Mike Maden: Drone

“Here, my friend. Take these. They will help.”

Sitting at his tiny metal desk just outside of Sadr’s door, the aide heard a sharp crack, like a firecracker inside of a tin can. He flinched, then leaped to his feet and dashed into the office. A dozen armed guards thundered in close behind him.

Ali’s headless corpse still sat in its chair, slumped slightly to one side.

Sadr lay on his back on top of his desk, his arms extended like a crucifix. A bone shard from Ali’s skull had driven itself through Sadr’s left eye socket into his brain, killing him instantly.

Tamar had been able to time the detonation visually through one of Dr. Rao’s micro cameras attached to Ali’s numbed scalp. Unfortunately, the camera was destroyed in the blast.

Pearce knew that if Sadr was dead, the secretive mullahs wouldn’t confirm it for weeks, but he sensed that the gamble would pay off. Dr. Khan and his surgical team had implanted four ounces of CL-20 in Ali’s sinus cavity while he was knocked out on the jet ride over, enough high explosive to blow up a car. The average human skull was an excellent source of organic shrapnel containing twenty-five separate bones. Pearce savored the irony. He had turned Iran’s most dangerous terrorist into a living IED. It wasn’t as satisfying as killing the bastard Ali with his own hands, but letting Tamar take him out along with the maniac Sadr was at least some small measure of retribution for his murdered friend.

“Thank you, Troy,” Tamar said from her Tel Aviv apartment. Pearce had arranged for her to remotely detonate the charge he’d so carefully arranged.

“It doesn’t bring Udi back,” he said.

“I know. But it was a gift. Udi would be glad that I was the one to push the button.”

Washington, D.C.

The rotors on Marine One cycled up slowly as the engine spun to life. Myers climbed the steps for the last time. As always, she wore smart but sensible shoes. She stood at the top of the steps and waved good-bye to Jeffers and the other loyal members of her cabinet who had gathered to watch her go.

Only Jeffers, Pearce, and Myers knew the real reason she had resigned. Her enemies on the Hill assumed it was because she was afraid that she would have lost the impeachment battle. They were wrong. Politics was the last thing on her mind now. Her soul ached. Everyone she had ever loved had been taken from her. What was there to be afraid of anymore?

Myers’s prayer now was that no one on Titov’s side of the table would leak the details of their deal. Otherwise, everything was back in play and the country she loved so deeply would fall into harm’s way. The Russians had withdrawn from Azerbaijan on schedule, and Myers had resigned as promised—Titov’s proof of her sincere desire to avoid a shooting war—but not before securing blanket amnesty for Pearce and his team, along with Mike Early and all the others who had participated in her scheme. It had been a classic queen sacrifice, a device that more than one chess master had used to win a desperate game.

The press cameras whirred and flashed as the chopper gently lifted off. She hoped that President Greyhill was up to the job.

She, for one, was glad to give it up. It was time to go home to Colorado and grieve for her son properly.

Moscow, Russian Federation

It was a particularly miserable February in Moscow. Heavy wet flakes of snow swirled in a freezing arctic wind. Thick ice blanketed everything. In this punishing environment, exposed human flesh blistered instantly; moments later, it began to die.

It was the kind of weather that had beaten the invincible German Wehrmacht, Britnev reminded himself as he stared out of the sliding glass door of his penthouse suite. Ironically, his towering high-rise was kept deliciously warm by an HVAC unit manufactured in Frankfurt.

Now retired from the diplomatic service, Britnev was the newest board member of the third-largest oil and gas conglomerate in his country, a newly formed joint Russian-European venture. He was thoroughly enjoying the perks of his largely ceremonial position this evening and reveling in his good fortune after the debacle of the Myers affair. In the old days, he would have been marched down to one of the basement cells in the Kremlin, tortured, and then eventually shot in the base of the neck with a small-caliber pistol.

But the new Russia was full of surprises. Connections, bribes, and useful information greatly enhanced life expectancy these days. He was still of some use to Titov, as it turned out. His connection to Vice President Diele had proven to be the ultimate life-saving grace.

Britnev admired the sparkling skyline as he took another long drag on his beloved Gauloises. He relished the burn of the harsh tobacco. Britnev first learned to love the thick filterless cigarettes as a young diplomat in Paris.

Vivaldi played on the surround-sound stereo. Britnev checked his Movado watch. It wouldn’t be long before the girls he’d ordered earlier from his favorite escort service would be arriving, a pair of Eurasian sisters he’d had his eye on for a while.

His cell phone rang. The number was unlisted. It was probably the girls trying to get past the airtight building security. He crushed the cigarette butt in a crowded ashtray and picked up the phone.

“Yes?”

“Konstantin Britnev. Do you know who I am?”

The Russian paused. He could scarce believe it.

“Pearce. How did you get my number?”

“Turn on your television set.”

“What?”

“I’m doing you a favor. Trust me.”

Britnev crossed over to his glass-top desk and picked up a remote control. A big eighty-inch Samsung LCD popped on. Pearce’s face filled the screen.

“I should ask ‘how’ you are able to do this, but I wouldn’t understand the technical aspects anyway. And ‘why’ probably won’t bring me any satisfaction, either,” Britnev said.

“You already know ‘why.’ The only question you should be asking is ‘when’?” Pearce’s voice boomed through the television speakers.

“Soon, I imagine.” Britnev felt the sweat running down his back. How did this maniac find him?

“There are two ways to play this. The first way is for you to walk back over to that sliding glass door, step out onto the balcony, and throw yourself off the building. If the asphalt doesn’t kill you, the traffic will. That would be the easy way.”

“What’s the other option?”

“I kill you with my bare hands.”

“There’s a third option. I call security and leave.” Britnev punched in the three-digit emergency number on his phone. It rang twice. Someone picked up.

“Hello, scumbag,” Pearce answered on the other end.

Britnev glanced up at the television. Pearce wagged his cell phone at the screen. “Your security team isn’t available tonight. Neither are the hookers. It’s just you and me, babe.”

Britnev killed the call and marched toward the front door.

“You’re making a big mistake, Britnev. I’d take the balcony option if I were you.”

Britnev turned around and faced the television.

“What are you being paid to do this? I’ll triple it.”

“This isn’t about business. It’s personal. A favor for a friend of mine.”

“I don’t want to die.”

“Neither did Ryan Martinez or those kids your men slaughtered.”

“I didn’t pull the trigger. There’s no blood on my hands.”

“Take the jump, Britnev. You’ll be glad you did.”

Britnev turned on his heel again and raced for the door. His leather shoes clopped on the polished marble floor. He reached the door, unbolted the locks, and flung it open.