Peter Kirsanow - Second Strike

Garin pulled out one of the burners purchased the previous evening and punched in a series of numbers. “Hopkins long-term upper north four P.M. Standard kit. P226.” He terminated the connection.

Garin was a bit concerned. He was feeling the effects of the Crucible. The intense physical competition was compounded by the events of the last several hours and lack of sleep. Despite Luci’s rubdown, his muscles were tight and his joints ached. He needed to be alert and mobile after his plane touched down in Cleveland.

When his flight began boarding, Garin walked to the end of the line, examining every face he passed. He couldn’t identify anyone as a possible member of Bor’s team.

Garin entered the cabin and was cheerfully greeted by two flight attendants, one about ten years older than the other, both attractive.

“Ma’am, I have a special request,” Garin said politely to the senior attendant. “I’m going to be dead asleep during the flight and prefer not to be disturbed during the beverage service.” Garin scanned the cabin and saw a college-age male seated in the window seat of Row 17, next to a young woman with an infant. “I’m in Row 17.”

“Not a problem.” She smiled.

“But I’ll need a boatload of caffeine when we land.”

“I’m afraid we have to secure the beverage tray before landing. That includes the coffeepots.” She wore a pained expression. “For the safety of passengers and crew.”

“Could you put some coffee in the fridge until we come to a stop at the gate in Cleveland?”

“It’ll be cold.”

“Just how I like it.” Garin nodded. “When everyone’s deplaned I’ll inhale it and be on my way.”

She examined him with a quizzical grin. Garin caught her furtive glance at his ring finger.

“There are restaurants in the terminal.” She chuckled, shaking her head. “But all right. I don’t see why we can’t accommodate you.”

“Thanks so much. A full pot, okay?”

“It will cost you a bundle.”

“I’m good for it,” Garin said as he continued down the aisle.

“I’ll bet he is,” the junior flight attendant whispered.

Garin examined the faces of the passengers one last time before proceeding to Row 17. No one stood out. He excused himself to the woman with the infant and, extending a wad of cash, addressed the college student. “I’ll give you a hundred dollars to switch seats with me. I’m in the middle seat in Row 6. Prefer a window seat.” The guy simply grinned, took the cash, and made his way forward. Garin squeezed into the window seat, placed his gym bag under the seat in front of him, and fastened his safety belt. It was unlikely the woman next to him with the infant was a Bor associate.

He was dead asleep before the flight attendants had finished reciting the safety instructions.

MOUNT VERNON, VIRGINIA,

AUGUST 15, 2:28 P.M. EDT

For Luci Saldana, the last twenty hours were as if she had gone through the looking glass. She was sitting in a house easily five times larger than any she’d been in before, and someone she’d seen on television in background shots of White House briefings had just walked into the room escorted by Dan Dwyer. Both Luci and Congo Knox rose to greet her.

“Olivia, this is Luci Saldana,” Dwyer said. “You know Congo, of course.”

Olivia took Luci’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Saldana. I’m Olivia Perry.”

“I recognize you from the news, Ms. Perry. Please call me Luci.”

“Then it’s agreed we’re all on a first-name basis here,” Olivia said.

At five foot three, Luci was accustomed to being one of the smaller persons in the room, but it seemed she had just landed in Brobdingnag. To her left, Congo Knox was more than a foot taller and more than twice as heavy; in front of her, Dan Dwyer stood at least six foot five and was at least thirty pounds heavier than Knox, although not quite as fit. With his thick hair—so blond it looked almost white—he resembled a Viking warrior. And Olivia Perry appeared to be about five-ten—maybe taller.

Olivia had a bronze complexion and an impossible abundance of jet-black hair that fell in lustrous cascades to the small of her back. Her features were delicate, her ethnicity indeterminate. Despite her looks, or maybe because of them, Luci sensed in Olivia a modesty Luci found inviting, even endearing. Olivia seemed as introverted as Luci was extroverted.

Dan gestured and they sat in chairs arrayed around a circular glass coffee table. “Luci, tell Olivia what you saw last night in Dallas.”

“Where do you want me to begin?”

“From when you were about to go to dinner,” Dwyer replied.

“Okay. Well, I was at the Omni Hotel with a man whose participation in a competition known as the Crucible I was supporting—Mike Garin.” Luci paused. “Do you know him?”

Olivia nodded. “I know Mr. Garin.” Luci wondered how well.

“It was close to seven o’clock. We were about to go to dinner. I opened the door to the room and I saw two men standing there with guns. They had silencers on them; Mike called them ‘suppressors.’”

“What did the men look like?” Olivia asked.

“It all happened really fast. As soon as I opened the door, Mike, who was behind me, pulled me backward and I fell to the floor. They looked almost like clones of one another. They were white; short dark hair. Both around six feet tall, maybe two hundred pounds. I thought they looked like cops—they had white shirts and sport coats—professional.

“I didn’t see all of what happened next because I was on the floor, and, I have to say, pretty scared. Stunned more than scared. But I heard a shot. Mike was right—those things aren’t silencers. The sound was kind of like a metallic popping. But it was pretty loud. And one of the guys goes down. Then, somehow, Mike’s got one of the guns and shoots the other guy.”

“Were there any other people with them?” Olivia asked.

“No. Nobody. It was weird. I mean, these guys looked like real pros, right? Like they knew what they were doing? And they had surprised us, had their guns raised like they were ready to rock. Yet Mike overwhelmed them, like they were just speed bumps to him. Like they had no chance.”

A knowing smile crept over Dwyer’s face. He waved toward Olivia and Congo. “We’ve all seen it firsthand.”

“So then Mike hauls the bodies away. I didn’t see where. And then he comes back and tells me to pack up everything because we’re getting out of Dodge.”

“Did the shooters look like they were Slavic? Russian? Or would you say that they maybe looked Middle Eastern, Persian?” Olivia asked.

“I really didn’t get a good look. I can’t say if they were Russian. But if I had to guess I’d say they weren’t Middle Eastern.”

“What else do you remember?”

“That’s about it. We barreled down the highway to Sugar Land. Mike said we couldn’t go to the cops or we’d end up dead—I got the impression the bad guys might be in league with the authorities or something. Then, I’m on a jet here.”

Perry, Dwyer, and Knox nodded.

“Luci, you need to excuse us. Dan and I need to discuss something,” Olivia said.

“I understand.”

“Are you hungry?” Dwyer asked.

Luci gave a shrug signaling something between indifference and interest.

“Congo, can you take Luci to the kitchen? You’ll find almost anything you might want in there, Luci.”

Dwyer watched Knox lead Luci out of the room and then turned to Olivia.

“Well, what do you think?”

“Disturbing, no doubt. From Michael’s standpoint, I can see why he’d be concerned that this may be a reprise of the Omega assassinations. But there’s nothing that suggests Bor’s involvement. More precisely, there’s nothing that justifies me going to James Brandt and suggesting Bor’s operating on American soil again. And even if I did go to him, he’d never go to the president with a story this inconclusive.”