Drone Command

Feng tapped in the URL and password, and within moments a live video feed appeared on his screen. A masked figure clad in black appeared. Feng was more curious than angry. The threat was insulting enough. But the fact that this man felt he had to hide himself — gloves, mask, sleeves — was proof that he was afraid of Feng’s power. That meant he was smart — or at least wisely cautious.

“Who are you?” Feng demanded.

“My name doesn’t matter,” the voice said. The tone was eerily ethereal and low, masked by an electronic filter. “You have Troy Pearce in your custody. I want him released immediately.”

Feng knew he was dealing with a professional. Possibly even a national-security operative. The masked bandit was smart enough to realize the vice chairman was deploying voice-detection software to try to identify him after the video call.

Feng smiled. “So afraid of me that you can’t even use your real voice? That won’t help you. My security services are probably already racing to your location—”

“For your sake, I hope not. They would only find a list of the names of the sons of Party officials you’ve seduced over the years, including Lieutenant Chin.”

Feng’s jaw clenched. Who is this bastard? How could he have possibly known about his most recent acquisition?

“Have I struck a nerve, Feng Yongbo?”

“You’re wasting my time,” Feng said. “You obviously have a few resources at your disposal, so you know it’s the families of these young men who will be compromised and shamed by these false accusations, not me.”

“I assure you that I have more than a few resources at my disposal. All I want from you is for Troy Pearce to be released immediately.”

Feng chuckled. “You Americans. So arrogant. So demanding. Perhaps I’ll release Pearce to you. Perhaps I’ll mail him to you in a bag chopped up like a chicken prepared for the wok. What do you say to that?”

The masked figure on his screen held up a razor-sharp KA-BAR combat knife. “Strange that you should mention chopped up.”

The figure waved the ominous blade, motioning for the camera to follow. Feng began to despair. The walls were bare and the rooms empty. Every precaution had been taken to not reveal the least possible detail about the hidden location. Furniture, calendars, photos, newspapers, wallpaper prints, and even room dimensions or window types could provide enough clues to locate them. Definitely trained professionals.

The camera followed the shadowy figure into a room.

Feng gasped.

His naked son was hanging upside down from a rope attached to a heavy wooden beam in the ceiling.

“Jianli?” Feng said, leaping to his feet.

The figure touched the tip of the blade against the boy’s smooth flesh and flicked it just enough to spin him gently and also nick the skin. A tiny drop of blood welled up just above the navel.

Feng’s lined face tightened with anger. “You’re a fool to touch my son like that.”

“So I have your attention?” The electronic voice reverberated over Feng’s laptop speaker.

The vice chairman calmed himself down. The American wouldn’t dare harm his son. “You’re risking all-out war. Many sons will die because of your crimes, including you.”

“I’m risking nothing. I’m not an American. I work for cash. You release Pearce; I release the boy; I get paid. It’s a simple business transaction.”

“Release the boy now and I’ll triple your price,” the elder Feng promised. “Fail to release him, and I swear I’ll find you and skin you alive.”

The figure rotated Feng Jianli’s body so that his broad chest faced the camera. “Poor choice of words.” The masked figure lightly dragged the knife blade across young Feng’s skin. A razor-thin line of pink flesh opened up and blood seeped out, quickly creeping toward his bruised face.

The vice chairman smiled. “Blood doesn’t scare me. Perhaps I’ll drain Pearce of his when we’re finished. I know I’ll be bathing in yours soon enough.”

Feng leaned forward in his chair, his face pressed close to the camera. “Of course, a woman knows all about blood, doesn’t she?”

FORTY-SEVEN

MOSSAD SAFE HOUSE

BERLIN, GERMANY

16 MAY 2017

Tamar’s spine tingled. How did he know her gender? She’d read up on the vice chairman. His ruthless climb to the top of the Party hierarchy was well documented, but she hadn’t anticipated a cold-blooded sociopath with near psychic abilities.

She took a deep breath. It didn’t really matter. She owed Troy Pearce everything. He was the only man she trusted as much as she had her beloved Udi, who had been brutally murdered a few years before in an operation to stop the Iranian Quds Force in Mexico.