Drone Threat

by Mike Maden

  Pearce studied the scars on the side of his face. Barnes was an apex predator in a Mad Max world. Cunning and lethal.

  “Fine. Fill me in.”

  Barnes finished chewing and swallowed again. He leaned in close. The dope smell was intense. “You won’t stop nothing. You won’t change nothing. You won’t do nothing but maybe get yourselves killed. So take my advice. You and your buddies—clear out. Now. Like the general said.” He grabbed a half dozen french fries and shoved them into his blistered mouth.

  “We’ll leave when we’re good and ready.”

  Barnes took a long pull of soda. Pearce watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he guzzled it.

  “What were you, Barnes? Army? Marines?”

  Barnes wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Burped. “Delta, not that it matters.”

  “You swore an oath.”

  The merc rolled his eyes. “You don’t have time for this Boy Scout bullshit. Grab your gear right now and get rolling.”

  “You swore the oath. That’s still gotta mean something.”

  Barnes leaned forward, glaring at him. “I ain’t in service no more. The oath don’t mean shit. I quit it.” He flashed a card dealer’s smile. “I make three times as much as you, maybe four.” He winked. “And then some, if you catch my drift.”

  “Yeah, I think I do.”

  “I kill the same ragheads you do, get the same rush you do when I do it. But I don’t got no ‘rules of engagement’ and I don’t do no ass lickin’ like you chumps gotta do.” He leaned back, smiling. “And, brother, it’s all tax free. If you had any brains, you’d quit, too, and get with the program.”

  “You gave your word.”

  Barnes’s worn face darkened. “I gave blood, too. Who gives a shit?”

  “You’re a hired gun.”

  “And you aren’t? Shit. You just don’t know who you’re working for. You’re just a two-bit grocery clerk.” Barnes shoved the tray of food away and stood. “See you around, Boy Scout.”

  “Just tell me one thing, Barnes. Why the warning?”

  Barnes shook his head. He looked almost hurt. “I’m an American, aren’t I?”

  —

  PEARCE AWOKE.

  The cold steel of a Beretta 9mm barrel pressed against his forehead.

  He focused his eyes. Saw the Aussie’s twisted grin on the other end of the pistol.

  “Rise and shine, sweetheart.”

  Pearce tensed for a moment, ready to slap away the pistol and lunge at him. But he caught sight of the two Russians on the other side of the room, pointing their weapons at him, too.

  “Don’t even think about it,” the Aussie said, stepping back. He kept his pistol pointed at Pearce. “Get dressed. We’re going for a little ride.”

  “What about the others?”

  “They’re already downstairs. Except for the Kurd. Where is the little bald Turkish?”

  “I sent him home yesterday. He’s done.”

  “Lucky him.”

  —

  THREE VEHICLES BOUNCED ALONG the dusty track heading for God knows where. A sliver of pale moon hung low in the dark predawn sky.

  At least they didn’t blindfold us, Pearce thought. He was cuffed and seated on a bench in the back of a covered 6x6 along with Early, Luckett, and Rowley. Barnes was driving. The Aussie sat in back with them, holding his pistol on them, clearly enjoying being in charge. They were in the middle of a three-vehicle convoy. The Humvee leading the way was manned by the Brit and the South African. The Humvee trailing Pearce’s vehicle carried the two Russian mercs along with two of Majid’s Iraqi soldiers.

  Pearce sat in the rear near the open flap. His ass was sore from all the bouncing on the unpaved road and the heavy springs in the truck. Seemed like the wild broncs he rode in Wyoming didn’t buck half as bad as this, he told himself, trying to keep up his humor in the face of his impending execution. He watched the headlights of the tailing Humvee a hundred yards back jerk up and down as it hit the same holes in the road they did. He imagined the Humvee in front was just as far forward as the one in the rear and bouncing just as hard. Pearce glanced up into the early-morning sky. The stars were muted by a veil of haze. It wouldn’t be light for another two hours. There was just enough moonlight on the gently rolling hills and scrub to let him know they were out in the middle of nowhere.

  “How much longer?” Pearce shouted over the din.

  The Aussie checked his watch, grinned. “Time enough to pray or piss, if you do it quick.”

