Drone (17 page)

Stella Kang drove the boat, towing Tamar Stern on a single high-performance water ski. The inboard engine whined like a jet turbine. The boat ran so fast that Tamar threw a ten-foot-tall rooster tail behind her.

Their circuit took them directly past a number of luxury yachts anchored in a three-mile-long line of privilege in the waters off of Cabo, including the Castillo boat, which was parked at the farthest end, some distance away from the others.

The first time around, the girls drew quite a bit of attention to themselves. Stella was a stunning Korean-American woman. Her thick black hair whipped behind her like a battle flag. Tamar was half Ashkenazi
and half Ethiopian, with piercing green eyes and short-cropped hair. The two women were attractive enough to draw attention to themselves, but nobody in Cabo had ever seen anyone fly as fast as Tamar did on her ski.

On the second pass, all hands were on deck on the yachts. The men whooped and hollered, raised their glasses and bottles, whistled and cheered. A few boats even blew their big horns as the two laughing women rocketed past. The two skiers waved and smiled at their admirers. Even the party girls on the big yachts cheered, in awe of the show that Stella and Tamar were putting on.

A half mile away, Udi and Pearce kept discreet watch from a fishing boat they’d rented. They pretended to be sport fishing mako sharks, which were running hot this time of year, but their eyes were fixed on the surveillance gear they’d rigged to keep tabs on both the Castillos and the two women on their team. A couple of big rods and reels were rammed into their holders in the back of the boat, and thick steel shark lines trailed in the water behind them. Pearce sat strapped in the fighting chair holding another rod, the butt end jammed into the gimbal between his feet. Udi was in the cabin, the boat cruising slowly on autopilot. Pearce chummed the water behind the slow-moving boat every now and then, mostly to keep a half dozen gulls circling overhead.

“Your wife can really ski, Udi.”

“Base jumping, parasailing. She does it all. Well, except cook.”

“Next pass, Udi.”

“Roger that.”

Stella brought the ski boat around for another run. The big inboard engine whined even louder as she pushed the needle on the tach into the red zone. Tamar leaned deep into the curves she was cutting in broad swathes through the ocean. They pushed past the Castillo yacht and out into the blue water, getting ready for another turn.

Suddenly, the ski boat’s inboard motor sputtered, then cut out, and the high-pitched whine disappeared. The silence was startling.

The ski boat’s bow had ridden high like a haughty stallion when the engine roared; now it sagged into the water, spent. Tamar had tossed the rope aside as soon as the engine died. She glided to a graceful halt until she gently sank into the water near the ski boat. Voices echoed on the water, some cheering, some booing. The Castillo boat was nearest, but it was at least a quarter mile away. A gull wheeled in the sunlight above it.

Tamar grabbed hold of her ski and paddled to the back of the ski boat where Stella helped her up onto the skier’s platform. Stella took the ski and stowed it as Tamar climbed all the way in. They flashed a lot of skin in the process.

More cheering erupted from the Castillo yacht.

The two gorgeous women stood in front of the engine compartment, feigning confusion.

Udi watched the Castillo boat. Nobody was racing out to rescue the damsels. “What’s taking them so long?”

“Maybe chivalry is dead. You ready?”

“Yeah.” Udi had slid into the cabin and was working a joystick. A video display was in front of him.

“There,” Pearce said, without pointing.

A small rubber launch with an outdoor motor pushed off from the near side of the Castillo yacht and buzzed toward the two stranded women. Pearce lifted a pair of civilian-grade field glasses.

“Two of them. Mexicans.”

“You were expecting Italians?” Udi asked.

“You’re up, wisenheimer.”

Pearce watched the motor launch approach the stranded ski boat. They tossed a line over and Stella caught it and secured it to one of the davits. Pearce could hear the men in his earpiece ask in Spanish what was wrong. Stella pretended to not speak any Spanish, though she was more fluent than Pearce was. The two Mexicans were just deckhands from the Castillo boat, not the Castillos themselves, thankfully. No telling what stunt the twins would have tried to pull on two vulnerable women in a
boat on open water this far from shore. The Castillos still weren’t scheduled to arrive on their yacht until tomorrow night.

