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WASHINGTON, D.C.

John Marcano watched dispassionately as the whole scene played out on a computer screen in a dark-paneled conference room at Langley. He had two of his top assistants with him; they were under instructions to keep the circle of those who knew about this very tight. There were decisions being made in split seconds that would have to be explained later, and Marcano only wanted those he trusted to be in the know.

He had watched the satellite imagery and drone footage of the rendezvous between Saleet Zafar and a man the face-scanning technology had identified as Mokhtar al-Bakri. There had been brief moments of panic as his team tried to identify the man sitting next to Zafar—a man with a traditional Muslim head covering who appeared to have a mustache and a long, lean build. They could not get a good visual on his face.

Marcano’s associates had been smart enough not to say what everyone was thinking. They knew Wyatt Jackson had flown into Dubai. They had lost him somewhere in the UAE. But he would have had time to make it to Yemen, and Saleet Zafar had been friends with Cameron Holloman. Marcano couldn’t be sure—it might be Jackson, but then again, his face was not part of the CIA database, and the drone videos were too indistinct to make a definitive ID. For all they knew, it could have been any one of a thousand associates of Zafar.

But if it was Jackson, he had made a fatal mistake. He had entered Yemen illegally. He was working with a sworn enemy of his country, an imam who preached jihad. He was meeting with a traitor who had cost twenty men their lives.

If Marcano had believed in such things, he might have called it a miracle. Three of his country’s greatest enemies all gathered in a single spot, all within the destruction zone of a single Hellfire missile. He had immediately authorized the strike against al-Bakri. But a firefight had erupted, and al-Bakri was dead before the missile launched. Marcano authorized the drone to fire anyway, taking out al-Bakri’s men.

The director had watched as the drone took up the chase with the vehicle driven by Saleet Zafar. Marcano had authorized a second strike, knowing that the man with Zafar would be collateral damage.

Though Marcano did not believe in divine intervention, he did believe in fate. Wyatt Jackson had pried where he didn’t belong. In Wyatt’s smug self-righteousness, he had embarrassed Marcano and trashed the CIA director’s reputation.

Now, if Marcano’s hunch was right, Jackson would pay with his life.

The director dispatched another drone that would arrive at the scene and take up the chase shortly. This drone, a newer prototype, used guided munitions technology that combined the GPS and satellite-driven navigation of the Hellfire missiles with laser-enhanced precision. Once the drone fixed its laser on an identifiable person on the ground, the laser would stick—driven by readings of light wavelength—and the Hellfire would adjust midflight to hit the target regardless of how fast or in what direction it was moving. The problem the CIA had experienced for nearly ten years with targets outrunning the drones would be a thing of the past.

With the Hellfire 3, you could run, but there was nowhere to hide.

ADEN, YEMEN

I won’t die from a drone strike, Wyatt thought. Saleet’s driving will kill me first.

The imam had reached the bottom of the cliffs and turned onto one of the main four-lane roads running through Aden. Weaving in and out of traffic, Saleet stayed on the horn, running red lights, swerving into oncoming lanes, and even jumping up on the sidewalk to get around cars. He was frantically checking the mirrors and praying in Arabic, or least Wyatt assumed he was praying. People scattered to get out of the way, vehicles screeching to a halt. They flew through one intersection, causing a car to swerve and miss them and crash into another vehicle.

Wyatt assumed the drone was still behind them, but for some reason the remote-controlled aircraft held its fire, its pilot perhaps worried about civilian casualties.

“Where are you going?” Wyatt yelled.

“To the mosque,” Saleet replied, breathless.

“A mosque?”

Saleet jerked the car to the left, and Wyatt banged his right shoulder against the door. He tried to look out the window but couldn’t see the drone.

“They won’t blow up a mosque,” Saleet said.

“What makes you so sure?” Wyatt shot back.

“Allah won’t let them.”

A few seconds later, Saleet turned hard to the right and Wyatt was able to see the sky behind them. He had lost sight of the drone. He heard the mournful call to prayer beginning on loudspeakers all over the city—melodic, distorted, insistent. Cars began pulling over to the side of the road, thinning the traffic.

“There!” Saleet said, pointing to the sky in front of them.

Wyatt saw it too—another drone, or maybe the same one coming at them from a different angle. Out of the corner of his eye, Wyatt noticed a red dot coming through the front windshield, flickering on Saleet’s chest.

A laser! They were marking him with a laser!

The call to prayer grew louder, and cars stopped in front of them. Wyatt felt trapped. They were surrounded by multistory buildings, backed up by traffic. Ahead on the left was an apartment complex that looked like it had been bombed out by the Saudis. On the right were half-finished construction sites and deserted sidewalks as the call to prayer continued.

“We’re stuck!” Saleet yelled.

The drone dove toward them. Would it fire here in the middle of the city?

“Hang on!” Saleet shouted. But before Wyatt could brace himself, Saleet drove up on the sidewalk and bounced along for a hundred feet before turning right into a small parking garage. He crashed through the gate arm and swerved to the right, barely missing the cars parked at an angle, squeezed in next to each other.

They were safe here for a moment, shielded from the drone by the concrete of the garage. But Wyatt knew one missile could probably level the entire structure.

“They’ll expect me to exit over there,” Saleet said, pointing toward the other side of the garage. “But we will surprise them.”

He began a clumsy three-point turn, hitting at least two other cars in the process, and circled back to exit the same way he had come in.

“You’ve been watching too many movies!” Wyatt yelled.

“Allahu Akbar,” Saleet said, with a sudden calm that frightened Wyatt. The prayers filling the air seemed to give the imam a source of strength. He looked straight ahead as if in a trance.

“I am ready to die for Allah,” he said.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

John Marcano popped a mint in his mouth as he watched the video feed from the drone, now hovering over the parking structure, waiting for the Land Rover to exit. It was just a matter of time. The vehicle would emerge and the drone would lock on again. This time, once the laser hit the imam’s chest, the pilot had instructions to fire. Yes, there would be collateral damage. But there was always collateral damage.

Surprising no one, the Land Rover came bounding out the same way it had entered. It raced across the sidewalk and clipped the front fender of an oncoming car before swerving into the other lane. A white flash filled the screen—a silent explosion that seemed sterile and surreal. The Land Rover was reduced to ashes as the blast formed a massive, smoking crater in the road, destroying other vehicles and damaging nearby buildings. Smoke rose from the street and people got out of their cars, screaming and running in every direction.

The pilot confirmed that he had locked on with the laser and destroyed the target. Collateral damage had been kept to a minimum. The passenger in the Land Rover was a given. Perhaps two or three other drivers. Otherwise, the strike had been clean.

Marcano knew that he would have a lot of explaining to do, but it would all be worth it. He would have to convince the Saudis to take credit for the strikes. The Yemenis would complain about civilian casualties and claim that the missiles had killed dozens of women and children. They would make lots of noise on the international stage. But ultimately they would be ignored. There was a civil war in Yemen, and this was the price to be paid.

The real explaining would take place a few miles away. Marcano thanked the men who had assisted in the operation and then prepared some notes for his briefing. He dialed a secure line to the White House and requested a meeting with the president.

“It’s urgent,” he said. “She’ll want to be interrupted.”