Drone

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.

Pearce stood there, smiling.

Pearce jabbed a laser-pulsed drug injector against Britnev’s neck before he could scream, paralyzing him. He pushed the Russian back inside the apartment, kicked the door shut, and guided the whimpering, gurgling man onto a modular white leather sofa.

Pearce snicked open a spring-loaded blade. The razor-sharp steel gleamed in the light.

Terror flooded the Russian’s face, his eyes bulging wide like dinner plates.

Pearce had been right, Britnev realized.

Perhaps even kind.

The balcony would have been a much better option.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A tumultuous sea stands between a first draft and a published novel, but my journey was eased by the sure hands and stout hearts at G. P. Putnam’s Sons. My amazing editor, Nita Taublib, steered a wise but gentle rudder; her dexterous assistant editor, Meaghan Wagner, showed me the ropes, literally; and eagle-eyed copy editor David Hough spied out the hazards of my own folly. Thank you all. I can’t wait for our next adventure together.

David Hale Smith at InkWell Management is both my agent and my secret weapon, and his team over there has kept a careful watch. Thank you.

I couldn’t have made it this far in life without comrades-in-arms like Martin Hironaga, Mark Okada, Steve Miller, and Scott Werntz, along with too many others to name. My oldest friends, Vaughn Heppner and B. V. Larson, first suggested I take up the challenge of writing a book not too long ago, something they each do more often than anybody else I know, and they do it well.

This past year Anthony V., my reading/math study buddy at Wilson Elementary School, reminded me what hard work really looks like and why books matter. And a shout-out to Ivan Sanchez and the other ’tenders at the tequila bar at Mi Dia in Grapevine, Texas. Research never tasted so good.

I am constantly inspired by my family in ways they will never fully realize, but my wife, Angela, is the person I most want to be like in the world. She is a fixed and constant grace to those around her, me most of all.

ADDENDA

Nikola Tesla was both a scientific genius and a humanistic visionary, perhaps one of the greatest minds in human history. His technical achievements were both prodigious and unprecedented and yet his accomplishments remain largely unknown to the general public. I’ll refer you to the work of Tesla scholars and advocates for further explication of this tragic conundrum.