UAV Page 2

  Imran Hyderi was important to the people of his country because of his nobility and honor. He was among the heroes and saviors who would not resort to violence and preached peace. The last thing such heroes wanted to do was associate themselves with the tactics and mannerisms of their opposition. As such, they would surround themselves with people of similar ilk.

  He’d chosen this young girl because the drivers were more likely to stop from hitting a child who wandered into their path than an adult. The girl was scanning the gathered crowd for her mother, tugging at the little Bhurka covering her hair.

  Francis timed it perfectly, letting the vans come close enough that they would have to swerve and stop rather than change course, then pointed across the street and gave the little girl a push.

  “There’s your mother!” he said, and the little girl didn’t hesitate. She ran into the middle of the street, shouting for her mother, oblivious to the black vehicles barreling down on her.

  Several people started screaming, and Francis stepped into the roadway behind the little girl, pretending as if he was trying to stop her.

  He was careful to stay far enough back that if the driver did decide to run the girl over, the van wouldn’t come close enough to clip him too.

  His gamble paid off, however, and the sound of screeching tires filled the air as the front driver slammed on the brakes. The van swerved, and the smell of burnt rubber filled his nose.

  The little girl screamed and fell on her butt, staring at the engine block coming to a halt less than three feet from her face.

  Only seconds later the street was filled with dozens of pedestrians, surrounding the girl and the now stopped line of vehicles. Some shouted angrily at the drivers; others shouted to find out what was going on.

  Francis disappeared back into the crowd and maneuvered to the second van in line. Victor didn’t have Intel on which vehicle Imran was traveling in, so the plan was to sneak a view into the interiors of each and eliminate the ones they didn’t need.

  It wouldn’t do any good to attack from the outside: the van exterior was armored against small bombs and bullets up to fifty caliber by armor plates. Anything sufficient to stop the convoy would likely kill everyone inside.

  But to save weight and cost, the interior was not compartmental or fortified. Once a door opened, all of the outer defenses were for naught.

  He adjusted his loose fitting thobe to hide his movements as he drew a Colt revolver. As predicted, the passenger door opened and a guard climbed out, waving a gun and shouting in Punjabi for the crowd to disperse. Francis readied to shoot if the man moved to close the door behind him, but luckily it was left open.

  The guard was armed with an assault rifle—a modified AK— and he was using the barrel to encourage civilians to step away from the van and clear a path.

  Francis shifted nearer to the passenger door, cocking back the hammer on his revolver and pulling a tear gas grenade from another pocket. The crowd was getting more and more chaotic, and the guards were having no luck pushing them away from the vans.

  The crowd was also growing in size as more and more surprised shoppers flooded out of the mall. Francis moved into position next to the passenger door.

  He found an angle to peer across the front seat of the van, and with practiced ease fired off two rounds into the driver in rapid succession, tossing the tear-gas grenade into the backseat. It all happened in less than two seconds, and Francis ducked back into the crowd again before the guard in the street knew what had happened.

  The civilians screamed and thrashed about, struggling to get away from the gunshots. A few pointed at Francis, but no one moved to hinder him as he shifted through the gathering.

  He heard more gunshots from in front of and behind him in the roadway as Victor and William took out the other vehicles.

  He ignored them and focused on his own job. He slipped around the far side of the van, next to the rear sliding door, and waited. A few seconds later it opened and gas billowed into the air.

  Two men stumbled out, coughing and covering their faces with clothing. Francis fired two more shots, and both men collapsed to the ground. Then he moved forward into the interior of the van overtop them, avoiding the noxious gas, and peered inside.

  It was empty. Francis let out a sigh. It wasn’t practical for Imran to be in the middle van, but he had to check nevertheless. William was working the first van and Victor the last, and Francis knew that if one of them needed help, it would be William.

  He reached into his pocket for more ammunition and saw the last guard stepping around the corner of the van. He’d recovered quicker than Francis expected and was raising his rifle to fire.

  Francis dove toward the rear of the van, scrambling out of sight just as the rifle went off. He heard bullets thud around him and knew several civilians were hit in the barrage.

  Francis crawled to the far side of the van and rolled underneath, facing toward the rear of the undercarriage. He watched the guard’s feet as they rounded the van at the back. Francis fired, hitting the man in the right ankle.

  The man collapsed to the ground with a scream, and as soon as his head came in sight below the undercarriage Francis fired again, planting a bullet in his skull. Francis continued rolling through to the far side of the van, opening the cylinder on his Colt revolver and letting the empty shells spill onto the pavement.

  He started to stand up, pulling more shells out of his pocket to reload. Things were progressing smoothly, and with a few more minutes they would be on the road with their target long before any response could be mustered against—

  He saw the foot coming at the last second and managed to shift his neck far enough to avoid the brunt of the attack. The shoe caught him in the shoulder instead of the chin, knocking him against the van and sending a wave of pain down his spine. He fought to maintain control of his senses and spotted the man in front of him, stepping back and shouting.

