Peter Kirsanow - Second Strike

A second later, Bulkvadze saw the face from Bor’s phone appear in the doorframe. What followed was a blizzard of gunfire and movement Bulkvadze’s brain found impossible to process.

Before any of the primary shooters had even squeezed their triggers, Bulkvadze saw the bodies of the two who were at forty-five-degree angles to Garin’s door quake and their heads repeatedly whiplash, as if struck several times by a heavy object—the impact of multiple semiautomatic rounds to the torso. A fraction of a second later both collapsed to the ground. A fraction after that the back of the third primary shooter’s neck exploded outward, expelling a mass of blood, tissue, and bone displaced by a 9mm round to the throat from Garin’s SIG.

Bulkvadze could see the raised pistols of the secondary shooters shift sharply from left to right, searching frantically for Garin. The search by the shooter to the left ended when the lower half of his face was blown away by a powerful round from an unknown direction. By the time Bulkvadze turned his attention to the last remaining shooter he was already falling to the ground. At least his body was falling to the ground; Bulkvadze saw no evidence of a head.

The elimination of Bulkvadze’s kill team had consumed all of six seconds. He sat frozen in disbelief for several more. Then his chest began to heave. As he tried to catch his breath, he noticed that he had dropped his phone.

Bulkvadze scanned the scene in front of him, looking for Garin. The apartment door was still open. He wasn’t standing in the entrance. Nor was he anywhere in the C Complex parking lot or on the expanse of grass adjacent to it.

Bulkvadze’s nerves felt like exposed electrical wire. He put his car in gear, his head swiveling about searching for the target, half expecting his windshield to shatter in a hail of gunfire. He fought the urge to go screeching down the drive, out of range of any weapons. Instead, he drove away at the posted speed, past the bodies strewn about the parking lot, and turned onto Minnieville Road, where he accelerated gradually until the complex shrank and vanished in his rearview mirror.

“Bring ten.” That’s what Bor had commanded. “If you fail, I will kill you.” Bulkvadze had taken Bor’s money, disregarded his command, and failed to kill Garin. That had to be rectified. Right away. Or soon Bulkvadze’s massive body would be lying in a parking lot with his head somewhere nearby.

DALE CITY, VIRGINIA,

AUGUST 16, 1:09 P.M. EDT

Garin watched the Mercedes turn onto Minnieville and disappear into traffic before he rose from the ground and ran toward the cover of the Dumpster. There, in a crouch, he ejected a nearly spent magazine from the SIG and seated a fresh one. He had fired at least ten rounds. He didn’t want to have to change magazines in the middle of a fight if he had to confront several more assailants.

Garin knew he had killed the three shooters closest to him. As soon as he’d opened his door he’d noticed the three adult white males partially shielded by vehicles and a Dumpster, as well as the Mercedes idling a short distance beyond. None belonged, to put it gently. So when the male to his left made a sharp movement, Garin’s instincts engaged and he pulled out the SIG, dropped to the ground, rolled to his right, and sighted the shooter. Upon seeing the weapon in the shooter’s hands, Garin fired three rounds in rapid succession, rolled to his right, sighted the shooter to the right, and fired three more rounds. Shoot and roll. Then he swiveled his torso leftward and fired at least four more rounds at the shooter near the Dumpster.

Garin had not, however, shot the two shooters near the hedges.

So Garin scanned the perimeter of the complex, SIG at the low—ready. He checked the roofs, parked cars, trees, shrubs, windows, and doorways. Then he heard a voice.

“Mike.”

Garin recognized the voice.

“Mike. At your ten.” It was the calm baritone of Congo Knox, perhaps the most lethal sniper in the Western Hemisphere. “Coming out in three, two, one…”

Knox emerged from behind the nearest corner of B Complex holding an M110 above his head. Relieved, Garin dropped the SIG to his side and motioned for Knox to lower his weapon also.

“Where did you come from?” Garin asked.

“Dan Dwyer asked me to provide overwatch.” Knox turned and pointed toward D Complex, sixty yards to the south. “I’ve been on that roof since you first arrived and then left abruptly. Dan said I should stay put because you were dropping bread crumbs and someone would show sooner or later. Said you think you’re invincible, so might not be as careful as you should be. His words, not mine.”

Still invincible, Garin thought.

“Thanks.” Garin nodded. “That’s twice now you’ve come to my rescue. Don’t get any ideas this makes up for trying to kill me, though.”

“That wasn’t my idea. That order came from somewhere outside Delta. Besides, I never even took a shot.”

“Finding out whose idea it was is the key to all of this,” Garin said. “Right now we need to make ourselves scarce. Cops will be here any minute. How did you get here?”

Knox pointed to a DGT Ford Explorer in the D Complex parking lot.

“Let’s go,” Garin said.

As they walked toward the Explorer, Garin took a peek at the surrounding apartment windows. To areas familiar with the sound of gunshots, it wasn’t unusual for no one to be at the windows. No one wanted to be a witness. No one wanted to be involved. No one wanted to be a victim.

No one was visible at any of the surrounding windows but one: that of the unit occupied by the Val Buena family. Emilio was front and center for a half second before he disappeared. As Garin and Knox opened the doors to the Explorer, the front entrance to C Complex burst open and Emilio came sprinting toward them. He skidded to a stop a few feet away.

“MC4J58,” he gasped.

“What?”

“MC4J58, Señor Lofton. The license number of the black car. MC4J58. I memorized it. I knew you’d need it.” Emilio, of course, had witnessed everything.

Garin bent and patted Emilio on the head. “MC4J58. Got it. Thanks.”

Emilio turned and sprinted back to the building, punching the air in victory as he went. He was now undisputed king of the complex.

The doors of the Explorer slammed shut. “Where to, Mike?”

“Head toward I-95. Before all the excitement I was planning to go to a house in Lorton. But I want to think about that now.”

“The dead guy’s house?”

“News travels fast.”

“Dan told me he might want me to go there also. To make sure you conduct surveillance only.”

“Or what? You’re supposed to shoot me?”

“I think the general idea was that I reason with you to keep your promise to Dan.”

Knox turned right onto Dale Boulevard. The sound of multiple sirens could be heard in the distance.

“Five bodies, Mike. Think we should stick around for the cops? They’re sure to trace it to us. We’re fugitives.”

“Self-defense. They’ll soon find out those five guys weren’t selling Girl Scout cookies.”

“We left a crime scene.”

“Had we stayed, they’d have us tied up for hours. By the time they’d cleared us, Bor would be telling his grandkids about how he saved Russia from America.”

“No real argument, Mike. Just pointing out, we’re in trouble.”

“Perpetually.” Garin nodded. “We’ll deal with it once we’ve dealt with Bor. Dale City’s a firecracker. Bor’s an H-bomb.”

“My mom won’t be happy to see my face on the ten o’clock news.”

Garin nearly smiled. “No security cameras at the apartment complex and any cell video would be too far away, so Mrs. Knox won’t get to see her baby boy on TV.”