Pearce swung his binoculars over to the Castillo yacht. An M40A5 bolt-action sniper rifle with a Leupold Mark 4 scope was tucked under a piece of canvas by his feet just in case things went south. There was even more powerful ordnance stored in the cabin if things went
really
south. He watched the gull circling high overhead.

Inside the cabin of their fishing boat, Udi was working the joystick controlling the SmartBird drone, a perfect example of biomimicry. It was designed and patterned to fly like a gull, including the long, rhythmic beats of its wings that appeared perfectly organic, so much so that it often found itself in the company of other gulls. Pearce had purchased the second-generation drone—smaller, faster, and even more anatomically correct than the original—from the German manufacturer Festo a few months earlier, but this was the first chance he’d had to deploy it in an operation.

The SmartBird drone featured an onboard camera, of course, and the Castillo yacht was fixed squarely in the center of Udi’s video screen. Udi maneuvered the drone in a leisurely circle, careful to keep the gull between the sun and the yacht. If anyone decided to watch the mechanical bird, the blinding sun would keep the surveillance brief.

Pearce watched the two Mexican deckhands lift the inboard motor cover and inspect the ski boat’s dead engine. The girls giggled and shrugged, feigning stupidity. “Academy Awards all around, ladies,” Pearce chuckled.

Stella slipped a hand behind her back and flipped Pearce the bird.

Udi gently dropped the gull drone down to thirty feet above the yacht and released the pod containing the mosquito drones. They activated upon release. A separate wide-screen monitor flashed all six camera images from the six minuscule machines as they made their way onto the eighty-foot-long roof of the Castillo vessel. They were programmed for evasion and quickly scuttled for cover under vent hoods and rails,
spreading out as far as possible to avoid detection. Two cameras went black when two mosquitoes—one lethal, one not—were blown into the water by a random gust of wind.

“Done,” Udi called out. He pressed another button on a separate remote-control unit. “Boat’s ready to go.”

Pearce whispered a command to Stella. “We’re done here. Fire it up.”

Stella heard the command in her earpiece. She immediately stepped over to the starter button and pushed it.

The ski boat’s engine roared to life, echoing like a gunshot across the water. The two Mexicans nearly jumped out of their skins. Before they could react any further, or worse, become suspicious, the two girls clapped and shouted like cheerleaders, then playfully shooed the men off of their ski boat and back onto their motor launch. As soon as Stella untied the rope on the davit, the motor launch sped away, the men all smiles and waves as Stella and Tamar smiled and waved back. Pearce finally lowered his glasses when he saw Stella and Tamar rocket away, back toward shore.

Udi stepped out of the cabin. “So far, so good, eh?”

The fishing reel in the gimbal screamed with a big strike. The quivering line bent the big rod nearly in half.

“Look at that! Too bad we’re heading back in,” Udi said.

Pearce leaped back into his fighting chair and strapped himself in.

“We’ve got plenty of time,” Pearce grunted as he began reeling up the steel line. “Grab yourself a beer and keep the boat steady.”

Udi shook his head, laughing. “Sure thing. You’re the boss.”

“Yup. And rank hath its privileges.”

Castillo Yacht, Cabo San Lucas

Thirty-six hours later, the crew heard the girl scream.

The hot little blonde from Baylor University in Waco, Texas, had been studying Spanish for a year in Mexico on her daddy’s dime.

Though a gifted language student, she was at a loss for words at the
moment, moaning like a porn star with Aquiles on top of her, thrusting like a bull. Her eyes were tightly shut in anticipation of her own ferocious climax when she heard Aquiles howl. She felt something warm and wet splash onto her face, and her eyes snapped open.

Aquiles’s face was twisted in a silent scream. Blood cascaded from his mouth and nose. She watched the last flicker of light leave his panicked eyes just as he collapsed, trapping her beneath his heavy corpse in a puddle of sticky hot blood.

And that’s how the crew found her, half crazed and keening.

JUNE

18

Isla Paraíso, Mexico

César Castillo sat with a glass of Cuban rum in one hand, his third so far. His grieving, red-rimmed eyes stared at nothing in particular.

Ulises sat next to him, pensive. He wasn’t drinking, though. He suffered the loss that only a twin can feel, a psychic ache, like a throbbing phantom limb. A thought woke him out of his stupor.

