Peter Kirsanow - Second Strike

The assassin examined his watch. They were still on time.

CENTRAL TEXAS,

AUGUST 14, 7:18 P.M. CDT

Luci Saldana’s emotions swirled. She couldn’t separate them, figure out which should be given primacy, which should govern her actions, which would enhance her safety or survival.

Tom Lofton had killed two men. She’d been less than ten feet away when it happened. They’d held guns on him, surprised him. Yet they were outmatched. He’d overwhelmed them as if they were infants.

And now they were driving down the highway in the Challenger he’d rented for the week of the Crucible. Despite the unwavering intensity in his eyes, he appeared calm. Save for a few brief commands at the outset, he had not spoken since the shootings.

“You killed two policemen, Tom. You killed two cops.”

“They weren’t cops.”

“They had guns. They were dressed like cops, like detectives.”

“They weren’t cops.”

“How do you know? How can you be sure?”

“Cops don’t use suppressors.”

“What?”

“Suppressors.” Garin paused. “What some call silencers.”

They drove for another twenty seconds.

“Are you sure, Tom?”

“I’m sure.”

“Then it was self-defense?”

“I prefer to call it preemption.”

Another ten seconds of silence.

“Then we need to go to the real cops. If those guys were going to kill us, we need to let the cops know now, Tom. Otherwise, when they find the bodies, they’ll think you—we—killed them for no reason. It’ll make things worse.”

“Can’t do it.”

“Why?” Luci’s voice went up an octave. “Why not?”

Garin didn’t reply. Five more seconds of silence.

“Who are you, Tom?”

“Someone who knows we can’t go to the cops,” Garin replied. “And even if we could, it would be useless.”

“What in the world does that mean?”

“It means if we go to the cops, we’re dead. Both of us. No maybes. Dead.” Garin’s voice was low but emphatic. “But I can keep us alive. At least for a while.”

“Who are you, Tom?”

“No one important.”

“A man who two guys with silencers tried to kill, who can keep us alive even though the cops can’t, is important to something. Or someone.”

A no-nonsense reply. Yet another reason for Garin to like Luci.

“Not anymore.”

“I deserve some answers, Tom. You know that. A few hours ago I was your trainer. Now, for all I know, I’m your accomplice. Whether you’re a good guy or a bad guy, I’m in serious trouble. You admitted as much; if we go to the cops we’re dead. You can’t stonewall me, Tom. I didn’t buy into this.”

Garin remained silent.

“If you won’t tell me who you are, then tell me who they are. Who did you just kill?”

Garin remained silent.

Luci’s voice became more strident. “Tom—”

“My name is Michael Garin.”

The shock was naked on Luci’s face. “What?”

“Mike Garin. I use Tom Lofton on occasion.”

“Are you hiding? A fugitive?”

A reasonable assumption, thought Garin. “No.”

“Who do you work for?”

“Currently unemployed.”

Luci gazed out the windshield down the endless stretch of highway, absorbing the events of the past few hours and Garin’s revelation. Computing, reasoning.

“Who did you work for?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“You a cop?”

“No.”

“Are you a good guy or bad guy?” There was a bit of trepidation in her voice.

“Depends on who you ask.”

Frustrated, Luci pivoted. “Tom… Mike. Should I call you Mike or Michael?”

“Your choice.”

“If you can’t tell me who you are, Mike, do you at least know who they are?”

“I’m not completely sure,” Garin acknowledged.

“Then how do you know we’re dead if we go to the cops?”

“Because something similar happened about a month ago.”

“This happens to you monthly ?”

The tone of Luci’s voice caused him to rewind the last minute of conversation and play it back in his mind. He conceded to himself that from her perspective, the conversation, if it weren’t so frightening, would be absurd. He’d placed her life in jeopardy because he’d forgotten how dangerous his own was. Yet as much as she deserved answers, he couldn’t provide them—at least not yet.

“Luci, I can tell you this much: This is very serious. It’s highly probable more people will be coming to kill me and that whoever sent them has extensive resources and won’t stop until I’m dead or they’re dead. It’s highly probable they know who you are and will eliminate you if it serves their purposes. And it’s highly probable they will succeed if you don’t follow my directions.”

Neither spoke for several minutes. To Luci, the man sitting next to her had been an enigma since she’d first met him as Tom Lofton, yet even now, she felt safe with him.

“What are your directions?” Luci finally asked.

“First we need to put some distance between us and Dallas. Then we need to ditch the Challenger and get another car. And then I’ll take you to people who can protect you while I set things right.”

“How are you going to do that?” Luci asked.

“I’m working that out.”

For her part, Luci was beginning to suspect it was highly probable he would find the people behind the assassination attempt. And it was highly probable he’d kill them.

MOUNT VERNON, VIRGINIA,

AUGUST 14, 9:45 P.M. EDT

The story of the massacre was on all the cable news shows.

According to CNN, two Georgia State Patrol vehicles were dispatched to assist another trooper who had requested backup regarding a suspicious driver. After dispatch was unable to contact the troopers, several other vehicles were dispatched but found no vehicles at the last reported location. Fox News reported that after several additional cars were dispatched on a thirty-mile stretch of I-85, aerial surveillance was deployed using infrared scopes.

MSNBC reported that a team with search dogs located the bodies of three troopers and two civilians next to three patrol cars and a Ford Transit in the woods near the last reported location. Each of the victims had been shot multiple times, including what the reports described as a coup de grace—a single shot just above the bridge of the nose.

Dan Dwyer, a former Navy SEAL and owner and CEO of DGT, a mammoth military and security contractor, watched all three broadcasts intermittently on a bank of monitors located in a multimillion-dollar secure communications room in the subbasement of his sprawling home in Mount Vernon, Virginia. The grisly story had been playing on all the news outlets, interspersed with vapid political commentary and news of the tropical depression that appeared to be evolving into a hurricane off the eastern coast of Cuba. Until the reference to the single shot to the bridge of each victim’s nose, it had all served as background noise while Dwyer studied financial and operational reports. Asleep at his feet were Max, his giant geriatric Newfoundland, and two German shepherd pups, Bear and Diesel.

The detail about the shot to the bridge of the nose, however, gave him pause. It reminded Dwyer of the favorite maxim of special operations legend Clint Laws that “there are no coincidences in this business.”

A shot to the bridge of the nose was, indeed, an effective act to ensure the victim never posed a problem again. It was not unique in the business of death, but that particular signature had played a minor role in a series of events that had culminated in the current US bombing campaign against Iranian nuclear facilities.