UAV - Chapter 1

Lahore, Pakistan Thursday, 2:47 PM Local Time

1

"Do you think they are staring at us because of how we smell?" William shifted his weight.

Victor Cross blinked, wondering if he should laugh or groan. He was sitting on a park bench outside the Siddiq Trade Center in Lahore, Pakistan, twirling a pair of Chanel sunglasses in his hand and trying to appear inconspicuous; a task made all the more difficult by his bumbling compatriot.

"What?" Francis asked from the opposite side of the bench, just as confused as Victor.

"You know," William explained, "like hamburgers. Do you think we smell like hamburgers?"

Victor groaned.

"What the hell are you going on about?" Francis reiterated. "Why would we smell like hamburgers?"

Francis was Victor's second in command, the only person Victor would trust with his life. Unlike William, Francis Umstead was lithe, standing barely over five feet and thin as a rail. His accent was thick cockney, hard to understand until enough time had been spent with him, and he wasn't at all intimidating to look at.

His size was deceptive, though, and Victor would prefer facing William, the three-hundred-pound bull of a man, in a fight over Francis. Francis was the most brilliant tactician Victor had ever met, and he knew every dirty trick for disabling and crippling opponents.

While Victor built his reputation and became famous as an international mercenary for hire, Francis was always there at his side keeping him out of trouble. They both worked for JanCorp, a mercenary company that ran jobs for governments, corporations, and private citizens. Francis was brilliant and dangerous.

William, on the other hand…

"You know, like in that movie," William elaborated, completely missing Francis's objection. "The one where soldiers keep eating Chinese food so they don't smell like Americans when they sneak in to shoot people. These people keep staring at us, and I was wondering if it's because we smell like strange food to them. Like it's seeping out of our pores or something?"

"Do you ever run out of stupid things to say?" Francis raised an eyebrow.

"No joke, man, all the attention is starting to creep me out," William glanced around nervously. He was staring at the passing crowd and tapping the side of his leg. His gun was strapped there, beneath the robes.

"Don't do that," Victor kept his tone light. "No sense drawing attention to yourself."

"Okay, boss," William folded his arms.

It was an oppressively hot day in Lahore, Pakistan, and Victor couldn't stop sweating. Places he hadn't even known could sweat were swampy and uncomfortable.

He was less worried about his own comfort, however, and more about his gear: heat was brutal on electronics, and too much time in the sun could fry the hardware. His laptop sat open on the bench beside him, and he was using it to monitor the timeline and details of his plan.

Francis stirred beside him, glaring over at William.

"You don't think they might be avoiding us maybe because you're a gigantic freak?" Francis raised an eyebrow.

William continued, keeping his voice low and ignoring Francis. "I mean, you wonder if they can smell meat on our clothing or something. Do you think it makes them mad since cows are sacred?"

Francis stood in stunned silence, and Victor couldn't help but laugh. A minute passed as Francis sought a reply.

"That's Hinduism, you moron," Francis managed. "These are Muslims."

William hesitated. "Oh."

"In his defense, we just left India," Victor offered.

"When's the last time you even ate a hamburger?" Francis raised an eyebrow. "Just how long do you think it stays in your system?"

William was red-faced and confused. He didn't take taunting well.

"I was only wondering…"

"They are on schedule," Victor checked his watch, ending the conversation. "We have a little under two minutes."

"Why do they want him alive?" William shifted his weight. "It would be a lot easier just to kill Imran."

"That isn't our job," Victor kept his expression neutral.

"They want to hold him responsible for his crimes," Francis added.

"What crimes?" William shifted his weight. He shifted. "The guy hasn't even done anything yet."

"No," Victor agreed. "But the people would follow him if he asked. So they are going to hang him publicly and make an example of him for everyone to see."

"Won't that just make people hate their leaders even more?"

"That isn't our concern," Victor replied. "Our job is clear: take Imran alive. Whether or not they kill him isn't our concern."

"Helen won't like that," Francis said softly, looking pointedly at Victor.