“It’s genetic, isn’t it?” Ulises asked. “A genetic defect?”

His father shrugged. “How should I know? I’m not a doctor.” He slurred a little.

“I should get an MRI. They can find aneurysms with an MRI, I think.”

“Go ahead. But you might find out you have a ticking time bomb in here.” César poked his son’s forehead. “Knowing that could drive you crazy.”

“Maybe there’s a treatment. Pills or something.”

A knock on the door.

“Come,” César ordered.

Ali entered the room. He carried a large manila envelope, unmarked.

“What do you want, Arab?” César asked. He didn’t invite Ali to sit down.

“He’s Persian, Father. Not Arab.”

“He’s not my son. He’s not my blood. What do I care what he is?”

“I am your loyal servant, Señor Castillo, prepared to sacrifice myself in your service.”

“Will your death bring me back my boy, Arab?”

“No, but he will greet you in heaven with kisses when he sees you have avenged his murder.”

“What are you talking about, Ali? Aquiles died from an aneurysm,” Ulises asked.

“Don’t you think it strange that a man in Aquiles’s supreme physical condition would die from something like that? He was young. You have no family history of such things. He didn’t use meth or cocaine. So how can it be possible?”

“The coroner said that it is not unheard of for a young person like him to die of an aneurysm,” Ulises said.

“It is not unheard of for someone to be struck by a meteor, either. But it is extremely unlikely,” Ali said.

“What’s your point?” César barked.

“Myers’s son is killed. The
Marinas
launch an assault to capture your sons. The assault fails. Two weeks later, your son dies. Not by a bullet, not by a bomb. But he dies in a very bloody and violent way.”

“Poison?” Ulises asked.

“None was detected in the autopsy,” Ali said. “Though perhaps the toxin was bioengineered to escape the blood panels. The CIA is constantly developing such weapons. But I do not believe it was poison.”

“The Americans?” César’s face flushed with rage. “You said the Americans would never link my sons to the El Paso massacre!”

Ali sensed the crazed drunk would lunge at him at any moment. He could easily reach for the pistol in his holster and kill the older man along with his idiot son, but then his mission would fail. He needed the Castillos to live a while longer, even if it meant his own death.

“I was wrong,
jefe
. Forgive me,” Ali said. He lowered his eyes as an act of contrition, fully expecting to be killed.

César’s fists clenched and he began to rise, but Ulises stopped him.
“It’s not his fault, Father. Aquiles and I ran the operation. Ali had nothing to do with it. We still need him, especially if the Americans are after us now.”

César glowered at Ali for another moment, then his face resumed its normal color. He finally sat back down and nodded at Ali, the closest he could get to an apology. “Why are you sure it’s the Americans?”

Ali opened the envelope. Removed a red lanyard with a plastic badge attached. Handed it to César.

“This arrived today.”

“Who sent it?” César demanded.

“No return address or name. No note,” Ali said. “But there can be no question.”

César glanced at the plastic badge. It was labeled
FRIDA KAHLO ARTS ACADEMY
, and had the name and face of Ryan Martinez. A bullet hole puckered the badge, and dried blood smeared the photo.

“An eye for an eye,
jefe
,” Ali said.

“Why not kill him?” César asked, pointing at Ulises.

“Myers is offering you a deal. A son for a son. She thinks you are stupid enough to take it,” Ali said.

César’s face darkened with thought. “One dead son is enough, isn’t it?”

“One dead son is too many,
jefe
.” Ali sighed. “And it might be a deal worth taking, if that’s all there was to it . . .”

“What else is there, Arab?”

Ali pointed at Ulises. “She has twisted your son into a collar around your neck. By leaving him alive, she keeps you chained to a post, like a dog, snarling and snapping, but hurting no one. Anyone can walk by. And if the dog charges?” Ali yanked violently on his own shirt collar. “The dog gets pulled down.”

Ulises’s face reddened. A vein bulged in his forehead.

Ali’s words had landed perfectly. He fought the urge to smile. By sending her son’s identity badge to César, Myers had given Ali the perfect tool to leverage the drug lord into action.

Ulises leaped to his feet. “We’ll kill some more
yanqui
bastards. Ali, let’s put together a strike team. We’ll hit San Diego, maybe L.A.—”