Drone

18

Isla Paraíso, Mexico

César Castillo sat with a glass of Cuban rum in one hand, his third so far. His grieving, red-rimmed eyes stared at nothing in particular.

Ulises sat next to him, pensive. He wasn’t drinking, though. He suffered the loss that only a twin can feel, a psychic ache, like a throbbing phantom limb. A thought woke him out of his stupor.

“It’s genetic, isn’t it?” Ulises asked. “A genetic defect?”

His father shrugged. “How should I know? I’m not a doctor.” He slurred a little.

“I should get an MRI. They can find aneurysms with an MRI, I think.”

“Go ahead. But you might find out you have a ticking time bomb in here.” César poked his son’s forehead. “Knowing that could drive you crazy.”

“Maybe there’s a treatment. Pills or something.”

A knock on the door.

“Come,” César ordered.

Ali entered the room. He carried a large manila envelope, unmarked.

“What do you want, Arab?” César asked. He didn’t invite Ali to sit down.

“He’s Persian, Father. Not Arab.”

“He’s not my son. He’s not my blood. What do I care what he is?”

“I am your loyal servant, Señor Castillo, prepared to sacrifice myself in your service.”

“Will your death bring me back my boy, Arab?”

“No, but he will greet you in heaven with kisses when he sees you have avenged his murder.”

“What are you talking about, Ali? Aquiles died from an aneurysm,” Ulises asked.

“Don’t you think it strange that a man in Aquiles’s supreme physical condition would die from something like that? He was young. You have no family history of such things. He didn’t use meth or cocaine. So how can it be possible?”

“The coroner said that it is not unheard of for a young person like him to die of an aneurysm,” Ulises said.

“It is not unheard of for someone to be struck by a meteor, either. But it is extremely unlikely,” Ali said.

“What’s your point?” César barked.

“Myers’s son is killed. The Marinas launch an assault to capture your sons. The assault fails. Two weeks later, your son dies. Not by a bullet, not by a bomb. But he dies in a very bloody and violent way.”

“Poison?” Ulises asked.

“None was detected in the autopsy,” Ali said. “Though perhaps the toxin was bioengineered to escape the blood panels. The CIA is constantly developing such weapons. But I do not believe it was poison.”

“The Americans?” César’s face flushed with rage. “You said the Americans would never link my sons to the El Paso massacre!”

Ali sensed the crazed drunk would lunge at him at any moment. He could easily reach for the pistol in his holster and kill the older man along with his idiot son, but then his mission would fail. He needed the Castillos to live a while longer, even if it meant his own death.

“I was wrong, jefe. Forgive me,” Ali said. He lowered his eyes as an act of contrition, fully expecting to be killed.

César’s fists clenched and he began to rise, but Ulises stopped him. “It’s not his fault, Father. Aquiles and I ran the operation. Ali had nothing to do with it. We still need him, especially if the Americans are after us now.”

César glowered at Ali for another moment, then his face resumed its normal color. He finally sat back down and nodded at Ali, the closest he could get to an apology. “Why are you sure it’s the Americans?”

Ali opened the envelope. Removed a red lanyard with a plastic badge attached. Handed it to César.

“This arrived today.”

“Who sent it?” César demanded.

“No return address or name. No note,” Ali said. “But there can be no question.”

César glanced at the plastic badge. It was labeled FRIDA KAHLO ARTS ACADEMY, and had the name and face of Ryan Martinez. A bullet hole puckered the badge, and dried blood smeared the photo.

“An eye for an eye, jefe,” Ali said.

“Why not kill him?” César asked, pointing at Ulises.

“Myers is offering you a deal. A son for a son. She thinks you are stupid enough to take it,” Ali said.

César’s face darkened with thought. “One dead son is enough, isn’t it?”

“One dead son is too many, jefe.” Ali sighed. “And it might be a deal worth taking, if that’s all there was to it…”

“What else is there, Arab?”

Ali pointed at Ulises. “She has twisted your son into a collar around your neck. By leaving him alive, she keeps you chained to a post, like a dog, snarling and snapping, but hurting no one. Anyone can walk by. And if the dog charges?” Ali yanked violently on his own shirt collar. “The dog gets pulled down.”

Ulises’s face reddened. A vein bulged in his forehead.

Ali’s words had landed perfectly. He fought the urge to smile. By sending her son’s identity badge to César, Myers had given Ali the perfect tool to leverage the drug lord into action.

Ulises leaped to his feet. “We’ll kill some more yanqui bastards. Ali, let’s put together a strike team. We’ll hit San Diego, maybe L.A.—”

“With what? Bombs? Rockets? Machine guns? Don’t be stupid. The Americans have more of those than there are stars in the sky,” César snapped.

“But you can’t let the Americans get away with killing Aquiles,” Ulises said.

“Your son is right. The other cartels will see your inaction as a sign of weakness. It puts you and your son in even greater danger.” Ali was worried now. He needed César to retaliate against the Americans immediately.

“And so what do you propose?” César asked.

Ali smiled. “You do not know the Americans like I do. They are cowards. They hide behind their machines and their body armor. If they take a few casualties, they quit and go home. You have nothing to fear by striking out at them, and much to fear from your enemies if you do not.”

César crossed to the bar and refilled his glass, lost in thought. Ulises and Ali followed him with their eyes as he returned, but he didn’t sit down.

“I agree with you, Ali. We must strike back, but in a way that the Americans can’t respond to.” César took a sip of rum. “How?”

The men racked their brains in silence for a few moments.

“By attacking them with a weapon they don’t have,” Ulises finally said.

“Asymmetrical warfare. Excellent,” Ali said.

“Does such a weapon exist?” César asked.

“Yes, in abundance,” Ulises said. He explained his idea. It was simple, doable, and lethal.

César liked it, but wasn’t certain. “What do you think, Ali? You’re the expert.”

Ali hesitated. He wanted a more direct course of action, but he didn’t dare offend the younger Castillo. Besides, it would definitely work and it might finally provoke the Americans into an all-out assault.

“It is a brilliant suggestion, jefe.”

Ulises beamed with pride. So did his father.

So far, so good, Ali thought.

“But I suggest one additional course of action we should take first. It will likely yield nothing, but it costs nothing, and perhaps it will be a diversion for the Americans while Ulises executes his plan.”

“What needs to be done?” César asked.

Los Pinos, Mexico D.F.

Hernán Barraza paced the floor of his private office, a cell phone glued to his ear. César Castillo was on the other line. It was past midnight. The line was secure because it was Castillo’s own private cell network.

“What do you expect the president to do? Invade the United States?” Hernán sweated. Castillo had never called him directly before. It was a complete breach of their security arrangement, and now he was making insane demands.

“The gringos killed my son on Mexican soil and the Mexican government has no interest in this matter?” Castillo roared on the other end of the line.

“Forgive me for saying so, but as an attorney, I don’t believe you have enough proof that the Americans killed your son.”

“I’ve explained to you the proof! But that’s not the point, is it? Tell me, Barraza, what if you did have your lawyer’s proof? Would your brother the president have the huevos to do anything about it?”

Hernán paused. There was no good answer. An attack on the United States was out of the question. Surely Castillo understood that. But doing nothing was out of the question as well. Hernán understood that perfectly. In his gut, he believed the Americans probably were behind it. “Do you have any suggestions, César?”

“Yes.” Castillo detailed what he wanted the president to do for him. But Castillo didn’t explain what his own course of action would be or that his Iranian security chief had concocted the scheme.

“Very well. Consider it done,” Hernán said.

“When?”

“Starting tomorrow. You have my word.” Hernán clicked off the phone, then opened the cell-phone case, extracting the SIM card and shredding it in his high-security shredder. He didn’t want that psychopath calling him directly ever again.

He then crossed over to his desk and picked up a landline. He called his brother.

“At this hour?” the president asked. “Can’t it wait?”

“I just had a call from our friend, the Farmer.”

“What did he want?”

Hernán described Castillo’s request.

“That’s all?” the president asked. “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“There is one more thing. We need the Federal Police and other drug enforcement agencies to back off of him for a while. He needs ‘room to maneuver.’ His words, not mine.”

“Is that a good idea?”

“Yes. I have a feeling that Castillo’s reach is about to exceed his grasp.” Hernán grinned. “Our friend could stand a dose of humility.”

