Drone Command (32 page)

TIP-TOP GOLF WORLD

TOKYO, JAPAN

23 MAY 2017

T
he Japanese solution to Tokyo's high land prices, crowded streets, and insatiable demand for golf were multistoried driving ranges like Tip-Top Golf World, one of more than eighty such facilities across the city, several of which were owned by yakuza bosses like Oshiro. Like his fellow countrymen, the sumo-size gang boss was a golf nut and shut the place down after ten p.m. every night so that he and his crew could practice their swings in private. It was not uncommon for his boys to celebrate birthdays, weddings, and even new criminal enterprises at the three-story range. Oshiro had even settled a few gangland truces at the Tip-Top after hours where invitees could hit an endless bucket of balls into the lush natural turf ringed on three sides by steel netting.

Tonight Oshiro was celebrating his win of the Golden Sword tournament on Kobayashi-
san
's fighting freighter. He cleared more than a half million dollars in betting that night, but the golden sword was worth many times that in honor alone.

Not bad for a fat Okinawan boy
, he thought.

The top deck was everybody's favorite because the balls flew farther. It was also satisfying to watch the white spheres sail high into the air and drop majestically onto the closely manicured greens or explode like grenades in the fine-grained sand traps scattered across the
three-hundred-yard range. Even poorly hit balls skittering off the deck appeared more formidable when they began their journeys thirty feet in the air.

Oshiro smacked away with his titanium driver, dressed in his uniform of black silk overshirt and baggy silk pants, worn to hide his girth. His brand-new pair of custom-fitted black-and-white alligator golf shoes creaked beneath his weight with each powerful swing.

Three of his newest men, all fresh off the boat from Okinawa, swung frantically with their oversize drivers at the balls perched on the rubber tees, trying to impress their
oyabun
with their still imperfect strokes. Oshiro's older
kobun
laughed hilariously at them, shouting instructions, encouragement, or insults, cigarettes clenched in their crooked teeth. The seasoned killers were swinging their drivers as hard and as fast as they could, too. The fat Okinawan crime boss promised a hundred thousand yen for the farthest drive in the next ten minutes. So far, that honor belonged to Oshiro-
san
.

The constant ping of metal drivers was a barrage of noise, almost like gunfire. When Troy Pearce emerged from the third-story stairwell, no one noticed him or the suppressed .40 caliber pistol in his hand. They certainly hadn't heard him dispatch the two guards on the first deck. Finally, one of the yakuza saw him and shouted, pointing a finger. Oshiro's number-two man dropped his driver and reached for a pistol tucked in the small of his back, but his forehead caved in with a bullet strike before his hand touched the grip.

Pearce marched forward, gun raised. The other yakuza pulled their weapons, some expertly, some clumsily. All died before they got a shot off. Seven corpses lay on the Astroturf range mats, bleeding out into the plastic grass.

Oshiro's titanium driver clattered on the cement as it fell from his thick gloved hand. Pearce pressed the barrel of the pistol's suppressor against the Okinawan's broad forehead. Oshiro raised his hands. The silken shirtsleeves fell back. A colorful carp slithered up one beefy forearm, a raging tiger on the other.

“Who sent you?” Oshiro's thickly accented English was calm, collected. He was genuinely curious.

“You did. Karma's a bitch.”

Not the answer the yakuza boss was expecting. “Dude, you know I have powerful friends.”

“You mean Kobayashi? He's the asshole who gave me your address.”

The Okinawan swore bitterly.

“Don't take it personally. He was in a lot of pain at the time.”

Oshiro's eyes narrowed, calculating. “So why am I still alive?”

“You give me what I want, I give you a break.”

“What do you want?”

“Did Tanaka put you up to killing the American, Kenji Yamada?”

“Who?”

“Wrong answer.” Pearce slipped his index finger from the trigger guard to the trigger. Oshiro's eyes followed it.

“You mean on the boat?”

“Yes.”

“Tanaka ordered the hit.”

“Why?”

