Pirate Alley

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The little drone made a low buzzing sound, a bit more than a dragonfly. It was about twice the size of that insect and weighed three and a half ounces.

We were on the roof of a three-story building. The locals would have been unhappy if they knew, but so far, our presence was our little secret.

I’m Tommy Carmellini, and sneaking around is what the CIA pays me for. It’s in my job description somewhere. I was here today with Travis Clay and Joe Bob Sweet, who were what the agency likes to refer to as “covert operatives.”

I watched the drone soar above our heads, watched Clay maneuver it around with the joystick on the control unit until he was sure it was functioning properly and the telemetry was good. I checked the small television screen, adjusted the contrast and brightness, then nodded at Trav.

He flew the drone off the edge of the roof and dropped it gently, stopping at each window as it came up on the monitor.

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