The Oval Office, the White House

Dr. Strasburg was on the couch, perched in his usual spot. He held a cup and saucer in his slightly trembling hands, a symptom of the Parkinson’s that he had recently developed. The cup was brimming with freshly brewed coffee, despite doctor’s orders. They had been discussing Russia’s recent diplomatic offensive in the Caucasus when Myers received the urgent message that a call was coming through. He nodded reassuringly at her to take it.

President Myers took her seat behind the famous desk. She picked up her phone. “Put him through, Maggie.”

The receiver clicked as the call was rerouted. Myers pressed another button and put the call on speakerphone so that Strasburg could hear it as well. A familiar voice came on the line.

“Madame President. Thank you for taking my call.” It was President Barraza on the other end. His tone was icy.

“I understand it is a matter of some urgency, Mr. President. By the way, Dr. Karl Strasburg is in the room with me. I hope that’s not a problem.”

“No. In fact, I prefer it. Dr. Strasburg is a wise man. I hope he will give us both good counsel.”

“How may I be of assistance to you today?” Myers asked.

“It has come to my attention that the United States has engaged in covert military action against one of our sovereign citizens while in Mexican territorial waters. Is this true?”

Myers blanched. How could Barraza possibly know about Pearce and his operation?

“To whom are you referring, Mr. President?” Myers stalled for time.

“Aquiles Castillo, of course. He died of a massive hemorrhage in the brain.”

“I’m sorry. Who?”

“One of the sons of César Castillo. I’m sure you’re familiar with his name,” Barraza sniffed.

“A parent’s worst nightmare. I understand his grief.”

“We believe that some form of covert action was taken by your government against him that caused the brain hemorrhage.”

Myers glanced at Strasburg.

“That’s quite an accusation, Mr. President. It seems a little far-fetched, if you don’t mind my saying so,” Myers said.

“Dr. Strasburg?”

“Yes, Mr. President?”

“Please remind President Myers of America’s long history of ‘far-fetched’ covert operations. For example, the CIA’s attempt to assassinate Castro with exploding poisonous cigars.”

Strasburg set his coffee down. “We’re all well aware of those attempts, Mr. President, along with Mr. Castro’s long record of torturing and killing his political opponents. We also know that the CIA is currently prohibited by law from assassinating governmental leaders. The fact that Fidel Castro is alive and well suggests that the CIA’s capabilities in that area were never terribly effective anyway, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Madame President, let me ask you directly. Did you authorize a covert mission to kill Aquiles Castillo?”

“No. And I resent the fact that you would even consider me capable of such action.”

“Then perhaps the CIA has a rogue operative, or there are other elements at work in your government that you are not aware of. Since you are not able to take responsibility for this crime, then I must. I am informing you that Mexico will take whatever action is necessary to prevent further incursions over our border and to protect Mexican national sovereignty. In addition to mobilizing additional troops, I am placing our military and police units on the border on high alert, and I am authorizing them to fire on any unauthorized persons found on Mexican territory or in territorial waters or airspace. Is that perfectly clear, Madame President?”

“Frankly, I’m stunned. I don’t know what to say.”

“Mr. President, I respectfully suggest that a summit be arranged immediately so that these matters can be discussed further,” Strasburg said. “May we instruct Ambassador Romero to contact your Foreign Office and begin to make arrangements?”

There was silence on the line for a moment. “You may instruct him to do so, but I have no interest in anything less than a frank and substantive discussion of the matter.”

“I would expect nothing less from either party,” Myers said. “We’ll see to the arrangements.”

“Until the summit concludes, the new heightened security measures will remain in place. Good day to you both.” Barraza hung up.

Myers stared at Strasburg. “What was that all about?”

“He’s afraid.”

“Of whom? Us?”

“More likely Castillo. He must have contacted Barraza.”

“So they are in collusion,” Myers said.

“Not necessarily. Castillo is a citizen of Mexico. It is not unreasonable for him to seek out his government’s assistance regarding the death of his son.”

“How many Mexican citizens can dial 911 and get President Barraza on the line?” Myers asked.

“Not many, I’ll grant you. But who else could Castillo call to get protection from us?”

“That’s a good sign. If Castillo’s calling President Barraza for help, that means he thinks he has no way of retaliating against us, right?”

Strasburg shrugged. “That is my sincere hope, Madame President.”

19

Dallas, Texas

Parkland Memorial was the hospital they rushed JFK to when he was shot and it’s the hospital where they pronounced him dead. As Dallas County’s public hospital, it processed over 140,000 cases through its emergency room every year—many of them indigents—making the Parkland ER one of the busiest in the nation. They handled gunshots, stab wounds, car wrecks, and heart attacks on a daily basis, but the last two weeks had been a real horror show.

The ambulance cut its sirens as it swung into the Parkland ER parking lot, screeching to a halt beneath a portico already jammed with three other trucks desperately unloading their dying patients.

The driver bolted out of his door and dashed for the rear. The EMT inside the vehicle threw the back doors open and leaped out. They grabbed the stretcher on a fast three-count and lifted it out, lowering it to the ground on the spring-loaded undercarriage. The girl on the stretcher, “Hispanic, teenage, female, no name,” convulsed beneath the restraining straps like a demoniac, her tiny fists clenched against the agony raging in her skull.

A weeping older couple stumbled outside through the sliding glass doors, numb to the world when the EMTs shouted, “Coming through!” as they raced the stretcher through the doors. The ambulance driver’s hip crashed into the elderly man, nearly knocking him over.

Inside the doors, a triage nurse ran over to them. “Bay three.” She pointed.

“How long?” the EMT asked. “She’s already coded twice.”

“She’s number four right now,” the nurse said. She glanced down at the sweat-drenched girl, mewling like a scalded cat. “I’m sorry.”

The girl on the stretcher coughed, then a geyser of vomit burst out of her cracked lips. Her contracting stomach muscles simultaneously forced an involuntary bowel movement that filled her filthy jeans with blistering diarrhea.

The driver swung the girl’s head to the side and put two blue-gloved fingers into her mouth to scoop out any obstruction to her airway. But her breathing had turned into short, spasmodic gasps that sucked back the vomit into her lungs, choking her.

“She’s coding again!”

The nurse ran for the portable defibrillator on the wall station, grabbed it, and dashed back to the gurney.

Too late.

She was gone.

The White House, Washington, D.C.

The DEA’s Roy Jackson continued relating the bad news.

“Los Angeles, Chicago, and New York, of course, but even Omaha, Salt Lake City, Eugene, and Buffalo have seen significant spikes in the numbers of deaths—all due to overdoses of meth. The ERs and neighborhood clinics have been inundated. It has put a real strain on already scarce resources in the impoverished areas. And God only knows how many new addicts there are now.”

“And all free?” Myers asked.

“It’s the oldest trick in the book. Every dealer knows to give a free bump to a prospective client. They get a taste for it, then they get hooked,” Madrigal said. The DEA chief had been an effective undercover agent in her early years with the agency.

“The only difference is, the free bump has turned into a full ride. Two full weeks and still counting, from what our CIs are telling us. This little stunt that Castillo has pulled must have cost him tens of millions of dollars, not counting his loss of profits,” Jackson added.

“And once Castillo started handing out meth like Pez candies, the other dealers outside of the Castillo network had to do the same. You know, a price war. Only the price was zero. At that price point it’s all about getting new clients or keeping current ones. I hate the son of a bitch for doing it, but you have to admire the sheer genius of it,” Madrigal said.

Myers picked up the evidence bag again. Fingered its contents through the plastic. A campaign button from last year. She read it. MYERS. FOR A BRIGHTER FUTURE. She turned to Jackson, grimacing. “Every bag?”

“The ones Castillo passed out. Probably knockoffs of the original. His message is as subtle as a heart attack,” Jackson said.

“Well, that’s what I get for trying to send my own message to a psychopath.” Myers tossed the bag back onto the table.

“He can’t give free meth away forever. He’ll eventually go bankrupt, or his network will turn against him. The only thing more addictive than meth is money,” Jackson said.

“I want options for shutting down Castillo’s whole network over here. Maybe all the other networks, too.”

Madrigal sighed. What did Myers think the law enforcement community had been trying to do for the last thirty years? “More agents in the field,” Madrigal offered. She already knew the answer.

“Tell Congress to cut some fat somewhere else and you can get them. But I wouldn’t hold your breath,” Myers said.

Jeffers laughed. “Good thing the vice president didn’t hear you say that.” Greyhill had been dispatched to a base-closing ceremony in Virginia yesterday.

“Finish the border fence. Now,” Early said.

