Drone Command

FIFTY-ONE

Vice Chairman Feng had commandeered the security chief’s own office and threw him out, waiting for the phone call for news about his son. He paced the floor like a nervous cat, smoking furiously. The intercom rang. “It’s the Berlin embassy, sir.”

Feng snatched up the receiver. “Jianli!”

“I’m sorry, sir. My name is Liu. I’m the station chief.”

“Where’s my son?”

“He’s been sedated. Doctor’s orders.”

Feng’s grip tightened on the phone. Perhaps Jianli’s kidnapper had castrated him after all. “Was he injured?”

“Traumatized. Just crying, mostly.”

Feng winced. That wouldn’t do. But his son’s cowardice couldn’t be helped now. At least he was safe.

“Have him contact me the minute he wakes up. As soon as he’s fit to travel, he’s to return home — even if he protests. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And if anything happens to him between now and his arrival, I’ll hold you personally responsible. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly.”

“To whom have you spoken of these matters?”

“No one, just as you ordered. Only one other agent was with me when we picked him up. And the doctor, of course.”

“Make sure they understand the importance of silence. If one word of this gets out—”

“I’ll be held responsible.”

“I’ll have you all shot.”

Feng slammed the phone into its cradle. The image of his naked son hanging like a pig in a slaughterhouse clawed at his heart.

He pulled his secure cell phone from his pocket and punched the speed dial for Admiral Ji. He’d teach those American bastards a lesson in humiliation. Drive it deep into their ugly round eyes like a burning spike.