  The attack caught him off guard. His brain went into overdrive determining the ramifications.

  Francis hadn’t anticipated civilian intervention during this mission, and he knew that if he miscalculated his next move, things could turn from simple to desperate in a matter of seconds. If one civilian decided to join the fray and attack the outsiders, what would others do?

  He couldn’t afford for the crowd to turn into a mob. Francis shifted his weight underneath him as the assailant readied a second kick and noted with dismay that more civilians were moving to join in.

  They were emboldened by the first attacker’s success. This could get out of hand, and if he let these people enter into mob mentality his team would be in a lot of trouble. He slipped one shell out of his pocket, spilling a few live rounds on the pavement in the process, and slid it into the chamber of his revolver.

  He snapped the cylinder into position and waited. One shot was all he would get, so he would need to make it count.

  Only a second before the kick came he sprang into motion, stepping forward and catching the leg of the assailant with his left hand. He stood up and threw the man backward.

  The attacker collapsed against another person and formed a heap in the center of the road, but Francis ignored them. He studied the crowd carefully, selecting a man who seemed likely to join the fray from those still hesitating.

  The man wasn’t aggressive yet, but he was big and strong. Francis knew it was only a matter of time. The crowd was building fervor now, ready to protect themselves against the outsiders, and that was something he couldn’t afford.

  Francis didn’t hesitate, raising his Colt and firing his shot. The would-be assailant collapsed to the ground, half his head missing, and the crowd fell silent. The fervor was gone in the blink of an eye. Many were splattered in blood and gore. Many more seemed shocked as they stared at Francis.

  He hadn’t shot the man that attacked him, but instead an innocent bystander. Who the hell does that? The question was written on their faces, and they understood that this wasn’t their fig
ht. The mob mentality was gone, and now they were all afraid and isolated again. Francis calmly reloaded more shells into his revolver and stared back at them.

  “Anyone else?” he asked in Punjabi.

  There was no response, and he started walking toward the van parked in front of his. The crowd parted before him, silenced by his display of brutality. These were civilians, not trained to operate under battle conditions.

  Or maybe it wasn’t me that stopped them, he realized suddenly. His display of brutality was nothing compared to his compatriot’s. The civilians were giving an even wider berth for William without the man needing to make any display.

  William was leaning against the edge of his van, panting heavily and dripping in blood. It wasn’t his. There was a man on the ground in front of him, tied up and with a cloth bag pulled over his face. Most impressive—and nauseating—was the crowbar he held in his right hand. The crowbar was, also, dripping blood.

  “Where did you find a crowbar?” he asked.

  William held it up for inspection, as though surprised to see it in his hand. “I’m not really sure...must have been in the backseat.”

  “Was it necessary?”

  William shrugged. “Probably.”

  Francis shook his head. He gestured to the tied up man on the ground next to William. “Is he injured?”

  “He’s fine. He was begging earlier.”

  “He isn’t now?”

  William shrugged. “I kicked him in the face. He tried to rouse the civilians against us, kept asking for people to fight for him.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to be an issue,” Francis replied, glancing back at the terrified crowd. “Is the van damaged?”

  William shook his head. Everything was quiet, and a moment later Victor pushed through the crowd to join them. “I rigged the others to explode. We need to leave before these people realize they can swarm us.”

  Victor and William lifted Imran into the van, dragging the dead men out and dropping them onto the pavement. Francis was a little disgusted to see that only one man was shot while the rest received death-by-crowbar. It was embarrassing and barbaric, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

  “I didn’t want to damage the engine, boss,” William explained. “So I tried not to use my gun.”

  “Good plan,” Victor said. Francis could detect a slight undertone of sarcasm, but he knew it would pass over William’s head.

  “In less than a minute, there will be a large explosion here,” Francis said, addressing the crowd in Punjabi. They stared at him blankly. “Anyone who stays or tries to stop us will die.”

  He climbed into the driver’s seat of the van and fired the engine. He used his sleeve to wipe enough blood off the windshield to see out and decided he would have a talk with William later. Sometimes a little finesse is necessary. The crowd parted as he inched forward, and in only a few minutes they were on empty roads heading east.

  “Will anyone follow us?” William asked.

  Victor shook his head. “Not a chance. The civilians can’t respond to the incident, and the military is loyal to the national leaders.”

  “What happens now?”

  “Now,” Victor started, “we leave Imran at the drop point and disappear.”

  “I mean here,” William said. “What we just did.”

  Victor leaned back into his seat. “The military releases a report, some people get mad and write letters or stories about cruelty and horror, and the government’s opposition disappears for a few more years.”

  “You’re wrong,” a foreign voice said, and it took Francis a moment to realize that it was Imran speaking, tied up on the floor of the van. The voice spoke clear English, though with a distinct accent.

  “You didn’t gag him?” Francis asked, glancing over his shoulder. William shrugged.

  “Kicking him was easier.”

  “We will never disappear,” Imran said, but he didn’t try to sit up from his prone position.

  “All evidence to the contrary,” Francis said.