He gave Francis a long look. "Helen doesn't need to know. As far as she's concerned, Imran is getting a fair trial."

"Of course," Francis replied smoothly. "Do you think she knows?"

"She doesn't have the slightest clue," Victor kept his expression neutral.

"And what if she figures it out?"

"Then I'll take care of it," Victor replied. "Wouldn't be the first time."

Victor's phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced up at the streetlights around him. It was the middle of the day in bright sunlight, but those lamps were flickering to life with a telltale yellow glare. It was their cue from the fourth and hidden member of their team that the convoy was under a minute away.

"That's our signal," he said, closing the laptop and standing up from his bench, "time to work."

2

Helen Allison typed a sequence of commands into her keyboard and glanced out the window at the street below. She was on the third floor of the Siddiq Trade Center, overlooking Jail Street where Victor and the rest of the crew were assembled.

She was average height, attractive if a bit skinny, with brunette hair and soft features. She rarely bothered to wear makeup or fix up her hair because she spent most of her time with computers.

She was also the newest member of Victor's team, this being only her second time out in the field. She had worked with Victor before while contracting with JanCorp as a hacker, but from a distance usually in a lab with other analysts. Those jobs had also taken place while her sister was alive.

She had offered to join Victor out in the field because he had been the one running the operation when her sister was killed two weeks ago. There hadn't been a lot of information released to Helen from JanCorp about exactly what happened, nor any pictures or body. Only a report that her sister was dead from an explosion. Helen wanted to know what had happened to her big sister, and no one seemed to know outside of Victor's team.

Maybe, if she got close enough, she could get the truth. For now, she would play along, pretend to be oblivious, and get her answers.

She glanced out the window and tried to locate Victor or Francis in the sea of people. They were somewhere below. Had they seen the lights? She hoped so because none of the team were in her view. All she could see was a throng of locals going about their daily lives like nothing was wrong.

How many will die today?

She didn't want to think about that. If things went well, none would. Not civilians, anyway.

Her phone started ringing. She glanced at it, then clicked the connect button.

"Mom, this isn't a good time."

"Helen," her mother said. "Where were you?"

"I've been working," Helen replied. "I couldn't make it."

"You couldn't make it to your own sister's memorial service?"

Her chest tightened. "I was busy."

"You're still working for that company, aren't you? You promised your sister that you would quit."

"I know," Helen said. "But there isn't much point in that now, is there?"

"She didn't want this life for you," her mother said. "I don't either."

"We don't want a lot of things," Helen said. "I need to—"

"Is this how you honor her memory, by risking your life like she did? You always looked up to her, but that's no excuse for getting yourself killed."

Helen was silent for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was icy. "There was no reason for her to get herself killed either. Look where that got us?"

"Helen…"

"Mom, I need to go," Helen said, hanging up the phone.

She let out a deep breath and tried to clear her mind, pushing the concerns away. An ache twisted in her stomach. It had been two weeks since her sister had been killed, and she hated being reminded of it. Her older sister, her perfect sister, her dead sister.

She pushed the thoughts away. She needed to focus on work.

Down the road less than a quarter of a mile away was the approaching convoy. The vans were bulletproof and insulated, with the sole intention of transporting Imran Hyderi safely through the city of Lahore to an important business meeting.

She didn't know what Imran's meeting was about. Didn't want to know.

All she knew was that she was in charge of making sure the convoy couldn't escape: Helen was going to lock down the street so that the convoy couldn't get out.

3

"Stand back," Victor bellowed in Urdu, pulling his revolver from beneath his robe, "everyone get back now."

The gunfire came from up the street, a cacophony that started as Victor moved. The team was well trained, and they had already begun the assault from their designated positions. Victor ran through the thick crowd of people, shoving past dozens of bodies as he made his way to the vans.

A cacophony of screams rose up from the panicked crowd. Their screams echoed around him. People scattered like frightened animals, pressing against the walls, ducking into doorways, trampling each other in their desperation to flee.

