Beatrice exhaled a subdued snigger from her nose. “Do you…want to know more?”
“No,” Bronson thundered. “I want to know everything. So kindly dispense with any and all of the aforementioned injudicious dillydallying.”
“As you wish,” the blonde said casually. She settled into her seat, leaned back, and crossed her legs. “Sun Tzu wrote ‘the quality of decision is like the well-timed swoop of a falcon which enables it to strike and destroy its victim’. What he meant is that time is of the essence. Choosing when to strike is important, but not so much as being quick about it. Nothing—not one damn thing of worth—can be gained from prolonged conflict.” A pause. “We hurt those people, your heathens, as you like to call them. Our efforts were not totally in vain. The message sent was a strong one, it just wasn’t strong enough. We hit them at the right time, but we didn’t hit them hard enough. And now they’re back to their old tricks, workin’ on devising new ones.” A pause. “And we are back to square one.”
Doug groaned and efforted himself to his feet to begin a search for more brandy after noticing his empty snifter.
Beatrice uncrossed and recrossed her legs, her eyes following him. “I think you have a good grasp on many of General Tzu’s most practical arguments, Doug. You utilize deception-based warfare to your benefit and do a dang respectable job of disguising your motives. You find opportunity amidst chaos and utilize it to your advantage. You’re also mindful that the best way of waging war is doing so with minimal effort.”
“I appreciate the roses, Beatrice. I do. They’re pretty and soothing, but you’re starting to lose me, here. Just move past all the drivel and get to the punchline.”
“Fine.” The reply came rather fiercely. “I am proposing that we raise the gall dang bar.” She slid a small stack of stapled papers retrieved from her shoulder bag onto his desk. “I’ve prepared a direct-action addendum for Solve for X, to be affixed and distributed pending your approval.”
“I’ll look it over when I get a moment.”
“Outstanding,” Beatrice said irritably. “A section within regards the MQ-1C. We’ve only ever flown it for surveillance, and what I’d prefer is that we instead use it for the purpose for which it was originally designed.”
Doug huffed. “So that’s it, then? That’s the antidote to all our problems? This addendum of yours and running the Pred as a hunter-killer? That fixes everything?”
“It’s a start. The bird can be configured for armed reconnaissance loadout, can it not?”
“Of course it can.” Doug coughed. “It just isn’t.”
“Why not? Isn’t that a trifle asinine?” she quizzed. “The M designation means ‘multirole’.”
“I am fully aware of what the godda…” Bronson trailed off, resuming his search.
“Do we not possess armament for all those nifty…hard points?”
“I’m not sure. I’d have to do some digging.”
Beatrice protested, “Doug, please. How much digging? We have a functional, loadout-ready, multirole UAV with reinforced wings and pylons at our disposal, but we don’t know the status of applicable armament? Surely it wasn’t meant to just waste fuel, glide all over kingdom come, and snap pretty little pictures.”
Bronson rotated and eyeballed her scathingly, refill of brandy finally attained. “I’ve grown fond of our affiliation thus far, Beatrice. I believe it benefits us both in many ways, and I don’t wish for it to deviate or…change. But if you don’t stop with this sudden obstinance—this recklessly flippant tone of voice, there’ll be no other choice.”
Beatrice sneered, gnashed her teeth, and looked away.
“I’m glad we agree,” Doug growled, then shuffled back to his desk. “I never said we didn’t have armament for the Pred, I only said I wasn’t certain as to what we have. They discontinued those things a few years ago when the Pentagon invested headlong in the Reaper project. DHS was gifted a squadron of hand-me-downs by the Department of Defense, and we were unerringly bestowed one of them. And we’re damn fortunate to have it.”
The former operative only sighed, then spoke in a more dutiful tone. “Do we or do we not possess destructive loadout for our hand-me-down?”
“I believe we do,” Bronson said. “But I’m not informed as to the particulars.”
“And who would be?”
Doug took a drink and rubbed his chin. “I’m not informed on that either, I’m afraid.”
Beatrice frowned, nodded, then rose.
“Where are you going?” Doug asked.
“To find someone who is informed,” she barked. “And for his sake, he had better recognize the proper way to speak to a lady.”
Doug tilted his head and watched her hips sway as she trotted off. “Are you planning to return at some point?”
“Maybe. Sooner…or perhaps later.”
Doug rolled his lips. “As in…today?”
“Could be.”
“I prefer it be today…or tonight, better yet. I can arrange dinner for us. Steaks, fresh vegetables, some wine…anything you want.”
“I’ll consider it,” Beatrice cooed, then beheld him with squinted eyes before making her exit. “There’s a lot you’ve yet to learn about me, Doug. I pray by now you’ve become aware of my…resourcefulness. I can play any part you like here…critical asset or formidable adversary. Consider which of those roles you desire in your corner, behave yourself, and I’ll act accordingly.”
Chapter 3
Bronson recoiled at the sound of the door closing and even more so at his coconspirator’s smug dismissiveness.
Beatrice was a knockout, everything he’d ever wanted in a woman. But some days, he wanted nothing more than to strangle her.
Just who did this bitch think she was? And what divine entity had given her permission to speak to him that way? He felt around for the button mounted to his desk and pressed it, paging his receptionist.
Within seconds, Tori emerged through the office door. “Yes, sir?”
“Tori, get in here.”
“I…am in here, sir.”
“Good, good. Is…she gone?”
“Who? Mrs. Carter?”
“Yes, Mrs. Carter!”
“Um, yes, sir. She’s gone…in the stairwell, a flight or two down, judging by the sound of her UGGs. Did you want me to ge—”
“No,” Bronson grunted. “Just close that door…and lock it.”
“Okay.” Tori’s expression went downcast,