“He didn't say. Paid well. Said to keep one alive for a witness. Wanted everyone to think the Chinese had done it.” His fat lips curled into a grin. “Start a war between you and China.”

“Will you swear to that in open court?”

The smile disappeared. The Okinawan shook his massive head. “I can't, man.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged, almost apologetic. “Honor.
Bushido
.”

“I respect that.” Pearce lowered his weapon.

Oshiro's broad shoulders slumped with relief. He lowered his arms. “What else do you want to know?”

“The men on your ship who killed the American.”

Oshiro motioned to the corpses scattered on the deck.

“That's all of them?”

He nodded grimly. “My best men.”

“That's not saying much.”

Oshiro stood there, breathing heavily, stung by Pearce's insult. Sweat beaded up on his face. “What else do you need to know?”

“Nothing.”

Oshiro blinked, confused. “So, I can go now?”

Pearce nodded.

The big man wiped the sweat out of his eyes with one of his massive paws. Started to walk past Pearce.

Pearce stabbed the pistol against his chest. “Wrong way.”

The Okinawan frowned. He didn't understand.

Pearce threw a thumb toward the driving range. “That way.”

“What?”

“I promised you I'd give you a break if you told me what I needed to know.”

“And I did.”

“And I appreciate that.” Pearce jerked his head toward the floodlit grass three stories down. “So there's your break.”

The fat man glanced over the side. A long way down. His cheeks wobbled as he shook his head.

“I'll die.”

“Maybe not. That's grass down there. I've seen guys survive worse falls.”

“Hell no, man. I'm not doing it.”

“Have it your way.” Pearce raised the pistol to Oshiro's face.

The yakuza saw the cold hatred in Pearce's eyes. “Okay. Okay!”

The cleats in the Okinawan's golf shoes scratched on the cement as he stepped gingerly toward the edge. He gulped.

“Dude, I can pay you, big-time.”

“Last chance, fat man. So help me God, I'll put a bullet in your throat and watch you drown in your own blood.”

The Okinawan whispered a prayer to an ancestor. His face darkened with resolve. He opened his eyes, glaring at Pearce.

“Fuck you,
gaijin
!”

Oshiro turned and leaped over the side, shouting a war cry.

Pearce leaned over the side to watch.

The corpulent body thudded into the turf. Even this high up, Pearce heard bones cracking in the soft grass. Oshiro screamed in agony. A three-hundred-pound worm in bloody black silk.

“There's your break,” Pearce said, watching the fat man writhing in the grass.

Pearce knew that Kenji wouldn't have approved. But at least he would've understood.

Pearce lifted his pistol, put three rounds into Oshiro's head. The screaming stopped, a mercy.

Better than he deserved.

TANAKA'S PRIVATE RESIDENCE

TOKYO, JAPAN

25 MAY 2017

T
anaka knelt on the polished hardwood floor, his
keikogi
pulled down around his waist, exposing his muscular torso. The family's Shinto shrine loomed in front of him, its unvarnished shelves laden with offerings of rice wine, fish, and fruit. Candles and incense burned near the amulets representing the Tanaka household gods. A simple plaited rope hung slack above it all.

Tanaka whispered a prayer to his ancestors, fearsome samurai who loyally served the shogunate for centuries. Satisfied, he reached for the most cherished family heirloom, a short-bladed
tanto
belonging to his most ancient ancestor. He unsheathed it and set the scabbard down with ceremonial precision, placing the tip of the razor-sharp sword against his stomach, preparing for
seppuku
, the ritual self-disembowelment of a samurai who failed his mission.

Tanaka's powerful hands grasped the hilt and the blade as he prepared to open up his stomach and remove his own intestines, but a heavy thump outside his door broke his concentration. He opened his eyes but didn't move. Heard the
shoji
door behind him slide open.

“Pearce,” he said, without looking back.

“Afraid I was going to be late.” Pearce stepped over a body in the hallway into the room, sliding the door behind him shut. He gripped a familiar pistol shape in one hand.

