Chapter Seventeen - Tyler
Why is this thing so fucking hard to control?
Seriously. It’s not like I’ve never flown a drone before. But this thing is impossible. It’s imbalanced or something. Fucking Slade. Dude definitely sold her a bum, stolen drone. ‘Drone store.’ Jesus. (Or I just suck. Could go either way.)
The sat phone has led me here. About two football fields’ distance from what looks like a fucking comic-book version of a bad guy house. Or I suppose it’s possible that the reason we think bad guy houses look the way they do is because bad guys build them that way, but that’s a real chicken-egg contemplation that I can worry about later.
Right now, I’m just trying to keep the fucking drone steady so that I can survey the terrain here and get a sense of what I might be up against when I go charging in there like Rambo. And I hope, unlike Rambo, I don’t wind up captured and tortured, strapped to an electrocution bed or some shit.
And not because I’m afraid of dying. I’m not. Not even a little bit. I’ve done it before and it’s not that big of a deal. Honestly, I’m not even that afraid of being tortured in and of itself, because, y’know, I don’t really feel pain. But it totally looks like it sucks and is also the kind of thing that might encourage someone to test the boundaries of how much I can endure. And I gotta believe that there’s a point at which I would feel a lot of pain, and I’m not keen to discover what that point is.
But what does scare me is anything happening to Maddie. And if I get caught and tortured, that means Maddie will probably get tortured too. So that really only leaves me with one choice here, and that’s to get her out of the stupid fucking setup that she’s in right now, and that I still can’t believe is really happening… and save her.
So that’s my plan.
And if I see her and one freckle on her body looks to me like it’s out of place, then I hope everyone inside has been to confession before midnight mass tonight, because it’ll be The Magnificent Seven up in this bitch.
OK, so watching the monitor, I can see what looks like muscle around the perimeter. A not insignificant amount of it. Super. All right, that looks like the main entrance, and shit, the thing just sprawls out forever. I know that there’s a way to get 3D imaging of what’s happening inside, I just don’t know how to work it. There’s gotta be a way to get at least a heat signature, for Christ’s sake.
I’m playing with the settings on the touch screen to see how I can activate any of these features, which have to exist, when I spot what looks like a pool. And standing next to the pool is a body. A sexy body, in a sexy bikini, topped with sexy, unmistakable red hair. Shit. Yes. She’s there. She’s here. She’s OK. Thank you, baby Jesus. Happy birthday to you.
But I have to make sure she’s actually safe. I don’t see anyone near her, but I gotta be sure. So, I’m just gonna zooooooom in, real careful and… Fuck! That’s not the zoom! Shit! I think I’m—Ach! I’m dive-bombing. This is not stealth. Good Lord. But it’s her! The look on her face is one of shocked confusion, which is a look she gives me a lot, so I know she knows it’s me. Hi, Mads!
I wonder if this thing has a speaker or microphone. I mean, the plan wasn’t to walk right up to the front door and knock. It was most definitely supposed to be more clandestine than things are currently going, but since I’m blowing my cover anyway, I may as well say hi. But it looks like I’m actually about to ditch this thing in the pool, so I have to pull up. Shit. And right as I’m pulling up, on the screen I see…
One of the strapped-up perimeter guards has spotted me. I know, because on the monitor I see him pointing directly at the drone and shouting. I’m too far, hidden where I am out in the brush, to hear him, but shouting looks unmistakably like shouting whether you can hear it or not.
I’m working as hard as I can to pull the drone up and away, but it’s not moving vertically very well or swiftly enough in any direction. And now other strapped-up goons are gathering around the first strapped-up goon, and all of them are pointing and shouting. I can see Maddie kind of drifting into the shadows, trying to make herself scarce. And then Carlos comes running out poolside.
