Visit JTEllison. Any use of an author photo must include its respective photo credit Author Photo jpg : J. Ellison Krista Lee Photography 0. Tell us what you like and we'll recommend books you'll love. Sign up and get a free ebook! By Catherine Coulter and J. Table of Contents Excerpt. About The Book. Spiked into the shifting sands, its billowing fabric roof dipped and swayed in the desert breeze.
Inside the tent, a long table was centered on a wooden platform covered with a red-and-orange oriental rug. Five falcons with leather cords on their legs and suits of black armor across their bodies perched on the backs of chairs, silent and watchful. The air was scented with cardamom and grapes from the festive lunch the four men and two women had just enjoyed, mixing agreeably with the seared desert air around them; the quiet strains of Pink Floyd played in the background. Champagne cooled in silver buckets, awaiting the revelations to come.
They spoke among themselves, occasionally laughing as they finished the sweet cream custard mixed with dates and almonds in small golden bowls. Conversation turned to the falcons and how very well-behaved the five were, all their attention on their master, who sat at the head of the table. Their master, the host of the party, was Roman Ardelean, an Englishman of Romanian descent, in his prime, tall, broad-shouldered, a beak of a nose, dark hair, and eyes like smudges of coal.
He pushed back his chair. Come with me, and you will see the capabilities of our new army. It would be a lovely surprise for all of them, Roman knew. The investors—the Money, as he thought of them—followed him out into the desert, blinking in the blazing sun and immediately sweating. Behind the tent, twenty yards away, was a line of folding chairs.
On each chair was a set of ear guards and large eye shields. Roman watched the Money take their seats, then turned his back and slipped a tiny stamp on his tongue, felt it melt, tasted the fleeting metallic hit.
The microdose of LSD, a special version made for him by his twin, Radu, would help keep him calm and focused. It would also make the colors of the coming display more dramatic and the acrid desert air soften against his face, but no one needed to know that. He slipped the small box where he kept his tabs back into the pocket of his cargo pants and looked again at the Money. The Money blended into the desert, looked like they were meant to be there, which Roman found amusing.
But camouflage was important right now, for all of them. Once they were settled, Roman stood in front of them, hands behind his back.
He was a clever man, a charming man, a leader who knew exactly what he was doing. He cleared his throat, met each set of eyes, and began to speak. His clear, commanding voice was exactly what the Money needed to hear, just as his tall, fit body was what they needed to see. You are patriots and visionaries. You have envisioned this future, so you were ready to place your resources in my hands to build a drone army.
I gladly took on this challenge. The drones are the latest in personal defense stealth technology. They are my design, technologically so advanced not even our military has this capability yet.
Despite these advancements, they are easily manned by even the most inexperienced operator. Of course, most of the ten-year-olds we know are so advanced with their computer games that this might seem boring to them. No, they have nothing to help defend themselves against the constant encroachment of the terrorists. Nothing but leftover weapons from failed wars, guns that barely work, if at all.
We are going to arm the people so they can defend themselves. What Britain and the United States refuse to do, we will do for them. Covertly, quietly, and most importantly, cost-effectively. I will have no overruns on project costs, no excuses, no delays. When you decided to go with Radulov, I guaranteed the massive drone army would be built. And this is my promise, my investment in this amazing venture. I am going to pass out nondisclosure agreements for you to sign.
This will assure me that even if you want to talk about these weapons, you cannot without disclosing your involvement in their development. None of your own investors would regard this with a favorable eye, to say the least, nor would the government. Call it an insurance policy. As you said, I brought these six patriots to you to build this drone army in the first place.
Of course they will keep silent about their involvement. We all know what happened when the Americans tried to arm the Contras. It turned into the scandal of the century, and a patriot had to fall on his sword.
I have no desire to be that man. And as you know, this is a very large investment, for all of us. He wondered idly if he was the richest among the six of them. His firm, Radulov Industries, manufactured cybersecurity software that resided on almost every modern computer in the world. The terrorists had their own weaponry, their own drones and IEDs—improvised explosive devices—and, in some extreme cases, planes.
They moved through the dark web unseen, unstoppable, buying and selling drugs and weapons, accumulating wealth and influence, recruiting more and more lost souls to their cause. His values had made him rich; his brilliance and charm had made him popular.
Barstow had quietly assembled the Money—the six people here for the demonstration who would fund the operation, if, that is, they were impressed enough to transfer half the total funds required to a special account Barstow had set up. When the drone army was ready to ship, the other half of its total cost, two billion pounds, would be paid.
Barstow had also assured him the Money had the resources to move the drones into place. He would remain the financial bridge between the Money and Roman. You never knew when your. In this world, weapons were easy to come by. Weapons brokers were a dime a dozen.
And he, Vice Chancellor Heinrich Hemmler, would have no choice but to call for a special election to replace her. He would, of course, be elected in her place. No one would ever know it was he who had protected Germany—only a small number of sacrifices to be made along the way.
That he was making himself rich in the process was only fitting. Money had already been deposited in one of. After the bombings in Frankfurt, Berlin, and Munich, the tide would turn irrevocably against the chancellor, and no one else would have to die, at least no more Germans.
He slid a hand down his yellow silk tie and hummed, low in his throat. Nothing but silk and Savile Row for him from now on. The car pulled onto Downing Street and stopped. Heinrich waited for a beat, as his security team built a protective wedge for him to step into. He moved fast, as always. There were only five steps to the entrance. He took the first step into a very un-English warm and clear day. He slapped his hand to the spot, but nothing was there. White-hot pain, everywhere, he staggered.
His eyes bulged as he. He heard shouts, felt hands lifting him, dragging him to the doors, his knees scraping the cement, as he was manhandled inside Downing Street. He heard the grand doors slam shut behind him. Or breathe. They laid him on the carpet in the foyer. It felt so soft under his cheek, but only for an instant,. Heinrich knew he was dying.
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