Tanaka twisted around, still clutching the
tanto
. “You're just in time to watch how an honorable man behaves.”

“How is suicide honorable?”

“I failed my mission. I must show the way.”

“To whom?”

“My people.”

“By killing yourself?”

“Life is not so important as integrity.”

“I've read the
Hagakure
, too.”

Tanaka nodded. “Yes, it makes sense that you would have. But to have read it and to have lived it all of one's life are two different things.”

“Funny, I don't remember you putting on a uniform.”

“Sadly, asthma prevented me from entering military service. And even if I had, what would I have done but take orders from you
gaijin
taskmasters? The gods smiled on me when they took my breath away. In my weakness, they showed me a better path to strength. But I failed in that mission.”

“So now you seek a heroic death, an inspiration to your followers.”

Tanaka smiled. “So you do understand. My death will be my greatest victory.”

“You tried to drag my country into a war with China.”

“To save my country, yes. I'm a patriot, the same as you.”

“You're neither a hero nor a patriot. You're a murderous bastard.”

“Japan can never prosper so long as your two countries keep feeding on her flesh.”

“You had my friend Kenji Yamada killed. He was trying to save your country, too.”

“Save us? How? By robbing us of our only source of energy? By keeping us slaves to American oil companies?”

“He was a good man. Better than you. You deserve to die.”

“So let me die.” Tanaka turned back around and faced his family altar. Tightened his grip on the sword—

Pearce raised his pistol. “That's the general idea.”

Fired.

Two needle-shaped probes embedded in Tanaka's back. Pearce pulled the trigger and sent five thousand volts of electricity coursing into Tanaka's body, disrupting the neural signals between his brain and muscles. The blade dropped from his hand as his entire body contorted in a violent spasm, writhing on the polished wooden floor in searing pain. Tanaka hissed at Pearce through gritted teeth, eyes raging.

Pearce knelt down next to him, close to his contorted face. “No worries, Tanaka. Your gods will be smiling again, very soon.”

Pearce's cell phone vibrated. A text message from Ian. His face blanched.

He texted Myers, now back in Denver. Told her where to meet him.

He glanced back down at Tanaka, passed out from the pain. “Enjoy it while it lasts, asshole,” Pearce grunted.

His plans for Kenji's killer would have to wait a few days.

PALLIATIVE CARE/HOSPICE UNIT

SAINT FRANCIS MEMORIAL HOSPITAL

SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

26 MAY 2017

T
he self-possessed young woman behind the desk wore a nurse's white coat over a black shirt, and a simple black nun's veil draped behind her back. A gold-winged caduceus was pinned to one lapel; a humble silver crucifix was pinned to the other. “Only family. He left strict orders. I'm sorry.”

“He doesn't have any family.” Pearce towered over the diminutive nun.

“He knows that and so do I. Since you do as well, then you must know that he's a very private man and doesn't want any visitors.” She was stopping Pearce cold with a disarming smile.

“We go a long way back. We used to work together.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“We used to work for the same . . . company.”

“You mean the CIA?” Another smile. A smirk, really. “Then you understand his need for security as well.”

Pearce chuckled. “I'm surprised he told you.”

“Confession is good for the soul.”

Pearce took a deep breath. Never realized that stubbornness was a religious virtue. “I've brought him something.”

She held out a delicate hand. “I'm happy to take it to him for you.”

“It would be better if I delivered it in person.”

“It would be better for me to give it to him than his not getting it at all, wouldn't you agree?”

Pearce glanced around. No security. Hardly surprising. Who'd want to break into a hospice? She was all of a hundred pounds soaking wet. He could just walk past her. Decided against it. Played his trump card. Pointed a thumb at the woman standing next to him.

“Do you know who this is?”

The nun shook her head. “Should I?”

“She's the godda—”

Myers quieted Pearce with a hand on his arm. “We're friends, and we've come a very long way. Perhaps you can tell Will that Troy Pearce needs to see him? There can't be any harm in that.” She flashed her own charming smile, but the commanding tone in her voice struck home.

