Free Predator One by Jonathan Maberry

software for dronesand he can’t play anything more challenging than Ms.-fucking-Pacman? Seriously?
    “You want coffee?”
    Davidovich ignored the question. He paused his game play, put earbuds into his ears, turned up the volume on his iPod and resumed chasing energy dots and fleeing from ghosts.
    Dor sighed. He shared a look with the other agent working this shift, an Israeli national named Tovah. She made a faceand shook her head. She understood.
    Dor went to the kitchen to make coffee for himself. Tovah was drinking Coke.
    The coffeemaker began beeping, and at the same moment there was a knock on the door. Dor and Tovah exchanged another look, and this was of an entirely different frequency. Without saying a word they both stopped what they were doing, drew their guns, and took their positions. Tovahhooked Davidovich under the arm and pulled him gently but firmly up from the couch and away from his game, then guided him quickly down a short hall to the bedroom that had the reinforced door.
    Meanwhile, Dor went to the door, standing to its left side, which was the wall with the steel sheeting hidden beneath the drywall and wallpaper. Without opening the door, he said, “Who is it?”
    “Deliveryfor Yev,” said a voice.
    Dor relaxed. That was the correct day code.
    He replied, “Mr. Yev is not here.”
    “This is for his mother.”
    All correct, and the voice sounded familiar.
    Even so, he kept his gun down at his side as he disengaged the lock and, with the chain still on, opened the door one inch so he could peer outside. As he did so, he asked the final verification question.
    “Is it stillcloudy?”
    “No, the sun is shining. It’s a nice day.”
    Dor exhaled and grinned. “Simon,” he said, “you’re early.”
    Simon Meir was his relief man.
    “Let me in,” said Simon. “I have to use the john.”
    Dor closed the door, slipped off the chain, opened it, and died.
    Just like that.
    Simon’s gun was fitted with a sound suppressor. The bullet entered under Dor’s chin and punched a hole at an anglethat blew off the crown of his head. Dor stood straight and still for a moment, his head raised as if listening, though he was already past hearing. His body was caught in a moment when it was balanced only by skeletal alignment, the muscles not yet responding to a lack of signal.
    Then Dor’s knees buckled and he puddled down.
    By then Simon Meir and his companion were already inside the apartment.Simon closed the door while the second killer—smaller, slimmer, female—hurried down the hallway toward the secure room.
    From the mouth of the hallway, Simon called, “Tovah. I brought some falafel. You hungry?”
    From inside the room, Tovah laughed. “I’m always hungry,” she said as she opened the door. “Hope you brought enough for—”
    And she died.
    Boy put three rounds into her: one in the heart,two in the head. Boy used a .22 with a Trinity sound suppressor. The shots made only small, flat noises. There were no exit wounds. Almost no mess. Tovah staggered, tried to catch the wall, failed, and fell.
    Then Boy and Simon entered the secure room, guns up and out. Doctor Davidovich began backing away from them, his eyes wide and filled with the sure and certain knowledge that his world—everythingin his world—was going to change. That everything had already changed.
    He held up his hands. Tears sprang into his eyes. He sank to his knees.
    He said, “No … please, no…”
    Boy smiled as she holstered her pistol and removed a syringe.
    “Please…,” whimpered the scientist.
    Boy liked it when they begged.

 
    Chapter Twelve
    The White House
    Washington, D.C.
    October 13, 2:45 A.M.
    The president sat slumped on a sofa in his apartment in the White House. The room was filled with people. Secret Service agents, senior staff, his body man, a military doctor and nurse, and Linden Brierly, who had four stitches in his lower lip. The first lady was in Detroit on a speaking tour.
    Brierly, despite the