The Kill Room

people as possible to the stress of STO killings. Employees had been known to snap. And that could have far-ranging consequences, for them, their families…and for the program too, of course.
    Barry Shales scanned the readouts. He hit a button and noted several other lights pop on.
    He spoke into the stalk mike, “UAV Three Nine Seven to Texas Center.”
    Instantly: “Go ahead, Three Nine Seven.”
    “Weapons systems green.”
    “Roger.”
    He sat back and was stung by another thought. Metzger had told him that somebody was “looking into” the Moreno task. He’d asked for details but his boss had smiled dismissively and said it was just a technicality. Everything was being taken care of. He had people taking precautions. He didn’t need to worry. Shales wasn’t satisfied. Any smile from Metzger aroused suspicion.
    Shales himself had felt a burst of the same searing rage that he, that everybody , knew was the NIOS director’s nemesis. Who was looking into the matter? The police, Congress, the FBI?
    And then, the kicker, Metzger told him that he too should take some precautions.
    “Like what?”
    “Just remember that it’d be better if there was less…well, ‘evidence’ is such a stark word. But you get my meaning.”
    And Shales decided at that moment not to wipe the phone issued to him as Don Bruns. The data—and the emails and texts to and from Metzger—were encrypted, but Shales decided it would be a prudent idea for the evidence not to disappear. He also printed out dozens of documents and smuggled them out of NIOS.
    Insurance.
    And the fact he’d felt compelled to take those precautions made him think: Hell, maybe it was time to quit this crazy business. Shales was thirty-nine, he had a degree from the Air Force Academy and a postgrad in engineering and poli-sci. He could go anywhere.
    Or could he?
    With a résumé like his?
    Besides, the idea of no longer helping defend his country was almost unbearable.
    But how do I help my country by accidentally killing a famous journalist and hardworking guard while I’m on a mission to assassinate an unpleasant but innocent loudmouth? What about—
    “Texas Center to Three Nine Seven.”
    Like flipping a switch. Barry Shales was all go. “Three Nine Seven.”
    “You are ten minutes to target.”
    The operation command center near Fort Hood knew exactly where his drone was.
    “Copy.”
    “Visual conditions?”
    A glance to the monitor at the right. “A little haze but pretty good.”
    “Be advised, Three Nine Seven, eyes on the ground report that the task is alone in target structure. Individual who arrived an hour ago has left.”
    The task…
    “Roger, Texas Center. I’m taking the aircraft,” Shales said, disconnecting the autopilot. “Approaching Lucio Blanco International airspace.”
    Reynosa’s airport.
    “Friendly nation ATC has been advised of your flight route.”
    “Roger. Descending to two thousand feet. EAD on.”
    The engine audio deflectors would reduce the decibel level of the drone’s engine to about one-tenth of the regular sound. These could only be used for a short period of time, though, because they tended to make the engines overheat and there was a power loss, which could be dangerous in rough weather. Now, though, the sky was clear and virtually no wind would trouble the craft.
    Five minutes later he guided 397 to about fifteen hundred feet above and a half mile from the safe house where al-Barani Rashid was presently planning or perhaps even constructing his bomb.
    “In hover mode.”
    Teasing the joystick.
    Shales painted the target safe house with a laser. “Confirm coordinates.”
    The longitude and latitude of what he’d reported would be matched to those of the stats known to be the target in NIOS’s mainframe—just to make sure.
    “Texas Center to Three Nine Seven, we have geo match. Target is confirmed. What is your PIN?”
    Shales recited the ten digits of his personal identification number, verifying he was who he was supposed to be and that he was authorized to fire this missile at this target.
    “Positive ID, Three Nine Seven. Payload launch is authorized.”
    “Copy. Three Nine Seven.”
    He slipped up the cover over the arming toggle for the Hellfire missile and pressed the button.
    Shales stared at the image of the safe house. Still, he didn’t push the launch button just yet.
    His eyes took in the windows, the doors, the chimney, the streaks of dust on the sidewalk, a cactus. Looking for