  Pearce glanced back at the trailing Humvee, calculating. If he jumped out and could hit the ground on his feet, then roll to the side, he just might be able to get out of the way fast enough before the Humvee would slam into him—

  WHOOSH! Pearce saw the rocket’s flaming tail slam into the trailing Humvee. It ripped apart in an explosion of fire and shrapnel. The shock wave hit Pearce in the face just as the 6x6 slammed on its brakes, tossing everyone forward, including the Aussie, who hit the deck and dropped his pistol. Early saw his chance and fell hard on the smaller merc, who grunted in pain as air blasted out of his lungs from Early’s massive bulk. Pearce leaped to his feet and swung his boot hard into the Aussie’s gut and he cried out again while Luckett kicked the merc’s pistol out of arm’s reach.

  “What the hell happened?” Early asked, still lying on the Aussie. “And why are we still alive?”

  Pearce wondered the same thing. The Humvee in front obviously was hit, too. Why weren’t they?

  Three Toyota Hilux pickups swerved into view, machine guns firing. A few shouts up front were quickly cut off. One of the pickups skidded to a halt just behind the 6x6. Its headlights blasted into the back of the truck. Pearce lowered his gaze against the intense light. He made out the figure of a man leaping out of the Toyota and heading for the truck. A moment later he climbed into the 6x6, brandishing a knife.

  “About time,” Pearce said. He and Tariq had worked out a plan for the Kurd to gather his own men and keep an eye on the compound. His second father and CIA mentor, Will Elliott, had taught him a long time ago to always have someone watch the back door. Pearce was glad he’d listened to the old-school CIA fighter—and his gut.

  Tariq smiled. “Better late than never, yes?” He cut Pearce’s PlastiCuffs. Pearce rubbed his sore wrists as Tariq proceeded to free the others. Kurdish voices crackled on Tariq’s shoulder mic.

  “All secured. No survivors.” Tariq nodded at the Aussie still on the floor and pulled his .45-caliber pistol. “Except this one.”

  Pearce put a hand on Tariq’s weapon. “No.”

  “We can’t leave any witnesses.”

  “Majid will hunt you down, Pearce. You and your mates. Let me go and I’ll talk him out of it. I swear.”

  Pearce leaned over and picked the Aussie up by his lapels, standing him on his feet. “You can do that?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “But you wouldn’t.”

  “I would, mate! I would! I don’t owe that man a thing. It’s my skin I’m worried about.”

  “Waste him. We can take our chances,” Early said.

  “It wasn’t personal, mate! It was just business. Following orders, that’s all. I can follow orders. You tell me what you want me to do, I’ll do it. It’s a contract between you and me, and I keep my contracts. You’ll see.”

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “Trust me? You own me.”

  “Prove it,” Pearce said.

  “How?”

  “Call Majid. Tell him you did the job. That will give us time to get out of here.”

  “Sure thing.”

  The four Americans, Tariq, and the Aussie climbed out of the back of the truck. Pearce surveyed the damage. The wreck of the Humvee up front was still burning by the side of the road. The Humvee behind them was closer. T
he heat from its flames tingled on his skin in the cool air. Bodies were strewn about in the dust, tossed from their vehicles after the explosions or shot by the Kurds. Barnes’s corpse was just ten feet away, cut down while trying to run away into the dark.

  The Aussie looked at Tariq and pointed at his inside pocket. “I’m reaching for my phone.”

  “I prefer you reach for a gun.” Tariq grinned. “Then I kill you, fair and square.”

  “A phone, mate. It’s just a phone.”

  The Aussie pulled out his phone and dialed Majid. Tariq pressed his pistol against the Australian’s head, flashing a smile, daring the merc to screw up the call.

  The Aussie spoke to Majid, calm and collected. “Yeah. It’s done. All of them. We’re burning the bodies now. Thank you, sir. See you soon.” He hung up. Turned to Pearce. “Satisfied?”

  “You think he believed you?” Pearce asked.

  “I know he did.”

  “Good.”

  Tariq’s pistol cracked.

