Drone by Mike Maden Read Free Book Online Page A

grandfather’s backbreaking work in the tomato fields. To be accused of not wanting to get his hands dirty was the moral equivalent of accusing a soldier of cowardice in the face of battle. The verbal jab was worse than his father’s physical slap.
    “But you’re wrong, Father. We did get our hands dirty.” Ulises glanced at his brother for moral support. Aquiles nodded for him to continue. “We’re the ones who pulled the trigger. We’re the ones who sent the message.”
    César fell into a lounger. He buried his head in his massive hands and moaned aloud. “What have you two idiots done?”
    “We took care of business. Those punks were just collateral damage. It happens.” Aquiles had lowered his voice to a near whisper, fearing another slap by his father. He sat down on the lounger next to him.
    César looked up. “Collateral damage? Are you insane? You think Ryan Martinez is just ‘collateral damage’?”
    “Who’s that?” Ulises asked.
    César howled with laughter. “How paradoxical! A stupid tomato picker like me knows more than a college-educated fairy. Don’t either of you listen to the news?”
    “Only ESPN,” Ulises said. “And hardly that.”
    “So who is Ryan Martinez?” Aquiles asked.
    “Ryan Martinez was a schoolteacher at that party you shot up,” César said. He wiped his thick mustache with one of his monstrous hands.
    “And . . . ?” Ulises asked, cringing, half expecting another blow.
    “Ryan Martinez was the son of the president of the United States! And now she is going to unleash holy hell on us for murdering her only child.”
    The boys glanced at each other, frightened and confused. “We didn’t know,” they said to each other, as if talking to themselves in a mirror.
    César leaped to his feet, reaching for the chromed .45 caliber Desert Eagle in his waistband. Screaming with maniacal rage, he opened fire at the nearest statue, a goat-legged Pan with a great golden phallus thrusting up to his midsection. Pan’s marble head exploded with the first hit. The next rounds tore away the god’s massive pectorals and mashed his silver shepherd’s flute. César kept firing until he emptied the magazine. He dropped the clip and slammed a new one home, then chambered the first round.
    César pointed the gun at each of his sons like an accusing finger.
    “Tell me, smartasses. What should I do with the two of you now?”

6
    The White House, Washington, D.C.
    Ambassador Konstantin Britnev was ushered into the Oval Office where he was greeted by the warm smile and firm handshake of President Myers. A White House press camera flashed three times.
    “I hate having my picture taken,” Myers whispered to Britnev under her breath.
    Britnev nearly laughed as he widened his alluring smile. “You should see my passport photo. It’s terrible.” They held hands as several more shots were snapped.
    “That will be all. Thank you,” Myers said to the photographer.
    “Thank you, Madame President, Ambassador Britnev. Excuse me.” The female photographer cast a brief, leering glance at the handsome Russian as she exited through the secretary’s office door.
    “Dr. Strasburg, so good to see you again.” Britnev nodded cordially as he extended his well-manicured hand. Strasburg was on the couch. He struggled to rise.
    “No, please, Doctor, remain seated.” Britnev stepped closer to the couch and shook Strasburg’s veiny hand. The Russian, thirty years younger than Strasburg, had studied the famed security advisor’s illustrious career at the Institute for USA and Canadian Studies years ago. NowBritnev was one of the key players in the Titov administration, handpicked by the Russian president personally for the Washington post.
    “It’s good to see you as well, Ambassador Britnev. At my age, it’s good to see anybody.”
    Britnev politely laughed at the old man’s threadbare joke.
    “What would you like to drink, Konstantin?” Myers asked. She’d dismissed the waitstaff