“Again, Congress. No money, no will. They’ve been promising to finish it for years.”

“Why not just strengthen the Mexican military and police forces?” Jeffers asked. “Let them do the heavy lifting.”

Donovan took that one. “It’s a damn mess down there. Just recently, three Mexican army generals were arrested for drug trafficking, including the second in command at their Defense Ministry, and corrupt Federal Police murdered two of our CIA agents.” Donovan shook his head. “Back in ’97, the head of the INCD—their version of the DEA—was arrested for working with a couple of the cartels.”

“Are you suggesting that every Mexican official is corrupt?” Jeffers asked.

“Not at all. The problem is, you can never be sure which one is—or soon will be. And it’s not just Mexico. Back during the Clinton years, we tried to clean up the corruption in Guatemala. Over the years, they’ve had several generals and former intelligence chiefs arrested for drug trafficking. So somebody got the bright idea to build our own incorruptible version of a Guatemalan DEA—an outfit called DOAN. We spent millions on it. We handpicked the recruits, paid them good salaries, armed them, trained them—the whole nine yards. Wasn’t long before we caught those guys torturing and killing the competition in order to get a leg up on their own drug trafficking operations. That’s why we just shipped two hundred of our own U.S. Marines down to Guatemala to do the fighting. The bottom line is that when we arm and train anybody south of the border for antidrug operations, there’s a good chance they’ll eventually use that training against us. Unless you change the culture of corruption, the institutions will continue to become corrupted.”

Myers frowned. “As I recall, that was a line I used in my campaign against Washington politics.”

Donovan nodded back. “I know. I was there when you delivered it at the convention.”

“What if we just stay out of the mess altogether? Let the cartels keep fighting it out among themselves down there. Eventually they’ll bleed themselves to death, won’t they?” Early asked.

“Perhaps, but they may well bring down the entire Mexican government in the process,” Strasburg said. He’d been carefully listening to the whole conversation.

“How?” Early asked.

“The primary function of the state is to provide for common security. Cartel violence, once it escalates beyond a critical point, will cause individuals to abandon the state and resort to their own private means to find their own security. Anarchy will be the result.”

“Civil war and mass migration wouldn’t be far behind,” Donovan speculated.

“Our primary interest in Mexico is stability. The ongoing drug wars within Mexico are destroying any hope of maintaining that stability, and the United States cannot afford to share two thousand miles of border with a failed state. Beyond the fact that Mexico is a significant trading partner, a failed Mexico would become a haven for our worst enemies, much the same way as Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Yemen have harbored al-Qaeda.”

Strasburg took a sip of water. “At the risk of seeming too pedantic, I would remind those present of the history of the Peloponnesian War. Athens and Sparta were the two dominant powers in Greece, with all other lesser city-states allied with one or the other. This is analogous to the present-day situation in Mexico. The two most powerful cartels are the Castillo Syndicate and the Bravo Alliance. All of the lesser cartels have aligned themselves with one of these two organizations. Is that an accurate analysis, Mr. Jackson?”

Jackson nodded. “Quite accurate, and an appropriate analogy.”

“As I recall, the end result of the Peloponnesian War was utter economic devastation and the end to the Golden Age of Greece,” Myers added.

“That is correct,” Strasburg said. “And exactly the scenario we’re looking at if present trends continue.”

“Almost all of the violence associated with the drug war, particularly the slaughter in Mexico, but to a lesser extent, also in this country, is an attempt to gain monopolistic control of the drug trade, including manufacturing in Mexico and distribution in the U.S. Bribes and corruption are part of the same pattern,” Madrigal added.

“Then the best thing we can do is to pick sides, it seems to me,” Myers concluded. “Pick one side and end the war. At least that would stop the violence and bring some form of stability.”

The room went silent, processing the implications of that statement.

“Objections?”

“How would you accomplish that?” Donovan asked.

Myers and Early shared a look. They kept their secret weapon—Pearce—to themselves.

“Decapitate the Castillo cartel.” Myers spat it out like the answer to an algebra problem. No emotion. Just fact.

“That’s quite an escalation, if you don’t mind my saying,” Donovan said.

“It’s what we did to take out the al-Qaeda leadership. It’s even how we battled the Mafia in this country. If you take out the Castillo leadership, you don’t have a Castillo organization,” Myers countered.

“With the added bonus that the Bravos will know we took out Castillo, will know we put them in power, and will know that we can take them out, too, if they cross us,” Early said.

“Just for argument’s sake, under what authority would you carry this out?” Donovan asked.

“According to the Constitution, the presidency possesses sole and supreme authority to wage war against all enemies, foreign and domestic,” Myers said.

“But Castillo is a criminal, not a terrorist,” Donovan countered.

“What’s the difference between a criminal and a terrorist? Legally?” Jeffers asked.

“All terrorists are criminals in the eyes of the law, but not all criminals are terrorists,” Lancet answered. “And criminals have rights that terrorists don’t.”

“So what is a terrorist?” Early asked.

“That’s another interesting question. International law has no set definition of terrorism, which makes sense, considering the fact that one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter. The U.S. Criminal Code, on the other hand, sets out a number of acts that fall under the rubric of either international or domestic terrorism, including acts that are ‘dangerous to human life that are a violation of the criminal laws of the United States’ and that appear to be intended ‘to affect the conduct of a government by mass destruction.’”

“The ‘free meth’ attack perfectly fits that description in my mind,” Myers said. “Who decides if ‘free meth’ is an act of terrorism or if these men really are terrorists?”

“You,” Lancet said.

“That’s convenient,” Jeffers said.

Lancet continued. “You can thank the previous administration for that. The Holder DOJ issued a white paper that said, in effect, it’s lawful for the United States to conduct a lethal operation outside of the United States so long as ‘an informed, high-level government official’ of the U.S. government has determined that the targeted individual poses an imminent threat of violent attack against the United States. ‘Imminent,’ of course, being broadly redefined to mean ‘not necessarily in the near future,’ believe it or not.”

“But wasn’t that white paper referring specifically to the targeted killings of American citizens abroad who were members of al-Qaeda?” Donovan asked.

“Yes, but the principle would apply even more so to foreign nationals, in my opinion, at least according to the Constitution.”

“So the bottom line is, if I determine that the Castillo organization is a terrorist organization and poses an imminent threat to the health and safety of this country, I have the constitutional authority to act against them?” Myers asked.

Lancet nodded. “In terms of constitutionality, I would say yes. Congress, on the other hand, would almost definitely disagree.”

“The vice president as well, I’m sure,” Jeffers added.

“You’re referring to the War Powers Resolution,” Myers said.

“Yes, and by extension, the Authorization to Use Military Force that was passed in 2001 in response to 9/11. Congress authorized the president to deploy U.S. military forces to kill or capture members of al-Qaeda and related organizations responsible for the attack. The drone attacks and targeted killings of terrorists since then have all fallen under the AUMF. Congress hasn’t given you such authorization yet for operations against the drug cartels.”

“Because I haven’t asked for it. Should I?”

“You could,” Jeffers said. “But then they wouldn’t give it to you, at least not without steep concessions. The hawks would want all of their spending increases restored, and the progressives would want their piece of the fiscal pie, too, so say good-bye to your budget freeze and the balanced budget amendment.”

“So I have to fight Congress before I can fight Castillo? No, thank you,” Myers said. “Besides, many legal scholars question the constitutionality of the WPR. No president from Nixon through Obama has ever agreed that the WPR has binding authority over the office. Isn’t that correct, Dr. Strasburg?”

“That is correct, Madame President,” Strasburg said with a smile. “Yourself included, apparently.”

Jeffers nodded. “No president has ever agreed that the WPR is legally binding, but for the most part, they’ve all adhered to the WPR out of political expediency because Congress is the place where the defense checks get written.”

“Which actually leads to another broad area of law to consider,” Lancet said. “It’s a question of scale. The constitutional debates surrounding the War Powers Resolution notwithstanding, the president has the unchallenged right to deploy limited force in specific situations. The point of War Powers was to keep us out of large-scale foreign wars without congressional approval, not to keep us out of all military engagements.”

“So, just to be clear, if I issue an executive order declaring Castillo and his organization an imminent terrorist threat, I have at least some legal ground to stand on?” Myers asked.

“In my opinion, yes, so long as the attack complies with the four fundamental law-of-war principles.”

“Which are?”