  A fist-sized glob of brains and bone erupted out of the back of the Aussie’s head as more than four hundred pounds of foot energy pushed the .45-caliber slug through his skull. His wiry corpse tumbled into the dust, twitching as it bled out.

  “Damn it!” Early said. “How about a little warning next time?” He wiped away the gore splashed onto his camo shirt.

  Everybody’s ears rang from the stinging pistol retort.

  Tariq spat on the corpse as he holstered his pistol. “We cross the border into Kurdistan, be in my village before sunrise if we leave now.”

  “The Aussie was right,” Rowley said. “Majid will hunt us down when he finds out we’re still alive.”

  “He won’t,” Pearce said.

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “How?”

  Early loaded a wad of chaw in his lip. “Don’t wet yourself, Rowley. He’ll take care of it.”

  Tariq grinned ear to ear. “And if Majid does find out? Let the bastard come to my village. We will welcome him. Ha!” He spat in the dust.

  “He won’t,” Pearce said. “Let’s saddle up and roll.”

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Congressman Chandler opened his secured server. His contact in Baghdad confirmed that Pearce and the others had finally reported back in, a week late. The debrief indicated that the four Americans had followed a lead that took them to Kirkuk. The contact further indicated that Pearce and Early were being reassigned to JSOC for special security work in Baghdad’s Green Zone. Chandler was grateful that Pearce and his friends were finally out of the way.

  Chandler took a sip of heavily creamed and sugared coffee and scrolled through his classified news feeds. He came across a CIA report. He set his cup down. Chandler couldn’t believe his eyes. The CIA report indicated that at least forty members of General Majid’s command had been butchered in fierce fighting in the district over the last few weeks, including, apparently, the twenty-four Shia recruits he’d helped swear in. “Too bad,” he whispered to himself, clucking his tongue. He took another sip of coffee and read further. He nearly spit it out of his nose.

  Majid was dead. Killed by a bomb in his palace. His private office incinerated. No evidence left behind.

  Chandler swore under his breath as he pulled open a desk drawer and lifted out his private secured laptop. His door knocked. “Just a moment, please.”

  The door pushed open. His secretary poked her head in. “Sir? The Sisters of Perpetual Help are here for your nine o’clock.”

  “Not now!”

  The secretary saw the crazed look in her boss’s eyes. She blanched. “Yes, sir.” She closed the door in a hurry.

  Chandler typed in the password. Majid’s Cayman Island bank account screen pulled up.

  Zero.

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Chandler thought. All that money, gone. Only he and Majid had the password for the account. Whoever took it must have tortured the general for it.

  Just what a terrorist would do.

  54

  RIYADH, SAUDI ARABIA

  Pearce heard voices in the distance.

  The ache in his shoulders was finally pulling his mind out of the dark abyss of the tranquilizer and into the dim fog of semiconsciousness. He was suddenly self-aware. Aware enough to know that his eyes felt taped shut, but they weren’t. He struggled to pry them open, finally managing to lift the half-ton weights holding down his eyelids. A hazy film blurred his vision. He blinked a few more times. Clearer now.

  Pearce focused on his lap. He was sitting. Bound to a chair. He was wearing an orange jumpsuit. He was screwed.

  Pain shot through his neck and shoulders and his skull throbbed with a pounding headache. The room was nearly dark except for a bright flickering light outside his peripheral vision, coming from the same direction as the voices.

  He squirmed and stretched as best he could, trying to work out the kinks in his aching back, but he couldn’t move much. His arms were cuffed behind him. The thick plastic strips cut deeply into his wrists. He tried to twist them but they wouldn’t budge. He began opening and closing his tingling hands, partly to keep the blood flowing. His ankles were cuffed tightly to the legs of the chair as well.

  Christ, Pearce thought, where am I?

  The voices came from the wide-screen television on the wall in front of him. Arabic. He caught most of it, but the images told the story: ISIS fighters, flags, guns, Raqqa. Then more reporting about impending American airstrikes and stock video images of infrared targets, reticles, smart bombs, exploding buildings. “B-52 bombers are already in the air from bases in the United States,” a reporter said, then cut away to a Saudi official. “Yes, thousands of civilians will die, but that is the fault of Daesh, and Daesh will finally be destroyed.”

