Drone

Prayed he wasn’t too late.

30

On board the Pearce Systems HondaJet

Thirty minutes later, Judy banked the HondaJet away from San Diego onto a southeastern course for Mexico City. Pearce tapped on the iPad he was using to zero in on his missing friend.

“So, how did you find Udi?”

“Uniquely coded carbon nanotube transponder implants. Ian’s jacked into an air force recon satellite and tracked the signature.” Pearce zipped open a small tactical pack. “I’ve implanted all of my people with them for situations like this.”

“That’s cool.” Then it hit her. “Wait, you just said ‘my people.’”

“Yes. You have them, too.”

“I never gave you permission—”

“Here.” Pearce held out a Glock 19 pistol.

Her face soured. She touched her stomach. Felt queasy, violated. “How?”

Pearce pressed the weapon closer to her. “You’re gonna need this.”

Judy pushed it away. “You know I don’t do guns,” Judy said.

“We’re not exactly going to Bible study.”

“Don’t do those, either.”

Pearce thought about pressing the issue but let it drop. Judy had lost her faith years ago, but not her moral sensibilities. Her only religion now was flying.

He shoved the 9mm pistol back in the bag. “I don’t make any apologies for protecting my people.”

“We’re gonna have to talk when this is all over.”

“ETA?”

“Ten-thirteen, local.”

Pearce glanced at the instrument panel. Judy’s Polaroid was missing. He hoped that wasn’t a sign of things to come.

Benito Juárez International Airport, Mexico City

Judy taxied to a stop inside a private hangar just as Tamar rolled up in a beater Chevy Impala with rusted Durango plates and a scorpion sticker plastered across the rear window.

“Perfect,” Pearce said. He’d trained his people to steal old cars. No GPS or OnStar systems to track them.

Judy piled into the backseat, wiping the greasy fast-food wrappers and crushed beer cans onto the filthy carpet with a sweep of her arm. Pearce tossed a mil-spec first-aid kit and a duffel bag loaded with rifles and ammo next to her. Within minutes they were on Avenue 602 heading east out of town, Tamar behind the wheel. Pearce was glued to the tablet while Judy watched Mexico City slide past through the grimy windshield. The car had no air-conditioning. It was going to be a long, hot ride.

* * *

Forty minutes outside of Mexico City, Tamar turned onto a rutted dirt track leading back into farm country. Against her instincts, she had to slow down as the rocks thudded sharply against the car’s undercarriage. No telling what damage they were doing. They had to roll their windows up against the clouds of dust they were throwing up.

All three of them wore ear mics, linked to one another. Pearce had other channels open, including Ian’s.

“In a hundred meters, pull off to the right,” Pearce said. “Let’s get a visual.” The air force satellite Ian had access to was only a signals intelligence unit. It couldn’t provide video surveillance.

Tamar pulled over and killed the engine. A small berm gave them some cover from the small farm thirty meters off of the road. Udi’s signal had been flashing from there since Ian had found it earlier that morning.

They unloaded quietly and scoped out the ramshackle farm. The house was barely more than a shack. In the front, a couple of goats chewed on grass and a half dozen chickens wandered around a tractor that hadn’t moved since the Carter administration. Off the near side of the house, five huge sows shouldered against one another in a muddy pen, grunting as they fed greedily from a trough, fat stinging flies buzzing in their flicking ears. Otherwise, no other sounds or movement.

“There.” Pearce pointed at a dirt bike dropped in the grass.

Three yards from the bike, a body.

Tamar gasped.

“Not Udi. Too young. Let’s move.”

Pearce carried a short-stock M-4 carbine. Tamar gripped her Mini-Uzi. Judy hauled the medical kit.

The three of them crouch-walked past the motorcycle. Key still in the ignition. Smell of gas. They reached the body. A teenage boy, fourteen, maybe fifteen. Single gunshot to the side of his head. “He tumbled off the back and the bike kept rolling,” Pearce whispered in his mic.

Judy felt for a pulse. Knew there wouldn’t be one. “Dead awhile.” She shooed the flies off of the boy’s head wound.

“Wait here,” Pearce said to Judy. He nodded at Tamar, gave her a hand signal. Tamar sped around back, keeping low to the ground, as Pearce approached the front door.

“Another body back here,” Tamar whispered. “Probably the boy’s mother. Throat cut.”

“Bastards,” Ian hissed in Pearce’s ear.

Pearce reached the porch. The door was shut, but a front window was open.

“In position,” Tamar said.