Read more
Zusatztext Praise for Mike Maden “A multifaceted political thriller that will delight tech junkies.”— Kirkus “Adrenaline junkies will be thrilled to know that Troy Pearce and his drone technology team are back in action… Suspense lovers will find their hearts racing because of the abundant and creative detail. The plot is rich! and the villains are…everywhere.”— Suspense Magazine “A brilliant read with astounding plot twists...Maden's trail of intrigue will captivate you from page one.” — Clive Cussler "Mike Maden understands that sometimes the most lethal warriors are those just out of sight. DRONE is action-packed with cutting-edge technology and an unforgettable cast of characters." — W.E.B Griffin! #1 Wall Street Journal and New York Times -bestselling author Informationen zum Autor Mike Maden holds both a master’s and Ph.D. in political science from the University of California at Davis! specializing in international relations and comparative politics. He has lectured and consulted on the topics of war and the Middle East! among others. Maden has served as a political consultant and campaign manager in state and national elections! and hosted his own local weekly radio show for a year. In addition! he has written the hit web-TV series Pink and several screenplays that are in development. ***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected copy proof*** Copyright © 2016 Mike Maden CHAPTER ONE Zakho District Kurdistan Region Northern Iraq The sun's blood-red halo framed the Christ hanging from his towering crucifix. Or so it seemed to Ahmed. He cupped his hands around his eyes to get a better look, his spent RPG launcher heavy on one shoulder and his battered AK-47 on the other. Not a Christ. A Christian, and a Kurd. It was a kafir they had crucified, he reminded himself. His limp body hung from a utility pole on top of the hill, his arms tied at the elbows to the crossbar with bailing wire and duct tape. The kafir wouldn't submit, wouldn't renounce his infidel faith. He crucified himself, Ahmed thought. He spat in the dust at his aching feet. The boots he wore were too small, taken from a dead Iraqi weeks ago. He glanced back up. The blow flies swarmed around the moist tissues of the pastor's mouth and nose laying their eggs, the orifices caked with black blood. The eyes would be next, he knew. He'd seen it before, in the last village. And the one before. The hatched larvae would begin their grim feast and the pastor's skull would be picked clean in a week. Disgusting. Ahmed spat again. Brave, this one. Not like the Iraqi soldiers who fled like women when his convoy of pickups arrived in a cloud of dust yesterday, each vehicle crowded with fighters like him, black ISIS flags flapping in the wind. The Iraqis just dropped their gear and ran. Well, not all of them. Was it the flags that scared the cowards? Or the head of an Iraqi colonel hanging like a lantern on a pole on the lead truck? The Iraqis were probably Shia. Worse than infidels. C leansing the Caliphate of all such non-believers was their sacred duty. Only through such cleansing and blood sacrifice will the Mahdi come with the Prophet Isa and defeat the anti-Christ. Has the Caliph not rightly taught that all of the signs are pointing toward the Day of Judgment? And was it not their duty to bring this about, one infidel corpse at a time? Ahmed turned around. He counted ten more bodies hanging on the utility poles marching down the sloping hill, including three children. The pastor's children. Children of iniquity. Dirty work that, Ahmed thought. Glad he wasn't asked to do it. He would have, of course. Allah commands it. And if not, Kamal al-Medina ordered it, and he was more af...
