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.
