Peter Kirsanow - Second Strike

Finally, Bor spoke, instantly commanding everyone’s attention.

“We’re only seventy-two hours away and soon you all will forever have a place in history. And when it’s written, it will describe how you changed the course of the world. What you are doing is momentous, but it’s understandable even at this stage—maybe especially at this stage—to have anxiety or misgivings or doubt. Unfortunately,” Bor said, tilting his head toward Baslaev, “it took one of you to remind me of all this, and of what an extraordinary decision you’ve all made.”

Bor paused as the others glanced at Baslaev, the unofficial leader, impressed that he had prompted Bor to address them in this fashion. Baslaev nodded almost imperceptibly in acknowledgment.

“For those of you who are following in the car, I told Rasul his second thoughts were understandable. It’s natural to feel anxious at this stage. But merely saying that is not enough, I realize. Considering the nature and scope of your undertaking, you deserve much more. Even though your journey’s almost complete, you still need more than a simple pat on the back. You need assurances, motivation, encouragement.”

Bor produced a tablet computer from his gym bag and tapped its screen. After examining its face for a few moments, he turned it around so the volunteers could see its display.

It took several seconds for their eyes to adjust, to locate the relevant images, for their brains to process what they were looking at and its import. But upon grasping its import, the face of each volunteer became frozen with terror and each body grew rigid with fear.

Displayed on Bor’s tablet was a grid of ten images. Each image was different yet each was the same. Because of their size, each volunteer strained to identify everything depicted in the image most pertinent to him, and doing so only heightened the impact.

Each panel on the grid showed a live feed of the family members of the respective volunteers. Most showed one or both parents. Some also showed siblings. There were eight-year-old sisters and twenty-year-old brothers. Grandmothers shared the screen with beloved uncles and aunts. There even was a cousin or two. Every single face held an expression of horror. Each appeared to be pleading, praying, begging. Each was painful to watch.

Behind the family members were men wearing balaclavas and holding firearms trained at the hostages’ heads. It was impossible to tell the locations of the images, but it was clear they were all different.

Bor held the tablet before the volunteers for several seconds. Then he turned the screen back to himself and tapped his index finger twice on one of the images.

“Rasul, pay close attention. Relax. This will encourage you. I’m sure it will encourage you all.”

Bor turned the screen around and held it closer to Baslaev’s face but made sure everyone could see also. The screen now held a single image: that of Rasul’s mother, father, and fifteen-year-old brother sitting in wooden chairs before two men holding some type of submachine guns trained at their heads. Baslaev could see his mother was weeping.

Bor leaned close to the tablet’s mic.

“Please cut to the second incentive.”

The image blurred momentarily as the camera shifted away from Baslaev’s family and rested upon what appeared to be an open cigar box containing two fleshy red orbs. A collective gasp came from the volunteers when the camera became still and the focus sharpened.

“Those,” Bor said coldly, “are your uncle Umar’s testicles, Rasul. I gave instructions that he not be killed, so I assume he’s still alive and somewhere in the vicinity of this shot. Please understand that we have the ability—and intent—to perform the same type of surgery on the male relatives of everyone gathered around this picnic table. Truthfully, however, because the men you see in the background holding firearms are professionals, they are likely to dispense with cheap theatrics and simply shoot everyone. I will not object if they do so. It’s more efficient that way.

“Here’s the good news, Rasul.” Bor momentarily turned the screen back to himself, tapped it twice again, and flipped it back toward Baslaev and the others. The only image on the screen was a briefcase of cash. Lots of cash.

“You’re looking at five million in cash. American dollars. Your family, each of your families, will receive five million dollars upon completion of the mission. Considering that each of you contacted us and volunteered for the mission without the expectation of any compensation whatsoever, that’s an extraordinary bonus and incentive. I’m sure you’ll agree—that’s encouragement.”

Bor tapped the screen once more and the image reverted to Baslaev’s family. In addition to his mother, his brother was now weeping.

“The choice is clear, Rasul. In fact, it’s not even a choice. It’s a mandate. I expect in the remaining hours before the event, you will embrace the mission enthusiastically. Five million dollars for your family, glory for you, and a mighty victory for the cause. Far more than you’d ever dreamed of when you first entered the chat room. So no more doubts, no more whispers. All right?”

The eyes of every volunteer were riveted to the images on the screen. The expression on Baslaev’s face hadn’t changed for two full minutes, not a twitch of an eyebrow, not so much as a quiver of his lips. It was a mask frozen in horror.

“So, I’m confident all of you now are extremely encouraged by what you’ve just seen and heard.” Bor looked at Baslaev. “Are you encouraged, Rasul?”

Baslaev continued staring at the screen and did not answer. Bor waited expectantly for a beat, then again leaned toward the tablet and spoke into its mic.

“Dagestan. Execute.”

On the tablet’s screen the bodies of the Baslaev family pitched violently forward and their heads exploded as they were riddled with gunfire from the submachine guns held by the hooded men behind them. The upper left corner of the image was obscured by tissue that had sprayed from one of the victims.

The volunteers recoiled and flinched at the sight. Baslaev’s piercing shriek drowned their gasps. Bor pulled the Glock 43 from his waistband and fired a single shot into Baslaev’s throat, silencing him.

“Too late,” Bor said, returning the weapon to his waistband and covering it with his shirt. “He who hesitates…”

Baslaev’s body toppled backward onto the grass. The serial shocks of the last several minutes seemed to have rendered the other volunteers nearly catatonic. They remained stationary, staring wide-eyed at the corpse lying in the meadow.

Notwithstanding Baslaev’s death, Bor had sufficient volunteers to discharge the mission. Looking at the faces of the remaining volunteers, he was certain those numbers wouldn’t change. Their initial zealotry was now magnified by uncompromising pragmatism.

“Take the body into the woods,” Bor said to no one in particular. Immediately, several volunteers lifted Baslaev’s corpse by the arms and legs and disappeared into the pines. The other volunteers collected all the trash, placed it into the shopping bag, and stored it in the trunk of the LaCrosse.

Within a minute everyone had retaken their seats in the two vehicles.

The picnic was over. Suitably encouraged, they were prepared to resume the journey.

Bor glanced at his watch. Still on time.

CLEVELAND, OHIO,

AUGUST 15, 4:02 P.M. EDT

Garin awoke slightly disoriented as the plane taxied toward Gate C29 at Cleveland Hopkins Airport. The two and a half hours of sleep hadn’t been nearly enough, and he was sore and stiffer than when he’d boarded the plane.