Drone Threat Read Online Free Page A

one of the nearby utility poles. Its grim human cargo had been tossed through the air and now lay twisted in the dirt, still attached to the crossbar. But the rising light revealed the gruesome line of bodies high in the air that still remained, leading away from the church and down the long, winding road away from the village.
    Butchery, the captain thought. But useful. The Kurds were a problem and ISIS a convenient solution for Ankara. His own country had slaughtered the Armenians in the same way years before. He shrugged. His moderate Islamic government knew what it was doing and he wasn’t in charge of the Kurdish operation. He shouldn’t even be on this side of the border. His duty was to obey orders, but the army didn’t pay enough money.
    â€œCaptain!” a short, stocky corporal called out.
    The captain picked his way through the ruins and made his way over to the corporal, who pointed in earnest at the corpse beneath the burnt timbers.
    The captain nodded at the wood. “Move that.”
    The corporal lifted a big chunk of wood with a grunt and tossed it aside, wiping his hands onto his camo pants, staining them with ash.
    The captain knelt and examined the corpse. It was only half of a human torso, relatively intact from the gory waist up. The face was partially charred and badly disfigured, but there wasn’t any doubt.
    The captain pulled out his cell phone and framed the shot to make the gruesome figure less so. The important feature was the face. He snapped a few shots until he got one he was comfortable with and even took a few minutes to crop and edit it.
    â€œGood work, Corporal. There’s a thermos with black coffee in my kit. Go get yourself some.”
    â€œThank you, sir!” The corporal threw a hasty salute and scrambled uneasily toward the chopper as the captain speed-dialed a number.
    â€œIt’s me, sir. Captain Orga. We’ve found Kamal al-Medina. I have a photo.” The captain attached the photo to an encrypted text message and sent it. He waited for a few moments for the man on the other end to receive the picture and process it.
    The man asked a question.
    Orga answered. “An American drone strike, certainly.”
    Another question.
    â€œHyssop said he’s ex-CIA. Goes by the name of Troy Pearce.”

4
    WASHINGTON, D.C.
    Breaking glass.
    Pearce awoke, startled out of a fitful sleep. Head pounding. He glanced at his pistol in its holster on the nightstand, but something stopped him from snatching it up.
    Bacon.
    He smelled bacon.
    His stomach was sour, but the bacon smelled like maple and sweet pork fat. His mouth watered. But that meant someone was cooking downstairs.
    More glass broke.
    He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and pulled on a pair of jeans that lay crumpled on the floor. He sniffed the wrinkled T-shirt. Not good. He tossed it aside.
    The white marble tiles felt cool under his bare feet as he made his way unsteadily toward the staircase. The air in the stairwell was heavy with the smell of fried potatoes now, too. Maybe he really had died and gone to heaven.
    But, judging from the way his head throbbed, it could’ve been the other place.
    He carefully picked his way down the floating white oak stair treads until he reached the kitchen. The whole downstairs was a huge open-concept floor plan of glass and marble. Ultramodern and elegant, just like the woman in the kitchen.
    â€œMorning,” Pearce said.
    Margaret Myers looked up from the frying pan full of potatoes. Another was larded with scrambled eggs. She wore form-fitting athletic wear that complemented her healthy physique. The former president only pushed herself harder in the gym these days out of spite for her adult-onset type 1 diabetes. Her brand-new wireless iLet Bionic Pancreas receiver was strapped to her waist and hidden beneath her shirt.
    â€œGood morning. I’m sorry if I woke you.”
    Pearce glanced over at the stainless-steel garbage can brimming