I have never actually seen Carlos Castillo. I saw a couple of hazy pictures of him on the internet, but I’ve never seen him in person. Maddie and I haven’t even really talked that much about him apart from Maddie’s situation. But this is undeniably him. There is an aura of power and influence that bleeds out of the guy, up into the atmosphere, and all the way through the screen of the drone monitor.
He looks to his muscle to see where they’re pointing and then he turns his head and he sees… me.
Oh. There’s the zoom. Shit.
I press down on the zoom-in feature and the camera settles right on Carlos’s eyes. And I know he can’t see me. Obviously. Obviously, I know that. But it sure doesn’t feel like it the way his glare seems to land right on my shitty-drone-flying ass. There’s a brief moment where it all has the impression of a standoff between the two of us. A Mexican standoff. Literally. Ha. That’s funny.
And then he points, says something. And that’s when the shooting begins. I see it before I hear it. The sound has to travel to where I’m hiding, but the bullets only have to reach the camera and blast the drone out of the sky. The screen goes dark and I snap my head in time to see the black, metallic bird drop from the sky like… well, like a 900XZ black-market military drone that’s just been shot to shit.
Son. Of. A. Bitch.
My instinct is to run. Not away. Toward. In fact, I have to stop myself from breaking into a sprint straight for the reinforced metal gate that protects the driveway. I don’t have the urge to run because I’m brave. It’s because I’m stupid. But Maddie’s alive and she smiled when she saw the drone, so that means she’s at least in a place where she can smile, so the last thing I need to do is fuck that up any more than I maybe already have. Carlos was inside when Maddie and I made eye-to-camera contact, so there’s a chance he wouldn’t necessarily, immediately assume that the drone was here because of Maddie.
Right?
I’m kicking this around in my addled brain when I think to reach in my rucksack and grab the field binoculars I had the good sense to bring. I hit the dusty carpet of the desert floor, put the binoculars up to my eyes, and a wave of memory comes crashing down. Not the good kind.
It’s not that this reminds me of any one moment in particular, it’s a patchwork of moments from my time in the military all stitched together. Belly down on the sandy, dusty deck of the earth, glassing the enemy through binoculars, trying to get a read on an unreadable situation. My fingers stiffen and my arms start shaking, causing the ’nocs to judder and bounce against the bridge of my nose. I can’t see much through the gate and down the driveway anyway, but what I can see looks like it’s being shaken in a blender.
My breathing is shallow and I’m having trouble swallowing. I really don’t need this. Not now. I need to figure out what my next move is. I need to find a way to still my nervous system and either get the fuck out of here or charge the castle. And then, while I’m trying keep my brain from sneaking out of my head and crawling across the desert, reality snaps me back.
Through the shaky lens, I see several of the perimeter guards come charging out the front, weapons drawn, in a semi-circle formation, like a human shield, and in the middle of the shielded safe area is Carlos. His head is down, but he’s easy to ID because I just saw him when he directed these jokers to shoot down my drone. They’re sweeping their weapons back and forth looking for… what?
You know why he won’t fly? It’s not because he has some innate fear of flying, it’s because he thinks the US government will shoot him down. Ricky DEA’s words come back to me. Jesus. Does Castillo think this is the government coming after him? Maybe. He must. Because this is a wildly disproportionate response to a little drone action, if you ask me.
Suddenly a black Mercedes pulls into view, flanked by two big, black SUVs. The human shield forces Castillo into the back of the Benz and half of the guys jump into one of the SUVs which takes off first, with the Mercedes following, and then the rest of the guys jump into the other SUV and it peels out on the Benz’s six. It’s tactical. Precise. Efficient. Like they’ve run this drill many times in preparation for whatever they think this is that’s happening.
And then, like a lightning bolt, it occurs to me… Maddie wasn’t with him. They just shoved Carlos into the car. Alone. So where the hell is Maddie? Is she still inside? And if she is, who’s in there with her? Are there any more armed assholes? And if so, how many? Do I risk it? Is now my chance?
Fuck it. I don’t see where I have a choice.
