Drone

“Only the top four recruits will have the honor of carrying one of these into battle,” Ali said, holding up one of the launchers. The Iranians manufactured their own RPGs, but they opted to smuggle in Vietnamese copies in the unlikely event any of the weapons were seized.

The Iranians strapped the wood-and-steel launchers to their backs along with the packs that held the long- stemmed charges. The big green bulbous warheads poked out of the top of the packs like misshapen bowling pins. The Iranians purposely marched in front of the Mexican recruits as a reminder of who was in charge, but also to keep the RPGs front and center in the peasants’ minds. The recruits laughed and nudged one another like schoolboys, lusting after the wicked-looking devices as if they were young women.

When they reached the prepared firing range, the Mexicans gathered around Ali as he cradled one of the weapons in his arms. The panting recruits broke out their canteens and drank as he spoke.

“You men are doing very well. I am very proud of you. So proud that I am going to let you in on a little secret. You are not just being trained to root out Castillo men up on the border. Any gangster with a pistol could do that. No, you have been selected for a very important mission by Victor Bravo himself. A mission all the way up north.” They listened earnestly, but their eyes were all locked on the launcher in Ali’s hands. He patted it. “But more of that later.”

Ali pulled out one of the big HEAT rounds and loaded it.

“Stand clear!”

The Iranians pushed the men aside, away from the coming rocket blast. Ali kneeled and lined up one of the large twisted ficus trees in his iron sights.

WHOOSH! Ali loosed the first rocket-propelled grenade. The armor-piercing round slammed into the tree, shattering the trunk and breaking the mighty tree in half. The top came crashing down to the jungle floor.

The Mexicans howled with delight.

“This is how David slays the giant, brothers. Who wants to go first?”

28

Tel Aviv, Israel

Nine days earlier, Pearce had asked Udi and Tamar to find the answers to two questions. The first was, who was Castillo calling from his bunker the night he died? The second was, who originally uploaded the massacre video and where did they upload it from?

Thanks to the Farsi clue Pearce passed on, Israeli intelligence had acquired the answers to both. As former Mossad agents, Udi and Tamar weren’t easily surprised, but the answers to the two questions knocked them back on their heels. What had Pearce gotten them into?

Udi picked up his phone and called Pearce. Unfortunately, it was 3:37 a.m. in Wyoming.

“This better be good,” Pearce grumbled, still half asleep.

“Castillo was calling Hernan Barraza.”

Pearce rubbed his tired face, processing. He sat up. “And he didn’t pick up. Why?”

“Maybe Barraza was scared? Surprised?” Udi said.

“Or cutting himself off from Castillo,” Tamar chimed in.

“My guess is the latter,” Pearce said. “But it doesn’t really matter. The big news is that this proves a direct link between Castillo and Hernan. Maybe even the president himself.”

Pearce headed for his kitchen, the cell phone still stuck in his ear. It was time to make coffee and get to work. “So how are you doing on the Facebook thing? I would’ve thought that would be the easier of the two nuts to crack.”

“I know. Crazy, eh? But whoever put that video up really knew his business. My friend says he’ll keep at it.”

“Any connection between the video upload and the Iranians?” Pearce asked.

“No. It was a dead end,” Udi said. “If we find out anything else, I’ll call.”

“Thanks, Udi. And thank your ‘friend’ for me. Shalom.”

“Shalom.” Udi hung up the phone.

Tamar scowled at Udi. “I hate that you lied to him.”

“Me? You were on the call, too.”

“You know what I mean,” Tamar said.

Udi sighed. “I hate it, too. But we owe more to Israel than to Troy.”

“That doesn’t make it right. He’s our friend.”

“I know. But we have our orders.”

“We don’t have ‘orders.’ We no longer belong to Mossad, remember?”

Pearce had recruited Udi and Tamar to his company on the condition that they leave Mossad and all other Israeli government employment. They had agreed to his terms because they wanted to work with him. But when Mossad hackers had chased Pearce’s lead straight into a Quds Force mainframe, they asked Tamar and Udi for help. Mossad was terribly shorthanded in Latin America, and the Sterns knew Mexico well. The former agents couldn’t say no to the request or to the possibility of breaking up a Quds Force cell in Mexico.

“This is the last time we’re going to lie to Troy, I promise,” Udi said.

Tamar shook her head. “You mean until after this mission?”

Peto, Mexico

It had been a good training cycle. His officers had performed a miracle, transforming young, illiterate peasants into combat-ready soldiers. When the campesinos had first arrived in camp six months earlier, few of them even owned a pair of shoes, let alone handled a weapon. Now they could fire a rifle and march in order, more or less, and they had learned to obey orders without question. More important, they shared the pride and camaraderie of all men-at-arms who sweat and bleed and suffer together.

They will be doing plenty more bleeding and suffering soon enough, Ali reminded himself. He was training these sheep for slaughter.

With his grueling regimen, Ali had forged them into a unit completely devoted to him. He’d proven to them that he could outshoot, outmarch, and outfight any man in the unit. His men wore their blistered feet and black eyes as evidence. But he also knew how to reward them, particularly on the last night of training camp.

Though it was against his Islamic convictions, Ali allowed the recruits to partake of a particularly potent kilo of genetically modified marijuana. He also issued his men brand-new black fatigues.

They were all sitting together in a circle. One of Ali’s Quds Force trainers, Walid Zohar, a tough young Azeri sergeant, taught the Mexicans an old Iranian army song about love and loss, and the Mexicans in turn taught the Iranians a song about the hardship of the peasant’s life. The drug-fueled emotions ran high as the sun began to set. Ali signaled a technician to set up the video camera. When it was up and running, Ali barked his orders.

“Get your weapons now!”

Stunned—and stoned—the boys looked at one another and laughed. The dope had made them forget that they were supposed to be real soldiers now.

Ali fired his pistol into the air. BOOM!

That got their attention.

“Your weapons! Now!”

The Mexicans scrambled for their AK-47s stacked neatly near the tents, but they crashed and stumbled into one another, cursing and laughing, until all of them had picked up a rifle.

“Line up here!” Ali commanded, pointing to an imaginary line.

Sobering up quickly, the boys formed a line. The four stars of the group lined up in the center, each carrying an RPG and a grenade pack slung on their backs.

“Port, arms!”

The Mexicans slowly but accurately raised their guns diagonally across their bodies. Their bloodshot eyes narrowed with concentration.

Ali began the familiar cadence of the marching chants.