When one of the men dressed in Imran Hyderi's security uniform raised his weapon to fire at Victor, Victor dispatched him quickly. Two controlled bursts from his revolver took down the man. It wasn't graceful or elegant—Victor didn't go for flourishes when lives were on the line—but it was effective.

William and Francis flanked the lead van, providing cover fire and keeping Hyderi's remaining guards pinned down. Their choreography was perfect, the result of hundreds of hours training together. William's massive frame absorbed incoming rounds like they were nothing, his body armor barely registering the impacts. Francis moved like a shadow, appearing and disappearing, his shots precise and economical.

The middle van's door burst open. Three guards piled out, weapons raised. Victor didn't hesitate. He dropped to one knee, steadied his aim, and fired. One guard spun and fell. The second took cover behind the van's door, but that was exactly what Victor wanted—it gave Francis a clear shot at his exposed legs. The guard crumpled.

The third guard made it two steps before William's massive fist connected with his temple. The man went down like a puppet with cut strings.

"Target acquired," Francis's voice crackled through Victor's earpiece.

Victor reached the van and yanked open the back door. Inside, cowering between two dead bodyguards, was Imran Hyderi. The man looked smaller than his photographs, diminished by fear. His expensive suit was splattered with someone else's blood.

"Please," Hyderi whispered. "I have money. Whatever they're paying you, I'll double it."

Victor grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out of the van. "I'm not here for your money."

"Then what do you want?"

Victor didn't answer. He zip-tied Hyderi's wrists behind his back and shoved a black hood over his head.

"Package secure," Victor said into his comm. "Execute phase two."

Helen's voice came back immediately: "Lockdown lifting in thirty seconds. Extraction route is clear."

They moved fast. William hoisted Hyderi over his shoulder like the man weighed nothing. Francis covered their retreat, walking backward with his weapon raised, scanning for any remaining threats. Victor led the way, clearing a path through the chaos.

The whole operation, from first shot to extraction, took less than four minutes.

By the time the police arrived, Victor's team had vanished into the labyrinthine streets of Lahore, their prize in tow.

4

"It was clean," Victor said, climbing into the car.

Their driver, a local asset named Rashid, pulled away from the curb before Victor had even closed the door. The vehicle was nondescript—a dusty sedan that blended perfectly with the thousands of others on Lahore's congested streets.

In the back seat, Hyderi sat between Francis and William, still hooded and zip-tied. He hadn't stopped trembling since they'd grabbed him.

"Minimal casualties?" Helen's voice asked through the comm.

"Five of his guards are down," Victor reported. "No civilian casualties that I saw."

"That's something, at least."

Victor didn't respond to that. Helen's conscience was a liability, but not one he needed to address right now. She was useful, and that was what mattered.

"ETA to the airfield?" he asked.

"Forty-two minutes if traffic cooperates," Rashid said. "Might be longer. There's a checkpoint ahead."

"Can you avoid it?"

"I know another route. It adds fifteen minutes."

"Take it."

The car turned down a narrow side street, threading between parked vehicles and pedestrians with practiced ease. Victor watched the rearview mirror, looking for any sign of pursuit. Nothing. The police would be focused on the crime scene for hours, trying to piece together what had happened.

By then, they'd be in the air.

His phone buzzed. A text from his employer: CONFIRMATION REQUIRED.

Victor took a photo of Hyderi's hooded form and sent it back. A moment later, the response came: PAYMENT TRANSFERRED. DELIVERY COORDINATES TO FOLLOW.

Victor allowed himself a small smile. Another job completed.

"What happens to him now?" Helen's voice asked through his earpiece. She must have been monitoring the text exchange.

"Not our concern," Victor said.

"But—"

"Not. Our. Concern."

Silence on the line. Victor could practically hear her wrestling with her conscience. It was almost amusing.

Helen would learn eventually. In this business, you didn't ask questions you didn't want answers to. You did the job, collected your pay, and moved on to the next one. Sentiment was a luxury they couldn't afford.

Victor settled back in his seat and closed his eyes.

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