“Necessity, distinction, proportionality, and humanity—avoiding unnecessary civilian deaths. Feasibility of capture and undue risk to U.S. personnel should also be taken into consideration. That’s why targeted drone strikes have been so popular. They tend to meet all of those law-of-war principles.”

Myers and Early exchanged another glance. Still not the time to talk about Pearce.

“Would the ACLU agree with your analysis?” Jeffers asked.

Lancet barked out a laugh. “Hell, no! There are as many opponents to drone strikes as there are supporters, and they are on both sides of the aisle. But opinions change, don’t they? Harold Koh was one of the Bush administration’s harshest critics, particularly in regard to waterboarding, which he viewed as an act of torture and a violation of human rights. But when he became the legal advisor for President Obama’s State Department, he suddenly became an ardent proponent of targeted killings and drone strikes.”

“So splashing a little water on my face is bad, but blowing me up with a Hellfire missile is okay?” Early asked.

“Where you stand depends on where you sit, right?” Lancet said. “You know, there’s actually one interesting argument about drones. Because they are unmanned weapons systems, no actual U.S. personnel are sent into combat. Some folks think that means drones aren’t technically ‘armed forces’ and therefore War Powers doesn’t apply anyway.”

Donovan leaned forward on his elbows. “Aren’t we missing something here? We’re talking about an attack on Mexican citizens on Mexican soil. Isn’t that an act of war?”

Strasburg cleared his throat. “The Mexican government might take umbrage at the assault, but I doubt they’d consider it an act of war. If they did, they would have to respond in kind.” The old diplomat allowed himself a smile. “There isn’t much chance of that, is there? Consider the Pakistanis. SEAL Team Six sent troops into Pakistan without either their knowledge or permission and killed Bin Laden, primarily because we couldn’t trust the Pakistanis to not betray the operation or warn Bin Laden in advance. The Pakistani government was deeply offended by the Bin Laden raid and our relationship with them is still badly strained. But in the final analysis, what are they going to do about it?”

“I would think the Mexican government would be grateful to us for the elimination of the most powerful drug cartel inside their nation,” Myers said.

“You’d think,” Madrigal said.

“Faye, would you be kind enough to draft the executive order I’ve suggested?”

Lancet nodded. “Of course. I’ll coordinate with Sandy. What about your Office of Legal Counsel?” She was referring to the department within the DOJ that represents the president’s legal interests. That person was always an assistant attorney general.

“I need as few cooks in the kitchen as possible, at least for now. I’d consider it a favor if you could draft the documents in question personally.”

“I’ll also prepare a brief on the legal issues we’ve discussed, as well as a thorough review of all the other pertinent issues. No telling when it might come in handy.”

“Like during an impeachment hearing?” Jeffers chuckled.

Myers added, “Please be sure to write it up as a national security measure. That way it can remain secret and exempt from any FOIA requests, should they arise.”

“You know they will, eventually,” Jeffers said.

“Good, then. I think that concludes our business for today.”

That was Myers’s signal that the meeting was adjourned. The other cabinet members began filing out.

“Mike, do you mind staying behind for a few minutes?”

“Not at all.”

When they were finally alone, Myers said, “I need you to call Pearce.”

“I don’t think that’s an option. He told us one job, one mission only,” Early reminded her. “Besides, you don’t need him. You already have the security apparatus in place and the Predators to do it with.”

“You mean the Committee?” Myers was referring to the national security team responsible for helping draw up the kill list that President Obama used to personally pick the human targets for Predator strikes. She shuddered. Over a hundred people teleconferencing on a weekly basis, debating the merits of each case, like lawyers cross-examining silent defendants and then answering for them. If the answers came out wrong, the defendants were executed, courtesy of a Hellfire missile.

Myers had inherited the system from the previous administration, but after one tortuous session debating the biographies of suspected terrorists, she ceded her role on the Committee to the secretary of defense. She didn’t have any qualms about selecting targets and taking them out. She just hated micromanaging, so, unlike her predecessor, she left the final selection of al-Qaeda targets to the al-Qaeda experts.

“No, Mike. Too many people involved. Too many turf battles. Too many uncoordinated bureaucratic systems trying to mesh together—army, navy, air force, CIA—each with their own SOPs. I still need this thing to be kept under wraps and I can only do that if it’s done quickly, with surgical precision.”

“You really do need Pearce, then.”

“I do. So go get him for me.”

20

Snake River, Wyoming

Pearce was up to his waist in the slow-moving river, dead drifting with a dry Yellow Sally for spotted brown salmon, when Early moseyed up behind him on shore.

“You’re like a bad penny,” Pearce said. He didn’t bother to turn around. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“You didn’t pick up your damn phone. Twenty times you didn’t pick up.” Early watched Pearce make another cast. “You got an extra rig I can borrow?”

“Reception’s bad around here. And, no, I don’t. Not for amateurs like you, anyway.”

Early glanced around. There were a few other anglers around, all within earshot. He stepped closer to the riverbank. He lowered his voice. “We need to talk.”

“Can’t hear you,” Pearce said.

Early glanced around again. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself. He waded a few feet into the water. He was wearing hiking boots, not waders.

“I’m serious, Troy. It’s important.”

Pearce sighed and reeled in his line. “Fine.”

Without looking at Early, Pearce marched onto the shore toward his pickup truck parked a quarter mile back.

Early raced after him, his boots squishing with water. “If these boots get ruined, I’m sending you the bill.”

“You do that,” Pearce called over his shoulder, hiding his grin.

The two men stood over a stump. Early had a beer in his hand. Pearce cradled an ax in his two hands and was stripped to the waist. An ice chest squatted in the shade near his grandfather’s cabin.

“So, are you ready to talk?” Early asked.

“Sure, if you’re ready to hear a one-word answer.” Pearce swung the ax, easily splitting the log on the stump. He tossed the two pieces aside and grabbed another log.

“We had some bad news.”

“Yeah, I know. ‘Free meth.’”

Whap! Another log split in half.

“How’d you know?” Early asked.

Pearce threw him a cutting glance.

“Of course. You still have access to the DEA mainframes.”

“Uh-huh.”

“As a common courtesy, you shouldn’t be doing that.”

“I figure I’m doing the DEA a favor. Might help motivate them to do a better job with their network security.”

“Myers has another job for you,” Early said. He decided he might as well get the first blow in.

“I told her and I told you, one job, one mission, that’s it.”

Pearce lifted the ax high over his head. His deltoids bunched. Whap! Pearce cleared the pieces away. “It was pretty damn obvious that this thing wouldn’t stay contained. I don’t want any part of it.”

“You don’t even know what the job is.”

“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.

“I’m killing as fast as I can,” Troy said as he put a slug into the temple of the last technician. They all agreed it would have been better to bring at least one back for interrogation, but there was no way they could pull off an extraction with such limited resources.

“Wish there’d been ten more of ’em,” Mike said.

Annie pointed at the detonators, r/c units, timers, and motherboards on the table. “Grab those. Evidence.”

“Roger that,” Mike replied. He opened up his rucksack and started loading them in.

Troy scooted over to the far wall where the artillery shells were lined up. He slapped a wad of C4 onto three of them, then ran wires to a digital timer and set it. By blowing the ordnance, it would appear as if the Iranian technicians had accidentally killed themselves.

“Three minutes,” he said.

Annie stepped back over to the door and sighted her weapon in the direction they’d come in from. Early scooped up the last detonators and remote-control units.

“Damn it!” Annie shouted.

Troy whipped around just in time to see a hand grenade bounce onto the concrete floor. It was halfway between her and Mike. Troy was still on the other side of the room.

Like in every bad war movie Troy had ever seen, time slowed to a near crawl. It was the adrenaline kicking in, heightening his senses.

Annie glanced up at him. Her bright eyes locked with his for an eternity.

For a second.

She smiled.

And then she whispered, “It was a ring.”

The ring that was still in Troy’s pocket.

Before Troy could react, Annie took three slow bounding steps toward the grenade.

Troy shouted for her to stop. Bullets shattered the door and spanged on the sheet-metal wall curving above his head.

Annie leaped onto the hand grenade. A muffled thump. Her body bounced a few inches into the air.

Troy’s senses recovered. The shit was hitting the fan in real time now.

He raced over to Annie. A Quds soldier stepped into the doorway, an AK-47 sloped in Mike’s direction. Troy raised his pistol and shot the man in the throat, just below his scraggly beard. The AK-47 clattered to the floor. The fighter crumpled to his knees, grasping at his neck, choking on his own blood.

