Drone Threat by Mike Maden Page B

hour, about the speed the fish ran, especially with the current.
    Pike was a loner by nature and wasn’t the talkative type, but Brody asked the same questions that the beginners always asked about bait and reels and how to hook the big ones, and Pike was happy to answer them because the answers never changed. He also liked the kid’s enthusiasm. Brody pulled in his first fish within an hour and seemed genuinely thrilled. Pike reset the hook and showed him how to cast and Brody was back at it while Pike cleaned the five-pound fish.
    And then Brody’s questions turned personal. How long have you been a charter captain? How long have you lived in Michigan? Any kids? Were you in the service?
    It started to feel like an interrogation instead of friendly chatter. There was something about the guy that bothered Pike. He couldn’t put his finger on it. When the next fish struck Brody got distracted trying to reel it in. The pole bent nearly in half, as if a bowling ball were hooked to the other end. Pike fetched the net. A twenty-three-pounder—big fish. Not a record, but respectable. At this rate, Brody would hit his legal limit of fish in a few hours, and then they’d be heading back to the marina.
    â€œCan I use the restroom?”
    Pike pointed at the cabin door with his filet knife. “Right down there. Hard to miss.”
    â€œThanks.” Brody flashed a smile and descended the short stairs, closing the door behind him.
    Pike stood at the cleaning station, thinking. He cut the chinook’s head off with a single pass of the razor-sharp blade, then took off the tail.
    He didn’t like personal questions.
    CHEBOYGAN, MICHIGAN
    It was late. Pike’s boat was the last one to tie up for the night. Nobody around.
    The high-speed grinder shrieked beneath the stainless-steel tub, mulching the carcass into a fine slurry that ran straight back into the lake. The sound bounced off the blue cinder-block walls. A real racket. But the enclosed fish-cleaning station was always neat and clean whenever he came into it, and Pike intended to leave it that way, too. Always had. He used the sprayer to push the last little bits of flesh and bone into the drain. The city of Cheboygan had built the handy little facility in order to make the fishing experience that much more convenient for the public. They knew how to treat sportsmen right up here, especially in the UP. It’s why he loved living in Michigan—for six months out of the year, anyway.
    Pike’s phone rang. He checked the number. A call he’d been waiting for. He hung up the sprayer and punched the grinder motor’s red Stop button. It quieted instantly.
    â€œPike here.”
    Pike listened to the urgent voice on the other end but kept spraying the tub, washing away the last drops of blood.
    â€œI understand. The charter is all ready. I’m just waiting for your last deposit.”
    He nodded, listening. A smile creased his face. “Excellent. I appreciate the vote of confidence. Then we can get started right away. It should be a lot of fun.”
    Pike rang off. He checked the sink. Spotless, just the way he’d found it.

12
    WASHINGTON, D.C.
    The Kairos Club was traditional, elegant, and private, like Ilene Parcelle herself. Vicki Grafton admired both institutions. Despite its privacy—or maybe because of it—the Kairos Club had been the place to be seen in D.C. for the last forty years.
    It was an early dinner, barely five p.m. The last-minute invitation was both propitious and unsettling. It felt more like a summons than a dinner date, but that was to be expected. The former congresswoman had climbed the pinnacle of power after her time in government. Parcelle was used to people clearing calendars and canceling important family events when her assistant called. But when Parcelle was on the other end of the line? One of the senior partners at the Seven Rivers Consortium? Governments fell, countries rioted,