  “You mock something you know nothing about.”

  “You are a prisoner tied in the back of your own escort van being handed over to a man who will kill you, perhaps publicly. What else is there to know?”

  “My death means nothing. We fight for the people. For freedom. Something you have and yet deprive others of. You will never understand what it is like to have something to fight for. Something to die for.”

  “Maybe not. But I like to think there is nothing worth dying for. I might not have conviction, but I always win.”

  “Then you don’t understand that you already lost the only battle that counts,” Imran said.

  Francis shrugged. “Yeah, whatever.”

  5

  Victor walked into the field of sugar cane outside the military base in Eastern Pakistan. Imran Hyderi was now in the custody of the government, and he neither knew nor cared what they would do with him. His team was back inside the operation tent, packing their gear and belongings.

  Helen was annoyingly hyper and continually retreating to the restroom. He would have to remember to keep her away from Turkish coffee in the future.

  Francis found him outside the tent. Victor could tell there was something on his mind.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “What happens when she finds out?” Francis asked.

  “About Imran?”

  “About her sister,” Francis replied.

  “She won’t,” Victor said, waving the concern away.

  “She’s smart,” Francis said, “and persistent. She isn’t going to give up.”

  “No,” Victor said. “But she’s soft. She has none of the iron her sister had. She’ll be easy to break.”

  “Do we need to break her?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, is this worth it? Why don’t we just cut her loose and get someone else.”

  Victor was silent for a moment. “You said yourself that she isn’t going to stop looking for answers. When she finds them, I would prefer that she be close enough that I can deal with it. Her sister had a lot of friends. If Helen told the right people what we did...”

  “Things could get messy,” Francis finished. Victor nodded.

  “She doesn’t know anything yet. When she starts to figure it out, I’ll have a bullet ready for her.”

  Francis eyed his boss for a second, nodded, and then walked away. Victor watched him leave. He started walking back toward the military outpost when his phone started ringing.

  “This is Cross.”

  “There’s been a change of plans. We need you stateside,” the voice said. He didn’t recognize it: JanCorp cycled phone representatives. Worst case scenario, he could pick one voice out of a lineup at most. “We have our opening.”

  And it didn’t matter anyway. He didn’t plan on letting a worst case scenario ever find him. He hung up the phone and began meandering back to his crew. Only one thing mattered right now.

  They had a job.

  Chapter 2

  Nevada

  1

  “Did you get the peyote?” Beck asked.

  Jack Wallis wasn’t even through the door of the double-wide trailer. He couldn’t immediately answer since he held a bag of Doritos clenched between his teeth.

  It was just past midnight, but neither of them were even the slightest bit tired. They were night owls, working into the early morning hours and sleeping during the day.

  Jack made his way over to the counter of their drab little kitchen, weaving around desks and garbage. He dumped his bounty of processed foods, potato chips, and beverages down before turning to answer.

  “Did I get the what?”

  “The peyote,” Steve Beck replied.

  “I thought you were going to clean up while I was gone.”

  “I did,” Beck replied. He had a switchblade in his hand and a whetstone on his lap. He eyed the edge and ran the blade down the stone. “So, did you get it?”


  Beck was a scrawny twenty-six-year-old albino from Kentucky, barely over a hundred pounds. What he lacked in muscle he made up for in lung capacity.

  Beck was smart, though; certainly a lot smarter than Jack, which he didn’t have a problem admitting. And Jack wasn’t dumb, anyway. He just felt dumb around Beck.

  Beck was a commissioned officer in the United States Air Force, the same as Jack, but well on his way to becoming a Captain. He was technically Jack’s superior, but rank didn’t mean much out here in the middle of the Nevada desert.

  The only nearby town, Dover, was twenty miles away. They were isolated from civilization. The only contact with the outside world—apart from the occasional excursions into town for snacks at a gas station—were when they operated Predator drones flying around the world on a mission.

  To make matters worse, they were operating drones from a mock retirement community barely thirty miles outside the Vegas Strip. So close to that majestic city, yet it might as well have been on the moon. It sat in the distance, mocking them in their double-wide in Olde Pine Trailer City.

  There were well over two hundred trailers parked here, but less than half were occupied. Fewer drones in the air meant fewer pilots, and all branches of the military were working with contractors as the technology matured.

  Jack put a twelve pack of Coke into the mini fridge.

  The clock beeped, signaling that their shift was about to start.

  “What the hell is Peyote?” Jack asked, opening the bag of Doritos and popping the tab on one of the cans. It was still warm, but he was thirsty.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Beck asked.

  He was reclining on the couch in the southern corner of the room. “I told you where to go, who to talk to, and how much to ask for. Did you even look at the paper I sent with you?”

  “Uh...no. Not really. It’s illegal, isn’t it?”

  “Not for religious purposes. All you had to do was tell them you’re one-eighth Koso, ask for two ounces of Peyote, and explain that it is for Church use.”

  “Ah,” Jack said, moving over to his desk and sitting down. “I don’t want to get busted attempting to buy drugs.”