Troy grabbed Annie’s corpse by the collar, pulling her behind him toward the rear door. The toes of her Reeboks dragged through her own blood on the floor.

Mike shouldered his loaded rucksack and followed Troy. Troy didn’t even try the exit door; he just smashed a size-fourteen foot against the wood and the door broke off of its frame. He dragged Annie’s limp body outside just around the corner, scanning for trouble. He whispered, “Clear,” and Mike bolted out into the street as Troy lifted Annie onto his back in a fireman’s carry and followed him. They ducked into the shadows of an alley two blocks away and turned a corner just as the C4 ripped. The artillery shells roared. The earth shivered beneath their feet as the sky lit up like a sunrise. Neither man stopped to look back. Both shared the same desperate thought as they raced down the alleyway.

Time to get Annie home.

Snake River, Wyoming

“Annie was a soldier and a good one. She knew what she was getting into when she signed on. We all did. She had a job to do, and she did it.”

“Shut your piehole, Mikey.”

“She paid the price. It could’ve been us. Should have been us. I get that, believe me. I think about it every damn day.”

Pearce got in Early’s face.

“She laid it all down all right, but for what? So that a shit-faced senator can dodge an awkward question at a cocktail party? You know those pukes. The Ivy Leaguers call all the shots for guys like us, but less than one half of one percent of them ever swear the oath themselves. We’re the ones who do the bleeding and the dying out in the boonies while they’re doing reach-arounds in the clubhouse sauna. To hell with them. I’ll take their money, but I won’t bleed for them anymore, and I won’t let my people die for them, either.”

“That’s why we need you. We don’t want anyone to get hurt, not on our side, at least. Take the job. Besides, it’ll make you filthy rich, I promise.”

“I already am filthy rich. And the nice thing about being rich is that you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. And by the way, nobody ever got killed for saying no.”

Pearce grabbed another beer. “You need to get out of this thing, Mikey. It’s going to go south in a hurry. She’s going to march your ass straight into a shooting war and a lot of people are going to die on both sides.”

“That’s exactly why I can’t leave. I’ve got to do what I can. I don’t want another American soldier to die in a war we don’t have to fight. Besides, I swore an oath to protect and defend the nation. So did you.”

“I didn’t break my oath. They did.”

“Bullshit. You walked away. I can’t make politicians or bureaucrats or the ring knockers do the right thing, but I sure as hell can stand up like a man and do my job. Myers is right. The nation is under assault. You want to keep us out of a shooting war? So does she. The only difference is, you’re the only one who can prevent one by doing what you do best. Now. Before it’s too late.”

“It’s not that simple,” Pearce said.

“Sure it is. You’re hiding behind a bad memory. You loved her. She died. I get it. But ask yourself this. What would Annie do if she were you?”

Early tossed the ax aside, grabbed up his shirt, and yanked it on.

“Where are you going, muffin top?” Pearce asked.

“Plane to catch.” Early stormed toward his government car.

“Hold on,” Pearce called out.

Early whipped around. “What?”

Pearce opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He still had Annie’s voice in his head. Knew exactly what she’d say to him.

Still had her ring, too.

“Say again?” Early asked.

Pearce snapped out of his fog.

“Wait up. I’ll grab my stuff.”

21

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

November 28, 2005

Pearce stood as cold and lifeless as the Vermont marble wall in the lobby. The ceremony was over. Everyone else had left. Even Early. The newest star had been carved into the Memorial Wall.

Annie’s.

No name, of course. None of them had names. But even in the black leather book sealed under glass attached to the wall there was only a gold star by her number. Her name would be kept secret forever. Killed on a mission she shouldn’t have been on. Killed in a country she wasn’t supposed to be in. Killed because some political fucks were playing their political fuck games instead of fighting the real goddamn war.

So Annie stepped up. Hell, they all did. But Annie was the one who laid it all down. Now she was a nameless star. One among many. There’d be more.

Pearce’s vacant eyes scanned the inscription in gold block letters again.

IN HONOR OF THOSE MEMBERS OF THE CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY WHO GAVE THEIR LIVES IN THE SERVICE OF THEIR COUNTRY.

That was Annie all right.

Pearce had resigned a month ago. The deputy DCI had personally asked him to take a sabbatical, think it over. He was too important to the war effort to quit. Needed him to lead a team into Syria right away. The best we have.

The country needs you.

Pearce turned him down. Mumbled something about how he loved his country, hated politics. Should’ve said “politicians,” too. Maybe he did.

The deputy said he understood. Had the decency to include Pearce in Annie’s memorial. Early was there. So were her parents.

Annie was a spook to the end. Kept her secrets. Hadn’t told her folks about Pearce so he hadn’t been invited to her funeral. It was just as well. He’d stood beside too many graves already.

Pearce left. Stepped out into the cold Virginia sunshine and didn’t look back.

Coronado, California

Pearce lived in a high-rise condo on the beach, not a hand grenade’s throw from the famed Naval Amphibious Base, home to the West Coast Navy SEALs, among other commands. There was nothing like watching a Pacific sunset from his penthouse balcony, but he also enjoyed rooting for the soaking wet BUD/S trainees pounding the sand in front of his building, hauling a three-hundred-pound Zodiac over their shaved heads into the freezing surf.

The CIA’s Secret Activities Division (SAD) recruited heavily from among the SEAL teams for its paramilitary Special Operations Group (SOG), to which Pearce had belonged. And not the other way around, he’d remind his squid friends with a nudge. In the special forces community, SOG was considered the elite of the elite. Pearce had been one of the few SOG members recruited directly from civilian life straight out of grad school. Still, some of his best friends from his SOG days had been former frogmen and he felt a deep kinship with anybody wearing the fearsome SEAL trident.

Pearce wasn’t on his balcony tonight. Instead, he was in his media room on a video conference call with his team. Early was still in Washington with Jackson, while the rest of Pearce’s team was already in position around their various targets in Mexico.

Early had developed the target list with Jackson’s help. The DEA had kept close tabs on the Castillo organization’s leadership for years.

“When you said decapitation, you weren’t fooling around. This is almost genetic cleansing,” Early told Jackson as he reviewed the list. Nearly every name on the list was related to César Castillo.

“Castillo’s a bad seed. We’re just weeding out the garden,” Jackson said. “Castillo puts a lot of faith in blood relations. He doesn’t trust outsiders much. He’s the one who’s condemned his family to be blotted out, not us.”

With the list of targets in hand, DAS had gone to work two weeks earlier, sifting through terabytes of information sucked out of public and restricted databases. People are creatures of habit, and DAS exploited that human frailty to the maximum. DAS established travel patterns, identified the most frequented locations, and tagged the regularly used vehicles of the fourteen targets through data provided by Mexican city, traffic, and surveillance cameras; local and national air-traffic-control flight data; and even cell tower usage.

Pearce decided to divide his team into five operational groups. Three groups were responsible for four targets each, and those targets were sorted by geographic proximity. The three lieutenants directly under César Castillo were his three brothers—Napoleon, Alejandro, and Julio—and each of them had three lieutenants within their suborganizations. Napoleon’s organization was based in Chihuahua, Alejandro’s in Nogales, and Julio’s in Tijuana.

The fourth operational group was tasked with monitoring Ulises Castillo while he sojourned in Venezuela. He was the thirteenth target. They did not have permission to engage that target unless he crossed into international waters or returned to Mexican territory. In Pearce’s opinion, Myers was being too cautious, but she didn’t want to provoke the new Venezuelan president unnecessarily. He was already a staunch opponent of American interests in the region and was looking for any excuse to escalate tensions.

The last operational group would be headed up by Pearce. His target was the big dog himself: César Castillo. He had special plans for the crime lord.

All five teams had already done their preliminary scouting and intel work, and had designed their assault plans. Now they were just waiting for the signal to jump.

Pearce also decided to deploy several high-altitude UAVs equipped with data-link payloads for his drone command-and-control operations rather than rent or hijack satellite bandwidth. The data-link drones not only gave him over-the-horizon capabilities, they also provided a greater measure of operational safety. One of the reasons why so many air force drones had crashed over the years was because of the signal delay between control station, satellite orbit, and drone location that sometimes lasted as long as four seconds. A fatal flaw when trying to fly and fire a precision instrument. He also wanted to create as small a digital footprint as possible in order to keep the entire mission off the record.

