Drone полностью

“Not much at this point, especially if the Iranians are independent operators.”

“You mean like mercenaries?” Myers asked.

“Yeah. But if this is a state-sanctioned op, we need to know. Have the DNI put more NSA assets on the Iranians. Maybe we can pick up some chatter on that end and get a better handle on this thing.”

“Good idea, but it’s not enough. I want to know who’s on the ground right now killing Americans. What’s our best guess?”

“The Bravos who blew the tank farm in Houston never reappeared. Those are the best candidates, without question,” West said.

“What’s their next move?” Myers asked.

“No way of knowing,” West said. “The targets have been random and geographically diverse.”

“So we’re just waiting for the other shoe to drop?” Myers asked.

No one said a word. The answer was obvious.

Grapevine, Texas

Six hours later, the other shoe dropped.

Construction on local highways and interchanges, particularly the 114, the 121, and I-635, had been going on for years, and still had years to go, thanks to the Texas Department of Transportation (TxDOT) and the billions of federal stimulus dollars that the “anti–big government” Texas congressional delegation had siphoned out of Washington coffers for their constituents.

Grapevine residents had grown wearily accustomed to the massive construction vehicles lumbering along on the crowded freeways, usually clogged by lane closures and traffic cones, as whole sections of the interstate were being rerouted to fit the new TxDOT master plan. The big vehicles often had to exit and cross over surface streets where freeway ramps had been closed, so it wasn’t unusual to see asphalt tankers, cement mixers, flatbed tractor-trailers, and the like running through the city.

That’s the reason no one paid any attention when a big rusty dump truck rattled into the back parking lot of the two-story Grapevine Christian Academy on a Saturday midmorning. In fact, the school had allowed construction vehicles to park there on more than one occasion. The school was just a mile or so from a section of Highway 114 that had been heavily renovated lately. The school parking lot was empty except for a late-model yellow Volkswagen Bug out front.

Tom and Barbara Cole were the high school drama teachers and they were inside preparing for an early afternoon rehearsal, rearranging some of the musical scores from Godspell that the kids would be putting on in the fall. The building was brand-new and well insulated from the brutal Texas heat. The heavy insulation also masked the sound of the roaring jumbo jets that flew directly over the school in their flight paths to DFW Airport just two miles away.

Barbara had just finished a particularly bawdy rendition of “Turn Back, O Man” on the big Yamaha piano when she and her husband both heard a giant whump coming from out back. It sounded like a big timpani drum was booming out in the parking lot. There were no windows where they were located so they couldn’t see what was going on, but it could well have been something connected with all of the construction. They were about to play the tune again when they heard another whump and then a third, fourth, fifth, and sixth in quick succession.

“What’s going on out there?” Barbara asked.

“Sounds like a pile driver,” Tom offered, only half believing it himself.

She stood up from the piano and the two of them crossed to the back wall where there was a big steel exit door. The whumping continued and, in fact, got louder the closer they came to the door.

Tom flung the door open and saw the big rusty dump truck parked just a few feet behind the building, but that’s the last thing he saw. A suppressed 9mm machine gun stitched bullets across his chest and into the wall behind him. He crumpled to the ground, blocking the doorway with his corpse.

That gave Barbara enough time to scream, turn, and run back inside, with the sound of the 120mm mortar rounds still whumping in the bed of the big truck behind her, but the man who had killed her husband leaped over his corpse and chased after her. The Bravo opened fire just as she reached the big Yamaha piano. He emptied his magazine in her direction, splintering the black lacquered wood into a thousand pieces and putting two bullets in her spine. The piano strings thudded in ugly half notes as the slugs split them in two.

The killer ran back out the door as the last of the sixteen mortar rounds arced into the air. It had taken the mortar crew just one minute and eleven seconds to loft all sixteen of the finned rockets.