Peter Kirsanow - Second Strike

Stepulev led Bor through the foyer and down two flights of steps to a dimly lit room with a bar and several small tables and chairs.

Except for a figure seated at a table in the far corner, the room was empty.

The man appeared to be in his late fifties and of average height and weight. Even in the dim light, he was one of the most grotesque-looking men Bor had ever seen. His eyes were rheumy, the left bulging slightly from its socket. A deep scar stretched from the left corner of his mouth to his ear. His nose was crooked and flat, as if it had been broken numerous times, and his mostly bald scalp was covered with an assortment of welts and knots separated by wispy tufts of white hair. Bor could imagine him perched on a ledge at Notre-Dame Cathedral.

“Who is he?” Bor asked.

“I do not know his name. No one in the embassy knows his name. His file simply, albeit somewhat theatrically, refers to him as the Butcher. He refers to himself as the Butcher.”

“I have heard the name.”

“If Bulkvadze fails, the Butcher will not.”

“Two Zaslon men failed,” Bor said quietly. “But this old man will not? Forgive me, Vadim, but that is utterly ridiculous. Garin is a predator at the top of the food chain. Why should I believe this pathetic creature will be successful when Zaslon was not?”

“Read his file, Taras,” Stepulev replied. “But preferably, not before bedtime.”

MOUNT VERNON, VIRGINIA,

AUGUST 15, 8:40 P.M. EDT

Dan Dwyer stood from his chair on the east patio of his home as he watched the black Ford Explorer navigate the quarter-mile drive and come to a stop at the bottom of the steps. The rear door opened and Mike Garin, carrying a black gym bag, emerged, jogged up the steps to the patio, and shook Dwyer’s hand.

“Good flight?” Dwyer asked.

Garin nodded. “Where’s Luci?”

“She’s fine. Watching movies with Congo in the living room. Another woman smitten by the Great and Powerful Garin. I swear, I don’t get it. But I think you may be getting competition from Congo now.”

“What does Brandt think about all of this?”

“You can ask Olivia when she gets here. And don’t act like you’re not looking forward to seeing her. I swear, she gets better-looking every day. You know she’s seeing some bozo senator? They were in the Style section of the Post last week. Some event at the Kennedy Center.”

“Good to know. Who do we have for third-period geometry?”

“Play it off all you want, Mikey. I know better.”

“You also know Bor is back.”

“Geez, Mikey, can’t you ever put it in neutral?”

Max, followed by Bear and Diesel, bounded from the French doors behind Dwyer to greet Garin. Diesel immediately began tearing at Garin’s pant leg.

“When did you get the pups?” Garin asked, petting Max.

“Couple of weeks ago from SecDef Merritt. He’s been breeding German shepherds for decades. Not for show. He says they don’t have hip problems.” Dwyer pointed at Diesel nipping furiously at Garin’s shoes. “Well, look at that. Finally, someone who’s not scared of you. Must be a sign, Mikey.”

Garin squatted to pet Diesel, the expression on the man’s face the closest approximation of a smile Dwyer had seen in months. Dwyer shouted over his shoulder toward the French doors. “Matt! Quick, take a picture and send it to the wire services. ‘Garin Displays Sign of Affection. Apocalypse Approaching.’”

Matt Colton, Dwyer’s chief of security, appeared through the doors a few moments later, a large grin on his face. He was as gregarious as Garin was taciturn. Matt extended a hand toward Garin, who rose to shake it as a Red Top cab came up the drive.

“I just buzzed the cab in,” Matt said. “That’s Olivia.”

The taxi stopped next to the Ford Explorer. Olivia alighted and ascended the stairs. Seeing Garin for the first time since shortly after the conclusion of the EMP affair, she slowed her pace as she approached the top.

“Hello, Michael,” she said.

Garin nodded in return.

Dwyer watched with amusement. Even the dogs, he thought, could sense the attraction, but Olivia and Garin would go to their respective graves vehemently denying its existence.

“Let’s go inside and get caught up,” Dwyer suggested.

The group went through the French doors into the library, the dogs following closely behind. Almost simultaneously, Congo Knox and Luci Saldana entered the room from the other end. Upon seeing Garin, Luci rushed to him and embraced him tightly for several seconds. The questions came in rapid succession.

“Are you okay? I was worried about you going back to Dallas. Why didn’t you call me? Did you call the cops, finally?”

“I’m sorry for all of this,” Garin said. “I’m grateful to Congo for stepping up on short notice. You okay?”

“Me? I’ll probably end up with PTSD, but the last twenty-four hours have been the most amazing in my life. It feels like I’m in a movie. The near-death experience, then a getaway, then a private jet, this mansion, meeting Ms. Perry. Not to mention Mr. Sunshine over there,” Luci said, pointing at Congo Knox.

Olivia’s reaction to Luci wasn’t lost on Dwyer, observing the scene from just inside the doors. Olivia, he thought, was scrutinizing Luci with the same intensity she likely devoted to classified intelligence assessments. Dwyer cleared his throat.

“Congo, Matt…”

“It’s okay, Dan,” Luci interjected. “I’ll leave you guys to talk. I just thought I heard Mike’s voice and ran in to check.” She turned to Knox and hooked her arm in his. “Come on, let’s finish the movie.”

Dwyer waited for Knox and Luci to leave. He gestured to the couches and chairs. “Have a seat, everybody.”

Garin got directly to the point. “Olivia, without compromising any confidences, is Brandt going to act on Bor?”

“That would be impossible to answer without disclosing confidences, Michael.”

“What can you tell us, then?”

“That for now, you’re on your own.”

Garin stared in frustration. As far as he was concerned, the mere mention of Bor’s name should prompt some kind of response.

“When did you last speak to him?”

“At approximately three thirty.”

“There have been some developments since then that might change his perspective,” Garin said. “Earlier, I flew from Dallas to Cleveland. No real reason to go to Cleveland other than it’s my hometown—I wanted to leave a trail of bread crumbs to flush out Bor’s men to get information from them. I succeeded, in part.

“In the airport parking lot two shooters almost took me out.” Garin leaned forward in his chair. “Please understand, Olivia, these men were extremely skilled—the way they moved, their reactions.” Garin turned to Dwyer. “Dan, you’re probably right. I think they were Zaslon Unit.”

“What’s Zaslon Unit?” Olivia asked.

“A hyperelite unit of Spetsnaz operators,” Dwyer answered. “At least that’s how our media would describe them. To my knowledge, there’s never been confirmation by our intelligence services that Zaslon exists, but in my estimation, enough evidence points in that direction. There was evidence of them in Iraq. Now in Crimea, Ukraine, Syria. Russian black operations have always made ours look tame in comparison, but even for the Russians, Zaslon takes it to another level. Present company excepted, they’re the baddest of badasses.”

“Then how did two of them fail?” Olivia asked.

“They missed. I didn’t. Simple as that,” Garin replied. “It was sheer luck, Olivia. I should be dead.”

Olivia fought to suppress a shudder. She’d known Michael Garin for barely a month, and in almost every encounter death and violence followed him as closely as Dwyer’s dogs followed him. Even if the men who attempted to kill Garin were not from some elite unit, the effort to kill him, she thought, was uncomfortably similar to the prelude to the EMP operation. It was implausible that the rapidly accumulating events of the last twenty-four hours were mere coincidence. “You don’t need to convince me, Michael.”