The most difficult task that Pearce’s operation faced had been to find a relatively narrow window in which to carry out the entire operation. Once the first bodies dropped, the others would likely hear about it quickly and quail. With every target located and identified, it was vital that they all be taken down within twenty-four hours of one another, if not sooner. That window of opportunity had just been identified twenty minutes ago.

“Everybody has been briefed on their mission parameters, Mike, and they’re in position. We’re good to go,” Pearce said.

“Then light it up,” Early said. “And good hunting.”

22

Barranca del Cobre, Mexico

The ancient hacienda clung to the side of the steep cliff like a barnacle on the hull of a stranded ship. Originally built by a Swiss copper magnate in 1883, the stone-and-wood mansion was built to maximize the spectacular views afforded by Copper Canyon, which was actually a complex of twenty canyons carved out of the high rock by six broad rivers. This made Copper Canyon seven times larger than its more famous cousin in the north, the Grand Canyon. It was the perfect place to hide.

The hacienda was now occupied by Napoleon Castillo, César’s older brother. He’d wanted to escape the sweltering summer heat of the lavish Mid-century Modern home he’d built in the desert outside of Chihuahua. Even with the home’s two luxury pools and Trane air-conditioning system, it was too unbearable to live there this time of year. So he had made the annual trek up north to his “eagle’s nest” on the side of the mountain.

Normally at this time of day, the short and stocky man, who shared the same anatomical shape as his infamous younger brother, would have been standing outside on the veranda smoking an excellent cigar. Had Napoleon been outside, he might have accidentally caught the glint of sunlight on a wing high above the canyon floor. It’s doubtful, however, that he would have accurately identified it as a Heron, an Israeli-manufactured, medium-altitude, long-endurance drone similar in capabilities to the more famous U.S.-manufactured Predator. The Heron contained a standard video optical surveillance package, but it had also been equipped with forward-looking infrared radar and ELINT (electronic intelligence) packages. But Pearce Systems had modified the surveillance drone, weaponizing it with two hard points on the wings for missile racks.

The Heron gave Stella Kang both eyes and ears on the ground and in the house. Phone intercepts of Castillo’s brother and his physician indicated that Napoleon was sick in bed. Advance surveillance had already identified several people inside the hacienda, including Napoleon’s young American-born wife, Suzanna, and his three American “anchor babies,” his preteen daughters Luisa, Carlita, and Victoria. Earlier, Stella had counted only two guards on the estate, but right now one was at the pharmacy and the other was in town, drinking.

Stella’s explicit orders from Pearce were to limit the strike to Napoleon only. With the drug lord hunkered down beneath his bedsheets with a fever, a missile strike was out of the question. Stella’s partner, Johnny Paloma, was a former LAPD SWAT team leader. He had parked himself behind a McMillan Tac-50 sniper rifle, but now that wasn’t an option, either. Time also wasn’t Stella’s friend. The other strike teams were already in motion and she desperately wanted to be the first team with a kill.

Stella fell on her backup plan and redeployed Johnny. Minutes later, he was ripping around the curving single-lane mountain road on a Yamaha YZ450F bike. When he reached the hacienda, he slowed down enough to reach into his backpack and toss the ten-pound surveillance drone onto the pavement, then he gunned the engine and raced away.

The iRobot 110 FirstLook drone was about the size and shape of an old encyclopedia, and was outfitted with tracks instead of wheels, along with cameras on both ends. It didn’t matter which way it landed when you tossed it because it could roll in both directions, and it had rotator arms that could right it without much difficulty if it flipped onto its back.

Stella was two miles away at her laptop control station. She was a very patient and stealthy operator, but the Heron overhead showed her the coast was clear. The drone scurried toward an open gate in the back and paused while Stella checked for an entry point. She found it. One of the sliding glass doors had been left open.

Once inside the house, the robot rolled along almost silently on the pink terrazzo tiles that covered all of the floors. It even climbed the staircase with relative ease. One of the cleaning staff, Rosa, saw it scrambling silently down the hallway. She laughed to herself, assuming it was some new toy that belonged to one of the girls. She didn’t watch it long enough to observe it duck into the master suite and take up position in Napoleon’s private bathroom.

Napoleon Castillo didn’t notice the drone when he came stumbling in. The iRobot was parked just behind the toilet when he pulled down his pajama trousers and lowered his flabby, sweating buttocks onto the cool porcelain seat. He was so preoccupied lighting a cigarette that he barely noticed the tracked drone when it rolled out from behind the toilet and parked itself between his feet.

Castillo didn’t hear the explosion.

His brain barely perceived the blinding flash, and that for only an instant. He was dead before the slower-moving sound waves could strike his eardrum and stimulate the aural nerve. In fact, his entire brain case, including the aural nerve, had been splattered like an overripe melon against the bathroom wall tiles, which were also a lustrous pink terrazzo.

But far down the hallway in another room, Rosa heard the explosion. To her, it sounded more like a thump. She shrugged and figured if there was a mess to clean up, Mr. Castillo would call her soon enough.

“Target down,” Stella reported to Pearce.

“Proceed to your exfiltration route, Stella. Tell your team they won the case of beer. You were first on the board.”

“Thank you, sir. Will do. We’re moving and grooving.”

“Roger that.”

Nogales, Mexico

ICE had discovered several smuggling tunnels leading from Mexico to the United States over the past few years by employing sophisticated ground-penetrating radar. The earlier tunnels they had uncovered were relatively shallow and crudely dug by unemployed local miners who carved small niches into the rock every hundred yards or so. The niches were crowded with plastic saints, melted candles, and strips of paper with prayers for protection for both the miners and the travelers, mostly smuggled migrants.

The more recent tunnels were somewhat deeper and more sophisticated by an order of magnitude, displaying a level of engineering prowess beyond the reach of day laborers. Sheer walls, wooden floors, and a lighting system were standard. It was unclear to ICE who had designed or built the tunnels, but they were definitely paid for by the Castillo Syndicate for running drugs and people under the heavily secured surface above. They were probably four to five times as expensive to construct as well.

What the ICE teams hadn’t figured out yet was that at least half of the shallow tunnels were meant to be found in order to absorb ICE’s scarce investigative resources, while the deeper tunnels continued sluicing major profits back to the syndicate. These latter tunnels were highly sophisticated cement structures, designed and built by a Chinese engineering firm specializing in military construction projects for the People’s Liberation Army. One even contained a small rail-car system.

The most important smuggling tunnel in the network was also linked to an underground meth lab, as well as to sleeping quarters and offices for Alejandro Castillo and his lieutenants. Pearce and his team had found it almost by accident. Ian had intercepted a U.S. Army Corps of Engineers geological survey recently conducted in the area that speculated about the existence of a new smuggling tunnel network. The report hadn’t made its way up the chain of command yet, let alone into the interagency data stream.

August Mann was in charge of this operation. He based his plan to take out the tunnel complex on a similar job he’d carried out in Ukraine last year before taking on the Dungeness project. He even flew in the same group of subcontractors he’d used to pull it off. Twenty-four hours earlier, his intel team had flown a miniature 3-D mapping camera drone through the underground maze that had generated a perfect image of the tunnel complex. Two hours ago, the same drone cameras had located and identified the tunnel occupants, all of whom carried weapons. That made all of them fair game.

August stationed an insertion team at the tunnel exit on the American side, and an insertion team at the tunnel entrance on the Mexican side. The American exit was located inside of a Castillo-owned tire warehouse; the Mexican entrance was located inside of a blue stucco Assemblies of God church, also owned by the Castillo organization. Both ends of the tunnel were lightly guarded by a few armed men stationed aboveground.

When the six tunnel occupants had bedded down for the night, August signaled both teams to take out the tunnel guards. August didn’t want the robots to have all of the fun. He let his human team members drop the tunnel guards with suppressed rifle fire.

After cutting all of the power down in the hole, each insertion team lowered two Talon SWORDS tracked robots into their respective entrances. The large suitcase-portable tracked vehicles were loaded out with similar packages. In addition to video optics, two of the tracks were mounted with 6mm grenade launchers and 5.56mm semiauto rifles; the other two tracks were outfitted with breaching devices and smoke delivery systems.

One of both types of drone was dropped in each entrance, along with signal relay boosters to ensure continuous video feeds and radio-control operation of the Talons from the surface.

August watched the green, ghostly night-vision images of the chaos wrought by the robots with scientific detachment. Groggy, blinded in the dark, and choking on smoke, the defenders shot wildly at the mechanical sounds they heard in the lightless void, but within minutes, the first five targets had been gunned down or shredded with grenade fragments.

