Peter Kirsanow: Second Strike

The driver complied, coasting to a stop on the berm, the police vehicle behind him.

Benton resolved to be alert but courteous in the event, as was reasonably probable, the driver was simply an ordinary citizen motoring down the freeway. Three troopers, including Benton, got out of their vehicles, Benton approaching the driver’s-side door with his hand on his weapon while the rest remained in tactical positions to the rear. Stopping several feet behind the door, he called for the driver to get out of the vehicle. Almost immediately, the door opened and the driver stepped onto the berm. A second later Benton heard the sound of the passenger door opening also, the occupant appearing around the front of the van as he approached the driver’s side.

Cops hate sudden movement and surprises. All three began shouting for the passenger not to move. The passenger raised his palms outward and upward in a display of confusion and innocence but continued moving toward the driver, his movements phantomlike in the twilight. The cacophony of shouting grew louder and sharper, the troopers converging, pistols drawn, upon the Phantom.

Benton’s last conscious memory was of the Phantom’s eyes. Wolf’s eyes. Predatory. Then a telescoping baton materialized in the Phantom’s right hand and with astonishing speed struck a vicious backhanded blow across the bridge of Benton’s nose, sending the big man crashing unconscious to the pavement. Before the converging officers could react, the Phantom pivoted toward them and with grim precision swung the baton first at the trachea of the approaching officer to his left and then backhanded toward the trachea of the officer to his right. Each collapsed helplessly to the pavement, gasping desperately for air through crushed and useless windpipes, eyes wide in pain and terror.

For several seconds, the only sound in the approaching twilight was the idling of the vehicles and the futile gurgling of the officers writhing on the asphalt. Then there was a metallic clicking sound as the Phantom collapsed the baton, which disappeared as if by magic into an unseen pocket in the Phantom’s loose-fitting cargo pants.

The driver stood frozen next to the van. The other nine occupants sat rigid in the gloom of the rear of the van, stunned by the cold efficiency they’d just witnessed.

They saw the Phantom disarm one of the officers.

Nine methodically placed shots rang into the hot Georgia night, two in the torso and one in the head of each of the troopers.

The assassin could hear the crackling of the patrol car radios. He knew he must now abandon the van. He looked down the highway. He needed to and would procure another vehicle for the group.

They were still on schedule for the event. Later generations would say that the world had never seen anything like it before.

NORTHERN GEORGIA,

AUGUST 14, 9:12 P.M. EDT

It would have to do. Approaching from the south less than a mile away was a white Econoline van. Not as large as the Transit, but they didn’t have the luxury of selectivity. They had to get out of there right now. It had been several minutes since he’d killed the troopers. He’d made productive use of the time since then, placing the bodies in one of the cruisers and driving all three of the police vehicles into the woods adjacent to the highway. Sparse traffic favored him. The disposal was accomplished without notice, only one motorist passing before he’d completed the task—and all that motorist would’ve seen was a van and one patrol car—nothing particularly alarming.

But with each second the lack of communication from the officers was certain to arouse concern with dispatch. Another set of patrol cars was sure to appear in short order. He needed to abandon the Transit and get its driver and passengers to a secure location off the highway, preferably as far away as possible. Sometime tonight an APB would be issued, and he had no idea if any of the slain officers had radioed dispatch that the Transit held nearly a dozen occupants. If they had, any vehicle within a hundred-mile radius capable of transporting that many passengers would be targeted by law enforcement.

So the assassin stood in the middle of the highway waving his arms at the approaching van, certain it would stop. Not because of the disabled vehicle on the berm, but because no one stands in the middle of a highway at dusk waving their arms at a speeding vehicle unless it is a matter of urgency.

The Econoline slowed and halted twenty feet from the assassin, who could see that the driver was alone. The face looking through the windshield with a quizzical expression belonged to a young man, perhaps a college student. The face appeared earnest and willing to help a fellow motorist in distress. A face that sat framed on his parents’ fireplace mantel.

The assassin approached the open driver’s-side window, pulled the Glock 43 he’d taken from one of the officers from his waistband, and put three 9mm rounds through the center of that face.

The assassin gestured for two of the former occupants of the Transit to come over to the Econoline.

“Get him out and put him in the woods with the others.”

Both seemed to recoil slightly, something the assassin found peculiar given their participation in the event. But after a brief pause, they complied with his command.

Another vehicle approached in the distance as the young man’s body was being secreted in the woods. The assassin held his breath for a second as he tried to determine if it was a patrol vehicle. The headlights were on but he didn’t discern a light bar on the roof. Could be unmarked, but the odds were it was another civilian vehicle. He glanced at the Econoline and then back at the car. It had enough room to maneuver around the van, but not if he stood in the other lane, which he did, waving his arms again.

The vehicle, a Buick LaCrosse, slowed to a stop almost even with the van. The assassin approached and the driver lowered the window.

“Looks like you could use some help.” It was the voice of an elderly man. The voice of someone who knew how to fix things. The voice of a little girl’s grandfather. The assassin withdrew the Glock 43 from his waistband and with two rounds to the head silenced that voice forever.

The assassin summoned the body removers, who placed it with the others in the woods. They now had two conveyances. Less crowded. More options.

But those were ancillary considerations. The primary reason the assassin stopped the second vehicle was for emphasis. He’d observed the reaction of his ten charges when he’d shot the troopers. They were frightened. Fear was a wonderful behavioral tool, one he employed often. The killing of the Econoline’s driver was both a necessity and a statement. The killing of the LaCrosse driver was an exclamation point: The assassin is in charge. Listen to every word he says. Don’t deviate one scintilla. Obey him to the letter or die.

Body dispersal complete, the ten gathered around him expectantly, awaiting further instructions.

“Who else has a license?”

A hand went up.

“Drive the car. Three of you go with him. Follow the rest of us in the van. Not too close.”

They obeyed. A minute later they were headed north, hovering around the speed limit. They drove for little more than a hundred miles, crossing into South Carolina.

The assassin, seated in the front passenger seat of the van, directed the driver toward a small farmhouse that sat nearly a half mile off the road behind acres of corn. The car followed closely behind. The two vehicles pulled up the drive to a semicircle in front of the house and stopped. Everyone but the assassin was apprehensive. Everyone but the assassin expected the inhabitants of the house to be executed.