Drone

EPILOGUE

Moscow, Russian Federation

It was a particularly miserable February in Moscow. Heavy wet flakes of snow swirled in a freezing arctic wind. Thick ice blanketed everything. In this punishing environment, exposed human flesh blistered instantly; moments later, it began to die.

It was the kind of weather that had beaten the invincible German Wehrmacht, Britnev reminded himself as he stared out of the sliding glass door of his penthouse suite. Ironically, his towering high-rise was kept deliciously warm by an HVAC unit manufactured in Frankfurt.

Now retired from the diplomatic service, Britnev was the newest board member of the third-largest oil and gas conglomerate in his country, a newly formed joint Russian-European venture. He was thoroughly enjoying the perks of his largely ceremonial position this evening and reveling in his good fortune after the debacle of the Myers affair. In the old days, he would have been marched down to one of the basement cells in the Kremlin, tortured, and then eventually shot in the base of the neck with a small-caliber pistol.

But the new Russia was full of surprises. Connections, bribes, and useful information greatly enhanced life expectancy these days. He was still of some use to Titov, as it turned out. His connection to Vice President Diele had proven to be the ultimate life-saving grace.

Britnev admired the sparkling skyline as he took another long drag on his beloved Gauloises. He relished the burn of the harsh tobacco. Britnev first learned to love the thick filterless cigarettes as a young diplomat in Paris.

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.