The lone survivor, Alejandro Castillo, had miraculously escaped into an office space and bolted the heavy wooden door. It took August another ten minutes to breach it. The Talon SWORDS had been used extensively in bomb disposal and bunker-breaching missions during the Iraq and Afghanistan conflicts. A simple wooden door was no match. The SWORDS blew off its hinges, revealing Alejandro cowering in the dark. Thirty rounds of steel-jacketed ammo broke his torso open like a crab hammer.

“Sehr gut, August,” Pearce whispered in the German’s earpiece.

“Danke.” August switched channels and barked orders to his team. They had to pull those units out and evacuate the area before the federales showed up, which Mann estimated would be in fifteen minutes.

They left behind a timed demolition charge that collapsed the entire tunnel structure minutes after they egressed. Forty-five minutes after the operation had begun, August, his men, and his robots were all safely back on American territory.

23

Tijuana, Mexico

A black Cadillac Escalade rocketed down the parking garage ramp, skid plates throwing sparks as it banged over a speed bump.

“There!” Julio Castillo screamed as he pointed at the exit turn.

The driver threw himself into the sharp left-hand turn, slamming his chest against the shoulder belt with the centrifugal pull. The big SUV tires shrieked on the slick concrete floors of the empty parking garage, still under construction.

A hundred feet behind them, a Schiebel S-100 helicopter fitted with the GTMax artificial intelligence “learn as you fly” autopiloting package and a six-barreled 7.62mm Minigun raced after them. The three-foot-tall German-manufactured helicopter had already chased them off the highway into the parking structure. Julio couldn’t believe the helicopter would follow them into such a cramped space. They’d dodged scissor lifts and stacked pallets on every level up, and still it followed. The top of the ramp was blocked, so they had to whip around and head back down. The helicopter had just fired its first short burst and missed, blowing chunks of concrete out of the wall in front of the SUV on the last turn.

Julio glanced back to see that the unmanned helicopter had missed the last turn and was racing past their position. His face was drenched in sweat, but not from the sweltering heat outside.

The driver turned hard again. Julio banged his head against the thick bulletproof glass but he hardly noticed.

“Can’t you drive any faster?” Julio screamed.

The driver said nothing but mashed the gas pedal harder. The Escalade roared down the sloping straightaway.

“Where the fuck is it now?” Julio screamed, his head on a swivel. His three lieutenants in back peered through the windows, their big pistols drawn as if they were prepared to shoot the drone down.

The Escalade bucked savagely as it crashed over another speed bump. But the big SUV was flying too fast now. The driver stomped on the brake as he whipped into the next turn. The forward momentum threw all of them against the seat belts, then the sharp left turn crashed their bodies hard into the right-side doors as the Escalade drifted toward the far wall.

BANG! The side panels crumpled and sparked as the SUV scraped against the concrete wall, but the driver soon righted the vehicle and mashed the throttle again. The exit was just a hundred meters ahead, a big black square framed in the harsh sodium lights of the parking garage.

Julio roared with delight. He pounded the driver’s shoulders with both of his beefy hands. “You son of a bitch! You did it!” The men in the back laughed, too, until the helicopter dropped into the center of the exit.

“Gun it!” Julio screamed. He knew the copter would pull away before it got rammed. The driver crushed the gas pedal to the floor.

The Minigun flashed. Three hundred armor-piercing incendiary rounds poured through the windshield like liquid lead. The Escalade exploded in a ball of fire.

The helicopter rose at the last second to avoid the fiery wreck as it tumbled end over end out of the exit, finally coming to a halt in the middle of the busy street. Oncoming traffic slammed squealing brakes. Bumpers crashed, glass broke, horns honked.

The burning hulk of the Escalade continued to roar with flames, superheating the already sweltering night air as the pilotless Schiebel slipped away, its stealthy AI navigation program guiding it back to base.

Isla Paraíso, Mexico

Pearce studied his monitor. Ten thousand feet above, one of his surveillance drones drew lazy circles around the small island. César Castillo was nowhere in sight, but Pearce had seen him enter his palatial home earlier that evening. So far, so good.

On the western side of the island, two Castillo guards stretched on loungers by the pool. They were painted like slim gray ghosts in Pearce’s thermal-imaging camera. The tips of their cigarettes flared to white-hot pinpoints when they inhaled. The other two guards patrolling the far side of the home were more diligent. Their skin glowed a whiter shade of gray because they were hotter from trudging steadily in the humid night air.

Pearce turned to the other two monitors at his station on the boat. They also featured thermal-imaging cameras, but targeting reticles were centered on the screens as well. These were the cameras mounted on two Spartan Scouts, small unmanned surface vehicles (USVs) stationed on either side of the island. The first Spartan monitor was barely catching the tops of the heads of the two lounging guards on the western side, but the other Spartan Scout reticle easily targeted the first of the two guards patrolling the eastern perimeter.

Pearce engaged the automatic targeting program for the eastern Spartan’s weapons system, which was fitted with a suppressed M110 semiauto sniper rifle firing 7.62mm slugs. The western boat was configured exactly the same way. Both vessels were rubber pontoon platforms, like Zodiacs, with reinforced polymer decking for the gun systems. Tonight’s sea was choppy, but the guns were mounted on a computerized stabilizer to neutralize the motion.

The eastern Spartan scoped on the rear guard first and dropped him effortlessly. The dead man’s rifle clattered on the ground, alerting his partner, who whipped around to face his fallen comrade. A second later he was tossed backward like a rag doll by a slug that caught him high in the chest.

Suppressed weapons aren’t silenced weapons; their sound is only dampened. When the guards by the pool heard the two dull shots on the far side of the estate, they leaped to their feet and scrambled into defensive positions, facing the eastern side.

Pearce engaged the western boat. The guards stood taller now and their fully exposed bodies glowed eerily on the video screen. Their heads lit up like flares as adrenaline and exertion raised their body temperature, the additional heat venting out of the tops of their scalps.

The reticle squared on the first man’s glowing head just a moment before a bright-white blotch of fluid flowered on the other side of his skull. His corpse dropped silently on the monitor.

The other guard threw down his weapon and dashed in the opposite direction, heading for the western slope leading down to the water.

The Spartan’s automatic rifle tracked him as he slipped and twisted down the steep incline.

Pop.

Blood exploded in white petals on the slope behind him. The reticle tracked the limp corpse as it tumbled down the hill.

It almost didn’t seem fair to Pearce, despite the fact they were cartel scumbags. Even the best human snipers he’d ever worked with missed their shots sometimes. But not the machines. They never missed.

Human snipers were bounded by human frailty; the weapons systems they used were always superior to the operator using them. Hitting a target was a relatively simple algorithm with known variables: distance, friction, target speed, wind speed, projectile weight. New onboard computational systems and “smart” guided bullets were even solving those equations for human snipers. The profession was quickly becoming a “point and shoot” proposition. But human snipers contended with other variables, too: stinging sweat, the need to breathe, beating hearts, nagging doubts, sick kids back home, lack of sleep, fears. Most missed shots were caused by one or more of these all-too-human frailties.

Pearce disengaged both Spartan weapons systems as a safety precaution, then powered up his own small boat and motored toward the quay, where he tied up his craft next to Castillo’s yacht.

Pearce scrambled up the winding path. There was a quarter moon out tonight and he didn’t need his night-vision goggles. His pack was heavy and he sweated fiercely. When he reached the house, he ducked inside, carefully scanning for guards he might not have accounted for, but there were none. It was strange that there had only been four men protecting the head of the entire organization.

Was Castillo that confident of his defenses?

Pearce was certain that Castillo was locked away in his panic room bunker twenty feet below the estate. His security protocol would have called for him to immediately escape into the bunker if shots were ever fired.

Pearce proceeded to Castillo’s lavish office with its 360-degree view of the gulf and opened up the hidden panel showing the live video feed of Castillo in his panic room bunker. The drug lord carried his favorite gun in one hand, a chromed .50 caliber Desert Eagle encrusted with rubies and diamonds. In his other hand he had a phone connected to a landline that led to a satellite dish on top of the house. Old-fashioned copper wiring was the only way to get a cell signal down in that hole.

Pearce pressed a button on the video console so he could listen in on the conversation. But whoever was on the other end never picked up. Pearce thought that was strange. Either the person on the other end of the line had been asleep on the job or else they weren’t following the security protocol.

Pearce watched Castillo rant like a demon, then finally give up. The raging drug lord slammed the phone receiver so hard against the wall it broke in his hands.

