Drone

“Decapitation. Has to be.”

Early flinched. He should have known Pearce had already figured things out.

“At least she’s bright enough not to continue with the tit-for-tat bullshit. We both know where that winds up,” Early countered. He was referring to the Vietnam War, an endless escalation up a staircase of increasing casualties. Americans never won that kind of conflict. “She made a strong case for it. And I think she’s right. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here. You know that.”

“Yeah. I hear she gives good speech.” Pearce pulled a beer out of the ice chest and cracked it open. His torso glistened with sweat.

Early bristled. “A little respect for the boss, okay?”

“That’s your problem right there, Mikey. She’s not my boss. She’s supposed to be a public servant, not God Almighty. I’m the taxpayer. She works for me, not the other way around.”

“I checked your tax records, Troy. You haven’t paid any taxes in five years. You just better damn well hope the IRS doesn’t go all Occupy on your one percent ass.”

Pearce shrugged. “What can I say? I’ve got a good accountant.” He pointed at the ax with his beer bottle. “Why don’t you make yourself useful?” He took a swig.

“Funny, I was going to say the same thing to you,” Early said. He tossed his empty bottle into a bag and stripped off his shirt. There were a few pounds of behind-the-desk flab around his gut, but he was still in fighting shape. He snatched up the ax.

“I’m surprised you know which end to hold,” Pearce chuckled.

Early placed a log on the stump, spit in his hands, and grabbed the ax handle. “I don’t see what the problem is. You’re still in the business of hurting people and breaking things, aren’t you? I mean with your toys?” Early raised the ax high over his head and smashed it down, but he misjudged the distance and hit the log with the ax handle. A stinger jolted through both of his arms.

“Son of a—” Early dropped the ax and shook out the tingling sensation from his arms.

“Don’t break my ax,” Pearce said. “And, yes, I use ‘toys’ because I want my people to stay safe. Haven’t lost a man yet.” He hesitated, then added darkly, “Or a woman.”

Early turned to him. “Is that what this is all about?”

“What?”

“Annie.”

Pearced daggered Early with his eyes. “Don’t even think about going there.”

Baneh, Iran

August 24, 2005

A fertilizer warehouse squatted in the western district of the city, a converted American army Quonset hut from the ’50s. Electric light glowed beneath the wooden side doors and from behind the shuttered windows. There were no other lights on in the area. There was a quarter moon that night, but no street lamps. At least none that worked. The small regional capital of seventy thousand people was just across the border from Iraq.

Troy, Mike, and Annie had worked their way to the warehouse by foot after traveling overland from Iraq in a battered 1979 Toyota Land Cruiser, a common vehicle in these parts. They dressed like civilian day laborers but wore soft Kevlar vests beneath their cotton shirts. Annie wore a keffiyeh to hide her face and hair.

Annie peeked through a gap in the warehouse window shutter while Troy and Mike stood guard. She counted seven stolen 155mm artillery shells, huge and lethal, lined up along the far wall. One of the American-made shells was lying on a table like a surgical patient surrounded by three Quds Force technicians. They were connecting wires to detonators and a remote control.

The only locals on the street were a couple of wild dogs feeding on a bag of garbage lying in the gutter, too famished to pay attention to strangers.

Annie flashed hand signals. Mike gently tried the handle on a side door. He signaled with a nod that it was unlocked. Troy pulled out two flash bangs, and Annie slid her short-stock MP5 9mm submachine gun into firing position. She knew it was better to not fire her weapon if at all possible. Just one of those 155mm shells was powerful enough to flatten the entire block.

Troy nodded to Mike, who cracked the door open just enough for Troy to toss in the two flash bangs. Mike shut the door. The charges cracked sharply on the concrete floor in the large open room—perfect for flash bangs. Nowhere to hide when they went off.

Troy dashed in first in a low crouch, a suppressed 9mm Glock in his hand. Mike followed in right behind him, pistol drawn, while Annie stayed put, scanning the perimeter behind them. She watched the dogs skitter away, frightened by the flash bangs. When she was certain it was all clear, she made her way inside the building.

Annie turned the corner into the doorway just in time to see Mike and Troy popping caps into the heads of two unconscious men slumped on the floor. The three bomb makers were the actual targets; they were far more lethal than the ordnance in the room.

“Clock’s ticking,” Annie said. Her voice distorted by a slight electronic buzz in the microphone.