Peter Kirsanow - Second Strike

“Answer the question.”

“Just started a month ago.”

“And before that?”

“I was in the service, Counselor.”

“What branch?”

“Army.”

“You weren’t like in the”—Luci searched for the correct term—“regular Army or whatever it’s called, were you?”

“Everything is regular in the Army. Nothing is regular in the Army.”

“You know what I mean,” Luci insisted. “You were one of those commando types, weren’t you?”

He was beginning to like Luci. “We really don’t refer to ourselves as commandos,” Knox noted.

“What do you prefer to call yourselves, then?”

“Operators, Counselor.”

“That’s it. Operators. Special operators. Special forces, right?” Luci said excitedly. “Like Navy SEALs, right?”

“That’s the Navy. I was Army.”

“Before he started DGT was Mike Garin an operator, too?”

Knox looked stumped. “Tell you the truth,” Knox said, stroking his goatee, “I’m not sure anyone really knows what Mike was doing before DGT. Not even Dan Dwyer. There’s, like, two, three years where no one knows anything about Mike. Seriously spooky stuff.”

“You know, you say ‘seriously’ a lot,” Luci needled. “Seriously.”

Danzig poked his head in the door. “Your crew says they plan to be wheels up in the next fifteen.”

As they rose to leave, Luci noted that she barely reached Knox’s imposing chest. She felt safe with him too, and she liked his smile.

MOUNT VERNON, VIRGINIA,

AUGUST 14, 11:03 P.M. EDT

The buzzer stirred Dan Dwyer from his slumber in the captain’s chair of his communications room. During his time in the teams he had perfected the art of falling asleep anywhere at any time. It didn’t hurt that the chair was almost obscenely plush and reclined to the precise angle most likely to induce sleep.

His eyes closed, Dwyer grasped for the speakerphone button on the armrest console.

“Dwyer.”

“Need more help.”

Now familiar with Garin’s voice, Bear and Diesel perked up along with Max.

“Geez Louise. If we’re going to be fighting Big Bad Bor again, I’m going to need some sleep. Where are you now?”

“Northbound on I-45, near Corsicana.”

Dwyer sat up in the chair and opened his eyes, focusing on the digital clock that displayed central daylight time. “That’s about sixty miles south of Dallas. Hate to tell you this, but you’re heading in the wrong direction, Mikey.”

“Need a favor.”

“You said that.”

“Can you send a team to check on Katy and her family? Maybe have them sit in a car outside her house?” Garin was referring to his older sister. Garin’s enemies had once tried to get to him by threatening Katy, her husband, and their three small children.

“Absolutely. Hold on.”

Dwyer placed Garin on hold, punched another button, and gave instructions to his operations center in Quantico to send a protective detail to the home of Joe and Katy Burns in Brecksville, Ohio, a suburb of Cleveland. Dwyer then returned to Garin’s call.

“Will be there within the half hour.”

“Thanks much. Luci’s secure?”

“She and Congo Knox should be northeast bound at thirty-eight thousand feet somewhere over Tennessee right now.”

“Thanks again. What about Olivia? Were you able to reach her?”

Dwyer sighed and rubbed his eyes. Diesel yawned loudly.

“What was that?” Garin asked.

“Diesel yawned.”

“What?”

“Never mind,” Dwyer said. “Her phone is off. Didn’t want to leave a voice mail. It’s eleven o’clock, Mike. She’s probably asleep. I’ll call first thing. Why are you headed back to Dallas?”

“The only reason I left Dallas was to get Luci to safety. And to avoid any backup shooters or being linked to the bodies of the dead shooters,” Garin explained. “Now that Luci’s safe and we suspect Bor’s involved, I need to find him, and the best way of doing that is through his backup teams.”

Dwyer’s voice became uncommonly sober. “Not a good move in my opinion, Mike. Last time we encountered Bor, he was using Iranian Quds Force operatives as surrogates; they were pretty good, but no match for you. He won’t make that mistake again. I’m surprised he made that mistake in the first place.”

“Are you saying he’d deploy Spetsnaz this time?” Garin scoffed, referring to Russian special operators. “Russians—the Soviets before them—never used Spetsnaz to kill Americans on American soil.”

“No, Mike. Not Spetsnaz.”

“Then who?”

“Zaslon.”

Silence. He had Garin’s attention. After several seconds Garin spoke again.

“Zaslon Unit operators?”

“That’s right, Mike.”

There was another pause and then he heard Garin exhale. He spoke tentatively.

“That would be a concern,” Garin acknowledged. “But we’ve never really had confirmation of Zaslon’s existence. It’s all been conjecture.”

“Pretty impressive for conjecture, wouldn’t you say?”

“Are you referring to London? Crimea? Syria? No one—not CIA, not DIA, not MI6—has nailed down with any degree of certainty that those operations were the work of the Zaslon Unit. For all we know Zaslon is pure fiction. Classic Russian misdirection,” Garin replied.

“Mike, I’ve never heard you engage in denial before. Don’t start now. I saw their work firsthand in 2003 when I was with Task Force 121 hunting down Saddam Hussein. And even though you’ve never acknowledged it, all the Batman stories I heard point to you having been there too. So, you’ve seen their work.”

“I saw outcomes, ” Garin countered. “Impressive, I agree. But that doesn’t prove the existence of Zaslon.”

“What was it that Clint Laws drilled into you?” Dwyer asked, referring to the special operations legend who was Garin’s mentor. “‘If there’s any doubt, it’s certain.’ And what’s the other? ‘There are no coincidences in this business’? Mike, the mere fact that we’re wondering about Zaslon all but confirms its existence. Zaslon,” declared Dwyer, “is the Russian Omega.”

There were several more seconds of silence. Nonetheless, the former SEAL thought it unlikely he had dissuaded Garin. Dwyer said, “All I’m saying is, be careful, Mike. Speaking of which, I assume you’ve got a new phone?”

“Several. From a sketchy all-night place outside of Sugar Land.”

“And the vehicle?” Dwyer asked.

“Ditched it outside Sugar Land Regional. Avis won’t be happy, but I’ve taken care of it.”

Dwyer rolled his eyes. “Money in the glove box again?”

“It will more than cover the cost of shuttling it back to the rental office,” Garin assured him. “Your man Danzig lent me a DGT fleet car.”

“Nice of him to be so generous with my property. Please don’t do anything with it that exceeds the insurance coverage, Mike.”

“I won’t,” Garin assured him, and terminated the call. But I can’t speak for Zaslon.

RURAL SOUTH CAROLINA,

AUGUST 15, 7:17 A.M. EDT

Allie Nichols had prepared omelets and hash browns and taken them out to the volunteers in the barn, who gratefully consumed them. She had prepared the same breakfast for Bor, who had slept in the den. When he came into the kitchen, his plate was warming on the stove and a grocery bag with about a dozen brown paper bags containing sandwiches for lunch was on the kitchen table.

Bor, seeming somewhat groggy, picked up the plate, dropping the fork behind the stove. He cursed under his breath, fumbled behind the stove for the fork, and, upon retrieving it, rinsed it in the sink before moving to the kitchen table, where he made fast work of the meal. He planned to be on the road in ten minutes.