Pearce checked his watch. He estimated he still had fifteen minutes before he would have to evacuate. Plenty of time.

The problem with hiring one of the world’s premier architectural firms was that they designed everything on high-end CAD systems, then stored the digital blueprints on mainframes for reference on current and future projects. That was Castillo’s fatal mistake. Ian had pulled up Castillo’s palace blueprints in no time. It was the bunker on the property that convinced Pearce that Castillo would choose this location for his final stand.

Pearce located Castillo’s small safe and opened it easily with a computerized lock pick. He pulled out all of the contents and stuffed them into a dry bag. What really caught Pearce’s attention was a sandwich baggie full of SD cards, the kind used in video cameras. He couldn’t wait to find out what was on them.

Pearce dashed through the house to the kitchen area. According to the blueprints, the bunker’s air ducts were hidden behind the tiled walls of the villa, but an access door was located beneath the kitchen sink for duct inspections and repair. Pearce pulled on a gas mask, opened the access door, and snaked a long, thin plastic tube down into it, then he connected a small gas bottle from his utility belt to the line. After he emptied the bottle’s contents, he tossed the bottle aside and shut the access door.

After stripping off his mask, he jogged back to the bunker video monitor. Castillo paced furiously, a crazed, caged animal. Pearce held up his smartphone and recorded the monitor images. Castillo’s legs soon turned wobbly and he tripped, then stumbled, and finally fell to the floor, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. His arms and legs jerked wildly as his jaw clacked open and shut like a rapidly blinking eye. Seconds later, he was dead.

Satisfied, Pearce exited his phone’s camera function and pocketed it.

The last item on Pearce’s agenda was in the heavy rucksack he’d hauled up the hill. It contained a specially designed two-stage demolition device. He armed it and set the timer, then jogged back down to his boat.

When his boat and the two Spartans had sped out a couple of miles, he cut the engines and turned around just in time to watch the top of the island erupt with a deafening roar. A mushroom cloud of fire boiled up into the night sky, fueled by a canister of white phosphorus. It almost looked like a volcanic explosion. It lit the ocean surface for twenty miles in all directions. Pearce assumed that NORAD was going crazy right about now.

A gentle ocean breeze brushed against Pearce’s face. The phosphorus smelled a little like garlic. He fired up his engines and headed home.

24

Maiquetía, Venzuela

Sandwiched between the steeply rising mountains looming behind it and the vast Caribbean sea on its doorstep, the city of Maiquetía featured a deepwater port, an unlimited coastline, and the Simón Bolívar International Airport. There was also a secured compound that protected a safe house. Ulises Castillo had been its only guest for the last week. The last surviving Castillo was under the special protection of General Agostino Ribas, the defense minister of Venezuela.

Udi and Tamar were bored to tears. They had been floating off the coast of Maiquetía on a sixty-three-foot yacht for three days. Myers had forbidden Pearce to take out Ulises on Venezuelan soil so Udi and Tamar were reduced to babysitting.

The first day the Israelis arrived was the most exciting. They went onshore and planted spider drones equipped with microphones and pinhead-size cameras for data collection on Ulises, but they had been confined to the yacht at sea ever since. The boat was also equipped with long-range laser voice detection and video surveillance systems. They even had an RQ-11 Raven, a miniature unmanned aerial vehicle (UAV) that could be launched by hand at a moment’s notice. But that was their only drone. They were too far away from friendly airstrips for ground-launched operations.

When General Ribas suddenly arrived at the safe house with an armed escort, Udi and Tamar scrambled into action. Ribas entered Ulises’s living quarters alone, leaving his two personal bodyguards outside the door.

Udi and Tamar tuned in to the conversation that was being recorded on video.

Ribas puffed thoughtfully on a fat cigar, clouding the small living room with blue smoke. The two men sat opposite each other on worn leather couches, separated by a glass coffee table.

“Your father and I have been friends for a long time. That is why he entrusted you to my care.” Ribas leaned forward and pointed his cigar at Ulises. “You know, I held you in my arms once when you were a small baby.”

“You and Papa ran Colombian cocaine together back in the ’80s,” Ulises said.

“Whores, too. We made good money.”

“Still do, from what he says.” Ulises smiled.

Ribas roared with laughter. “Just like your old man!” Ribas took a long, thoughtful drag on his cigar before stabbing out the butt in the ashtray on the table. “Look, I have some bad news.”

Ulises frowned. “My father?”

“Yes.”

“How?” Ulises demanded.

“It does not matter. I am truly sorry.”

“The Americans?”

“Yes, of course. Who else could it be? They are animals.” Ribas observed the ruthless young Castillo carefully.

Ulises stared at his enormous hands, emotionless. “It was inevitable, I suppose,” Ulises said. “The Americans are too powerful.”

“You are welcome to remain here, of course,” Ribas offered.

Ulises glanced back up, smiling. “I can’t kill Americans sitting here.”

Ribas laughed again. “Your father would be proud.”

“How soon can you get me back to Mexico?”

“How soon can you be ready?”

Ulises stood. “I’m ready now.”

Ribas stood as well. “I already have a helicopter waiting for you at the airport.”

“Helicopter?” Ulises knew that Mexico was too far away for a helicopter unless it had air-refueling capabilities.

“I have made arrangements for you with one of our agents in Aruba. He is making arrangements to smuggle you from there to Veracruz. We must be extremely cautious, hijo, if we hope to get you home alive.”

Udi called Pearce with the news, hoping that the kill order would take effect when the helicopter crossed into international waters. Every other team had killed their respective targets. He and Tamar wanted their shot, too.

“Wait until they are at least one hundred kilometers out” was all Pearce said.

“You got it, boss!” Udi beamed.

Thanks to Dr. Rao and the mosquito drones, the GPS implant in Ulises’s body still functioned perfectly, drawing energy from the static electricity he generated. Ulises traveled by car to Ribas’s private heliport at Simón Bolívar International. Moments later, a big ugly Russian Mi-35 Hind E helicopter landed. The airport was near the water, so Udi and Tamar repositioned their yacht a quarter mile off the coast, out of the flight path of commercial aircraft. Fortunately, there weren’t any Venezuelan Coast Guard patrol boats in the area so they could keep their surveillance gear up and running.

Tamar’s camera recorded seven Venezuelan commandos in combat fatigues exiting the helicopter. The unit commander was a sergeant according to his insignia. He saluted Ulises, then shook his hand with a curt smile.

Ulises turned and bear-hugged Ribas, then he boarded the chopper after the commandos had loaded back in. The door slammed shut, and the rotors cycled up. The big Hind lifted off the tarmac and swung lazily toward the ocean. Ribas stood below, waving good-bye until the chopper cleared land.

Udi stood on the aft deck of the yacht and watched the helicopter roar overhead through a pair of mil-spec binoculars while Tamar kept the video camera locked on it from inside the cabin. They obviously didn’t have the opportunity to place any surveillance equipment on board the military helicopter on such short notice, so they couldn’t hear or see what was going on inside.

“We shouldn’t follow them immediately,” Udi suggested. “No point in getting too close and alerting them. We have plenty of range.”

“I agree. But you’ll have to drive the boat.”

“Why?” Udi asked.

Tamar grinned. “Because it’s my turn to shoot the Stinger.” She kept the camera focused on the massive helo as it sped north out to sea. Udi started the engine and turned the yacht in the same direction as the helicopter, which had climbed to a thousand feet. A moment later, the Hind froze in space.

“Tamar—”

“I’m getting it, love,” she shouted from inside. Pearce needed everything recorded to video.

Tamar watched the helicopter door slide open on the video monitor. “What are they doing?”

A couple of seconds later, Ulises’s body tumbled out, falling like a bag of wet cement. Tamar followed his unmistakable corpse all the way down with the camera until it splashed. Udi focused his binoculars at the spot where Ulises’s body had hit. No movement in the water.

Udi glanced back up at the helicopter. It rotated 180 degrees on a dime, then roared away back toward the airport. Tamar followed it with her camera as it flew over the airport and then climbed over the mountains behind the city on a direct course for Caracas.

“Why?” Tamar asked.

“Why not? With his father dead, he became a liability.”

“And the idiot walked right into it.”

“That’s why Ribas had the armed escort. Just in case he came to his senses.”

Tamar radioed in to Pearce as Udi throttled up and sped toward the splashdown. He knew Pearce would want a DNA sample just to be sure.