out a digital player. He explained that it was a portion of the conversation Pearce had secretly recorded with Ali in San Diego.

“Then why did you attack the president at the Hidalgo church?”

“Hernán Barraza ordered the attack on his brother.”

“Why would he want you to attack his brother?”

“He wanted his brother to think that you Americans were trying to assassinate him.”

“But that drone could easily have killed the president.”

“Hernán wants to be president. He is already making plans for another attempt.”

Antonio turned toward his brother. He was on the verge of tears. “Hernán?”

“What is that recording supposed to prove?” Hernán protested. “Americans can doctor anything on digital.” He knew Antonio thought the moon landings were staged.

Antonio turned back to Cruzalta. “You are a dangerous man and a traitor. You make me sick.” Antonio nodded at Madero. “And you, old man, are a fool.”

Hernán slumped in his chair, visibly relieved.

“So give me one good reason why I should resign in disgrace and let you traitors take over the government?” Antonio demanded.

Madero pulled out another document and set it carefully in front of Antonio. “On this resignation letter, you are guaranteed a full and complete pardon and total immunity for all crimes you may have committed, and you may keep all of the money you currently possess by whatever means you acquired it, up to and including the moment you sign the document.”

Antonio read the resignation and the pardon, then handed it to Hernán. “You’re the lawyer. What do you think?”

Hernán took the paper from his brother and scanned it.

“What about my brother? Is he included in this pardon?” Antonio asked.

“We are prepared to extend that offer.”

Hernán nodded, smiling with approval. “It appears to be legitimate to me.” He handed back the paper to Antonio, who set it on his desk.

“What’s to keep the new government from changing its mind? What about lawsuits?” Antonio asked.

Madero’s kind brown eyes narrowed. A faint smile appeared beneath his elegantly trimmed silver mustache.

“You have my word, señor. But of course, for a wretch like you, honor is no virtue. So I suggest that you leave the country. Take everything with you. Find a place that does not permit extradition. We will not violate our agreement, but take every precaution if that lets you sleep at night. Whatever it takes to get you to sign that paper.”

“I need seventy-two hours to settle my affairs before I can leave the country. After that, you can have your government. Is that acceptable?”

“We agree,” Cruzalta said.

Antonio opened a drawer. “And I am completely pardoned and immune from all prosecutions for any crimes I have committed up until the time I sign this paper, correct?”

“That is exactly correct,” Madero said.

Antonio pulled out a big chromed Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum and stood up with it. He held it up in front of his face.

“Even if I kill the two of you?”

Madero didn’t flinch. “Yes. The agreement is ironclad.”

Antonio rubbed the big silver barrel against his cheek. “I love this gun. Have you ever seen what a slug from one of these can do to a bear’s skull?”

Guns didn’t bother Cruzalta. He’d had too many of them pointed at him over the years to care anymore.

Antonio whipped around, pointed the pistol at Hernán, and fired. The giant hand cannon roared, but the kick was enormous. The slug tore into the wall six inches above Hernán’s head. Everybody’s ears rang from the deafening gun blast.

Antonio lowered the barrel directly at Hernán’s furrowed forehead.

Hernán fell to his knees, begging for his life, wrapping his arms around his brother’s waist.

To Cruzalta’s ruined ears, it sounded like Hernán was crying underwater.

BOOM!

Hernán’s head exploded like a ripe melon.

The security team broke through the door, guns drawn. They aimed their weapons at Cruzalta and Madero.

“Mr. President! Are you all right?”

Hernán’s blood and brain tissue stained the front of Antonio’s elegant blue suit.

“I’m fine. Leave,” Antonio ordered, waving them away with the pistol.

Confused, the security detail holstered their weapons. Blood was still pumping out of what was left of Hernán’s cranium onto the finely woven Persian carpet.

“I said leave. Now!”

The security detail left, tails tucked between their legs. “We’ll be outside if you need us, Mr. President.”

Antonio tossed the heavy gun onto the desk, then picked up a Montblanc pen and unscrewed the top. He flashed his signature smile at Madero and Cruzalta. Flecks of his brother’s gore were still on his face.

“Now, gentlemen, where do I sign?”

Tehran, Iran

The policeman nudged the bum in the gutter with his shoe.

“Drunkard! Get up, or I’ll have you whipped.”

The man moaned, barely stirring.

The policeman kicked him harder. The bum groaned, sat up, rubbed his face. He seemed too well dressed to be a drunk.

“Where am I?” His voice sounded strange, like he had a cold.

“You’re going to jail if you don’t stand up and start walking, now.” The policeman grabbed him by the nape of the neck and yanked him to his feet.

“Let go of me, fool. Do you know who I am?” The man blinked hard against the harsh morning light. His head ached, and his sinuses were packed. Was he sick?

“You are Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi back from the dead for all I care.” The policeman grabbed the man by his rock-hard bicep. The policeman frowned. What kind of derelict had an arm like that?

Ali broke the policeman’s grip and shattered his jaw in a lightning-fast strike. The cop crumpled to the alley pavement, knocked out cold.

Ali checked his watch. He needed to reach President Sadr with Myers’s amazing offer as quickly as possible. He just hoped he could find some aspirin before then. That Sunni pig Khan said the headache would only be mild, but the effects of the anesthetic were excruciating. If I ever find him, I’ll cut off his hands, Ali promised himself.

Two hours later, Ali sat in a chair in the president’s office, the headache roaring in his head. He rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers to try to alleviate the pressure.

A male aide rushed in with a glass of water and a couple of Tylenols and set them on the president’s desk.

“That will be all,” the president told his aide. The man departed quickly and silently.

Sadr crossed from behind his desk, picked up the glass of water and the two tablets, and handed them to his most trusted Quds officer. He leaned in close.