“Perhaps not. Please wait here a moment.” She stepped away from the desk.

“Thank you, Sister.” After the nun disappeared around the corner, Myers shot Pearce a withering look. “Seriously? You were going to cuss out a nun?”

—

T
he nun led them down the quiet hallway past a number of patients' doors, some of them open. The suites were furnished like living rooms rather than hospital rooms. Most of the patients they saw were alone or with medical staff. A priest was praying last rites over one.

They arrived at the end of the hall and stopped at the last closed door.

“He's expecting you,” the nun said. “He has only twenty percent lung capacity. Please don't be long. He's very tired.” She instructed them to use the antibacterial hand sanitizer as often as possible to help avoid infection, nodded her condolences, and left.

Pearce laid his hand on the door. “Thanks again for doing this with me.”

Myers smiled. “Of course. But maybe you should go in by yourself.”

“No. I want you to meet him. He's like a second dad to me.”

“Okay.”

Troy gently opened the door. He nearly lost it.

He'd been around death for most of his adult life, but seeing the shell of a man he'd once known as larger than life was harder than he thought possible. The adjustable bed was upright. Will was nearly skeletal, his flesh translucent and gray. His mouth was wide open, taking in short, shallow breaths. The skin around his mouth was nearly white. A hissing oxygen tube snaked from the wall behind his bed to his nose. Will's thick silver hair was now blindingly white and wispy thin. The flesh around his eyes had shrunk, making the orbs appear huge in the sockets, but the green irises still radiated his penetrating intellect.

“How . . . the hell . . . are you . . . kid?” He clumped his words together, exhaling them out between breaths. He held up a large but emaciated hand. Pearce touched it gently, afraid to hurt him.

“Doing good. But look at you laying out. Isn't there a junta you should be organizing somewhere?”

“Working . . . on . . . one . . . now. Gonna . . . take over . . . this place. More booze . . . less bingo.” He turned his head with effort. “Who's . . . the pretty . . . lady?”

She laid a hand on his. “Margaret. It's an honor to meet you.”

“You . . . with . . . him? Or does . . . a fellah . . . like me . . . still have . . . a chance?”

“Soon as you're out of here, call me.” She winked and mimed a phone receiver to her ear.

A croak escaped Will's throat, a laugh. And then a long bout of coughing, phlegmy and painful. He leaned forward, face reddened, choking.

“Oh, my God, I'm so sorry.” Myers snatched up a plastic sputum tray and held it beneath Will's mouth. He coughed up yellow mucus tinged with blood, his eyes tearing from the effort. It dribbled on his lip and he spit, trying to clear it out of his mouth, and swatted at it clumsily with his hand. Will was a lifelong smoker and the cigarettes were finally killing him in the worst way. COPD was a bitch, like drowning in slow motion in a puddle of his own mucus.

Troy reached for a sanitary wipe and cleaned away the string hanging
between his mouth and the tray. When he got it, Myers pulled the tray away and dumped it in the wastebasket, then pulled the basket over for Troy to toss the wipe. Myers grabbed two more wipes and cleaned off Will's face and hands. Troy had only known a proud man, strong as an ox, but Will was beyond shame at this point. His eyes were grateful for the care.

“Never thought . . . I'd have . . . a president . . . wipe . . . my ass . . . for me.”

Myers squirted antibacterial into her hands from a bottle on the table. “So you knew who I was, did you?”

“I'm . . . a spook . . . I'm . . . supposed . . . to know . . . these things.”

Myers beamed. “Our country owes you a lot, Will. Thank you for your service.” Pearce had told her some of his storied exploits. Will was an old-school cold warrior and a fierce patriot. She fought back tears as Pearce squirted sanitizer into his hands.

“Just . . . keep . . . an eye . . . on this . . . guy . . . and . . . we'll . . . call it . . . even.”

“That's a deal.”

Will's eyes turned toward the far wall, focusing on the large crucifix in front of him. Pearce watched him labor to catch his breath, finally calming down. A few minutes later, he turned back to Pearce.