So I jump up and I start running. I cut wide left because I saw from the drone, before it was so rudely dispensed with, that there was another point of entry along the side of the perimeter wall. Smaller. Looked like maybe it was a servants’ entry gate or the grounds crew’s gate or something. Because God forbid anyone should sully up the main gate with their proletariat existence. And suddenly, in addition to all the other reasons that I have feelings of hostility towards Carlos Castillo, I can now add income and class inequality to the list. Which is probably hypocritical coming from a rich asshole like me, but fuck it. It’s how I feel. As if I needed another reason to want to bury this prick.
I’ve covered half the distance and am probably a hundred yards away when I stop, because the gate that I’m running for begins to open. Again, I hit the deck. Again, that wash of bad memory spills onto my shore. And again, I force it away and bring the binoculars up to my eyes.
A raggedy old Ford pickup truck rumbles out through the opening gate and through the ’nocs I can see Ricky fuckin’ DEA driving. In the passenger seat, I can almost make out Logan. But like, a really fucked up and battered Logan. But it’s gotta be him. The scowl is unmistakable. I wonder how he got all bloodied up? I wonder if Maddie did that to him again. Or maybe it was someone else. Oh, well. Poor Unlucky Logan. Ha. Asshole.
Why are Logan and Ricky heading out the side exit in a busted old junker of a pickup? And where are they going? And what do I do? Follow them, follow Carlos, or keep on motoring inside for Maddie?
And before I have to decide, my decision is made for me. From the bed of the pickup truck, I see a spark of bright red hair. There’s a tarp over it, but the hair flashes from underneath, and then a second later, so does Maddie. Still in the bikini I saw her wearing. She looks pissed, and then I see why.
Carlos, who is wearing gardener gear now, and who has been lying flat, pops up and draws a protesting Maddie back down on top of him, pulling the tarp over them both.
That cocksucker.
I have to give him credit, though. The diversion he ran with the decoy motorcade ushering whoever was dressed in his clothes into the car and out the front with such noisy fanfare was pretty well executed. Had me fooled. But then again, I’m stupid. I don’t know if it would fool whoever Carlos thinks is after him right now. Because it sure as hell ain’t me that he imagines is coming for him.
But faint praise for his escape plan aside, I’m pretty fucking heated at seeing him using Maddie as a human shield. Because that’s what he’s doing. I assume that part was improvised. Or maybe there’s some housekeeper or somebody who’s supposed to be the one to protect Carlos with their body in the event they have to make a getaway, and Maddie’s a convenient and more appealing substitute. But the idea of her bikini-clad body pressing up against that asshole in the back of that truck is pissing me off.
I sprint back to the Defender, which I have parked where I was doing my surveying before, back at my original distance from the house, and I am struck by the toll that a dozen years of booze, drugs, and getting blown to smithereens a few times has on a body. I ain’t in basketball shape no more, that’s apparent. It feels like my heart’s gonna cave in on itself, if I don’t throw it up first. Fuck. I gotta get to a gym soon.
But it’s incredible what adrenaline can do, and I power through the pain and into the driver’s seat. I hit the ignition button and peel off, fishtailing like a motherfucker in the desert sand. Ironic, I think. Fish. Desert. Whatever. Not the time.
As my car plows in the direction in which they split, I grab my phone and thumb up the sat tracking app. It says that the phone is still where it was. The blinking icon tells me its location is staying behind as I drive forward. Shit. She doesn’t have it on her anymore. Which means I can’t afford to lose them.
The trail of dust from the pickup gives me enough of an arrow to start, and now I just have to catch them and stay far enough back that they don’t see me but not so far that I lose them. My one hope is that if Ricky DEA spots me in his rearview, he’ll be cool about it. Which seems like a real fucking stretch to imagine right now, but I’ve got to hope. Which I will.
Because, shit. I’m nothing if not a goddamn, motherfucking, cock-licking optimist.
Everybody fuckin’ says so.