  Pearce’s heart sank. How long had he been out?

  He wiggled his fingers and thumbs as much as he could. In his mind he wondered if Ian knew where he was.

  He glanced over at the plate-glass window. Outside he saw lush green grass in gently rolling mounds lit by buzzing sodium lamps. Long, arcing plumes of water swept back and forth over the turf bounded by palm trees. “A damn golf course,” he muttered to himself. “Ian, you’re a Scot, and you don’t even play golf.”

  What was going on? Where was he? If he didn’t know any better, he would have guessed by the expensive furnishings he was in a five-star hotel or condo on a golf course in Vegas or West Palm. If they were going to torture him, why would they do it here? If they weren’t going to work him over, what did they want with him?

  His nose twitched. An acrid smell. Urine. His own. He looked down. He could feel his cold crotch. He rocked in the chair. Heard the adult diaper crinkle beneath his jumpsuit. He tried to swallow but his throat ached. He was parched. Probably dehydrated from the booze. Stupid.

  The door pushed open.

  A barrel-chested monster in desert camo and a bushy beard burst into the room. His dark eyes first scowled at Pearce, then scanned the room swiftly. He left as quickly as he arrived, slamming the door shut behind him.

  Was that the goon who would torture him? Cut off his head? Pearce’s mind was still clouded. Nothing was making sense.

  The door swung open again. The fanatical goon stormed over to Pearce. Ran his thick hands over the PlastiCuffs to make sure they were secure. He turned around and nodded toward the door.

  Al-Saud stepped in. He wasn’t dressed like a Westerner now. He wore flowing robes and a white keffiyeh, the traditional headdress of Saudi men. He dismissed the uniformed killer with a wave of his hand. The man sneered at Pearce one last time and left the room, gently shutting the door behind him.

  Al-Saud stepped closer to Pearce, leaned down. A smile creased his face. “How are you feeling, Mr. Pearce?”

  “Sitting in my dirty diaper, strapped to a chair?” Pe
arce’s voice croaked. “How do you think I feel?”

  “I apologize for the inconveniences. My security team insisted upon it. You have a formidable reputation.”

  “I’m a harmless little fuzzball. You can release me. No worries, I promise.”

  Al-Saud stood erect. His smile widened. “I think not.” Al-Saud stepped over to an ornately carved dining table and pulled out a chair identical to the one Pearce was strapped to. He placed the chair next to Pearce, then sat in it.

  “Why am I here?” Pearce asked.

  “That’s an excellent question. Why do you think you’re here?”

  “First of all, where is ‘here’?”

  “One of my properties adjacent to the country club my family owns.”

  “In the States?”

  “Just outside of Riyadh, actually. Do you play golf?”

  “I have a Mizuno five-iron I’d like to rack across your skull.”

  Al-Saud darkened. “I can see the murder in your kafir eyes. Tell me, how many men have you killed? I mean, personally. In combat. Not from one of your remote drone strikes.”

  “Why do pussies like you always want to know how many people men like me have killed?”

  “Don’t you know it’s rude to answer a question with a question?”

  “Do you think I care?”

  Al-Saud laughed. “You think you’re in some kind of a movie, don’t you? Like you’re playing the tough-talking action hero who finds a way to free himself and take out the villain.”

  “Something like that.”

  Al-Saud’s fist slammed into Pearce’s face with a sickening thud. Pearce tumbled over sideways, his head crashing to the thickly carpeted floor. His cheek was on fire.

  “Damn,” Pearce said with a groan.

  Al-Saud stood, rubbing his sore fist. “You must pardon my temper.” He pulled off his long headdress and set it on the table. “In my country, manners are expected from guests, even ones that stink of their own filth.”

  Pearce opened a swelling eye. Saw the pistol in al-Saud’s shoulder holster.

  Al-Saud touched his weapon and shook his head. “Not yet, my friend. We have a few things to discuss. Then I should like to sit here and observe you as you watch the destruction of Raqqa and the beginning of the war that will finally cleanse my land of the filthy Daesh.” He checked his Rolex. “My sources tell me that the bombing will begin in just three minutes. We haven’t much time.”