“How . . . was . . . China?”

“How did you know?”

Myers swatted Pearce playfully. “He's a spy, remember?”

“Everything worked out fine.”

“Then why . . . do you . . . look like . . . shit?” Pearce's face still hadn't fully healed from the beatings he'd received.

“You should've seen the other guy.”

Will nodded. “That's . . . my boy.” His eyes searched Pearce's face. He gathered his strength. “So why . . . the visit? Come . . . to see . . . an old man . . . die?”

“Yeah. You know any?” Pearce said.

Will's eyes misted. “I . . . missed you . . . sport.”

“Me, too. Sorry I haven't been around.”

Will smiled. He lifted his hand, made a weak sign of the cross in Pearce's direction. “
Te
 . . .
absolvo
 . . . the priest . . . says that . . . a lot. I think . . . it means . . . dinner's . . . at five.”

“I brought you something.” Pearce reached carefully into his shirt pocket.

“A new . . . pair of . . . lungs . . . I hope.”

Pearce held out a black-and-white photo, wallet-size and worn. A pretty young Vietnamese woman.
ALL MY LOVE, 1965
written in a lovely feminine hand on the back.

Will's big hands trembled as he took the photo. Brought it close to his face. His eyes widened. Stared at it as if he were looking into the face of God.

“How?”

“I'm a spook, too. Remember?”

Will's face beamed as if he were a monk witnessing a miracle.

Maybe it was a miracle
, Pearce thought. He couldn't believe it when a package from Hanoi arrived at the embassy just hours before he left for Hawaii. Dr. Pham had promised Pearce she'd pull a few strings to honor his request back on that helicopter. She said it was the least she could do for the man who had saved her brother's life, as well as her own.

Pearce knew that when Will and his dad were captured by the Viet Cong they would've been stripped of all of their personal effects for intel, and then those items would've been shipped off to central headquarters for analysis and, later, storage. Communists were mostly evil shits, but they were fanatical about storing and organizing the things they stole from other people. Knowing Will was with the CIA probably gave his Hanoi case file even greater importance. Pearce hoped Dr. Pham could find Will's case file, along with his dad's. Apparently, she had.

“Your wife?” Myers asked.

Will smiled with his eyes. Nodded.

“And then there's this.” Pearce unfolded a piece of tissue paper. A small silver crucifix was inside, heavily tarnished. Will reached for it. Took it in his long fingers. Tried to open the delicate clasp.

“Here.” Myers took the chain and opened it as Pearce helped Will
lean forward. She draped it around his withered neck and fastened the clasp. Pearce helped him lie back down. Will fingered the Christ, hardly believing his good fortune.

“Still fits,” Myers said, patting his other hand.

“I . . . converted . . . to marry . . . her. She . . . insisted. Her father . . . too.”

Will shut his eyes, mouth open in a loose smile, lost in a memory.

“God bless you,” Myers said. She stroked his weary head and whispered a prayer. She hadn't been to confession since she was a child or Mass since high school. But old habits die hard.

Moments later, his smile disappeared and his mouth opened wider. His breaths were short and shallow.

“I think he's asleep. We should go,” Myers said.

“Yeah. We'll come back tomorrow.” He took her hand in his, and they slipped quietly out of the room.

They returned the next day. Will had died during the night, taking last rites with a priest, clutching his wife's photo and the crucifix as he prayed. The nun said he went peacefully.

They drove back to the hotel in silence.

At his suggestion, Myers picked up the phone to order room service while Pearce headed for the shower. She worried about him. A lot had happened in the last few days. He'd lost people he'd loved and took the lives of many more. Not many men could handle that.

She wasn't sure how he liked his steak, so she hung up the phone and stepped into the steaming granite-and-glass bathroom to ask. He was curled up on the shower floor, weeping like a child, scalding water blistering his skin. She rushed in, slammed the shower off, gathered him up in her arms, and lay on the wet stone floor with him, holding him until his sobs gave way to a fitful, trembling sleep.