Drone

“Good. Because we’re totally FUBAR if you drop the ball on this.”

36

Boca de Tomatlán, Mexico

Just a quarter mile north of the sleepy little bay village was an open-air bar called El Pirata Libre. It perched on a collection of steps on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean, its various palm-frond roofs jutting up at sharp angles. The place felt more Polynesian than Mexican despite the stone floors and round tiled tables. It was a favorite haunt of Canadian snowbirds and retired Americans who crowded the place every sunset to say good-bye to the great golden disc as it plunged into the sea. Cruzalta liked it because the booze was cheap and strong, and the endless tracks of Jimmy Buffett music were loud enough to drown out the mindless conversations taking place all around him. A perfect place for a middle-aged man to hide in plain sight.

Cruzalta wore the same gaudy tropical shirt, cargo shorts, and flip-flops that every other güero in the bar was wearing. It was the natural camouflage for the terrain. The only difference was that Cruzalta wasn’t cramming a beer-barrel gut beneath his Tommy Bahama shirt and his calves were sculpted like diamonds from his daily five-mile run.

Cruzalta stood at the far rail on the lowest level of the bar nearest the ocean, drink in hand, staring out at the purpling sky, the setting sun half submerged on the far horizon.

“Colonel Cruzalta, a word, please,” whispered in his ear.

Cruzalta’s first instinct was to reach for the pistol in his concealed holster, but the voice in his ear was distinctly American and he felt neither the point of a blade nor the blunt edge of a pistol barrel in his back.

“Why not?” Cruzalta said.

Cruzalta turned around. He didn’t recognize the fortysomething-year-old man standing in front of him, but he had the poise of a fighter in repose, completely relaxed and yet able to strike at the blink of an eye. There was a fierce, welcoming intelligence behind the man’s clear blue eyes as well.

“You must be Pearce,” Cruzalta said. “You travel fast. I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

“My pilot has a lead foot,” Pearce said. He was referring to Judy Hopper, of course. She’d flown Pearce down in the company HondaJet and was getting the plane refueled at that very moment. “What’s good to drink here?”

Cruzalta held up his whiskey glass. “Anything without an umbrella. Follow me.”

Cruzalta slipped into the gray-haired crowd, brushing past the wide asses and veiny legs peeking out of too-short shorts. They made their way to the bar at the top level and ordered a couple of Johnnie Walker Blacks.

“Cheers,” Cruzalta said as he clinked glasses with Pearce. They both tossed back their drinks.

“Another round,” Cruzalta barked in Spanish to the barkeep. Two more were set up. Two more tossed down.

“You’re the man who took out our friend Castillo, aren’t you?” Cruzalta asked.

“Me and my team.”

“Impressive. You did more in one day against Castillo than I was able to do in twenty years. I just wish you’d done it earlier.” Cruzalta picked up a third whiskey and knocked it back. Pearce didn’t touch his.

“You tired of feeling sorry for yourself, Colonel?”

Cruzalta’s face hardened. “How would you feel if it was your soldiers who were burned to death?”

“For what it’s worth, I think you ran the operation as well as could have been expected, given your orders.”

“I did what I was told to do. That was my error. A good commander takes initiative. I should have disobeyed my orders. Taken more precautions.”

“Soldiers are supposed to obey orders. Your reward was to be treated dishonorably. But then again, what else should one expect from a dishonorable man like Barraza?”

Cruzalta cursed. “Politicians. They’re all the same, no?”

“I used to think they were. But I’ve recently learned that a few are capable of doing the right thing for the right reasons.”

The Marine snorted. “Like your Myers? She’s just another gringa with a gun pointed at our heads.”

“No, she’s not. In fact, that’s why I’m here. She wants me to ask you a question.”

Cruzalta blinked his bloodshot eyes. “Ask me a question? What question?”

“Is there somewhere else we can talk?”

“My brother’s place, up on the hill.”

“Does he have a satellite dish?”

* * *

Cruzalta pulled a couple of cold Tecates out of the fridge.

Pearce was on his cell phone as he flipped through several satellite television channels until he found an unused station.

Cruzalta set Pearce’s beer on the table and fell onto the couch. He popped open his bottle and took a swig.

Pearce thanked whoever was on the other end of the call and clicked off. He picked up his beer and opened it.

“So your president wanted you to come down here to show me movies, Señor Pearce?”

“Not exactly. Cheers.” He took a sip.

The TV channel acquired a signal. An empty chair appeared on-screen. A portrait of Winston Churchill hung on a wall behind the chair. A moment later, Myers stepped into the frame and sat down.

Cruzalta instinctively stood up.