Peter Kirsanow - Second Strike

“Too bad. She always says I’m so handsome, I should be on TV. Not for having shot up part of northern Virginia, though.”

Two patrol cars sped past in the opposite direction.

“Who’s providing security for Luci while you’re watching me?” Garin asked.

“There are about a half dozen DGT personnel at Dwyer’s place right now. They’re on rotation.”

“I appreciate you going to Sugar Land to escort her back. I feel terrible putting her in this spot. It’s probably not necessary to sequester her like that, but until we get a handle on the situation I’m not taking any chances.”

“What’s your deal with Luci, Mike?”

“She was my support for the Crucible. She’s really good. Getting a degree in exercise physiology. Couldn’t ask for anyone better.”

“That’s it?”

“I like her a lot.”

“She thinks you’re some mysterious superhero.”

“Look, Congo, it’s not like we’re rival cocaptains on the high school football team and she’s homecoming queen. I have no designs on Luci. Besides, Dan tells me she likes you. You’re a badass operator. Do what comes naturally.”

“Ms. Perry seems more your type anyway,” Knox observed. “Just saying.”

“Ms. Perry isn’t into badass operators. I think she’s more into the intellectual type.”

“Yeah, well, down at the Green Beret Parachute Club they say you’re a freakin’ genius or something.”

“Everything’s relative. From the standpoint of a bunch of drunk Delta boys, I probably qualify. Low bar.”

“Not buying it, Mike. Remember, I had you in my sights for a while—I saw you outsmart everybody. Except Bor.”

“Pretty big exception.”

“Killing him’s a tall order.” Knox nodded. “Almost as tall an order as impressing Olivia Perry.”

“Smooth transition, Congo.”

“Dan tells me her father played at Alabama? One of the first black players under Bear Bryant?”

“Probably where she gets her height from.”

“And her mother’s from India?”

“Both parents were math teachers. Her father died when she was a girl. She was a math prodigy but switched to international relations at Stanford under Brandt.”

“She’s out of my league.”

“She’s out of everybody’s league.”

Knox turned onto the I-95 on-ramp. As usual, traffic was slow.

“What do you think Bor’s up to, Mike? Assuming it’s Bor.”

“It’s Bor.”

“So?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. If we find him at the dead guy’s house, you can ask him.”

“No going in, Mike. Just surveillance.”

“Right.”

They drove along I-95 in silence for a while, Knox thinking and Garin checking his phone to see if Dwyer had sent a map of where his men were located around the dead guy’s house. He had. A map of the block on which the house was situated displayed digital arrows where each member of the DGT surveillance team was positioned. The text accompanying the map advised Garin to approach along Gunston and park in an elementary school lot approximately two blocks away. Garin should call the team leader, who would meet them there. A link to the team leader’s number appeared below the text.

Knox took the ramp off I-95 to Route 1. He turned onto the road and slowed.

Knox asked, “Do you think Bor’s at the house?”

“The Zaslon guy called the house. Someone picked up.”

“Zaslon,” Knox said clinically. “The Russians deny their existence.”

“Rule of thumb: If the Russians deny the existence of something, it’s already in your basement.”

Garin pointed Knox toward the elementary school parking lot where the team leader would meet them. The lot was empty.

“Do you know Dave Crane?” Garin asked. “He’s who we’re meeting.”

“Haven’t had the pleasure. I’ve only been with DGT a few weeks.”

“Go to the back of the lot,” Garin instructed. “He’s about fifty feet into the woods, a hundred feet from the back door. I’ll try to call him.”

Garin’s call went to voice mail.

Knox parked and they got out and proceeded into the woods. Once there, Garin drew his SIG and Knox produced a Browning .45. Both crept slowly and silently through the woods. Within a few seconds they could see the back lawn of the house. The executor must have engaged a lawn service, because the grass looked recently mowed.

Garin and Knox advanced a few more feet and stopped, looking for Crane. Knox located him first. He lay on his stomach behind a rotted tree stump, watching the rear of the residence. Just as Dwyer had reported, the drapes were drawn and there was no sign of activity. No sounds were coming from the place. No other signs of life.

Garin advanced a few more feet and then called softly to Crane, not wanting to startle him. “Two coming up on your six, Dave.”

Crane remained still.

“Garin and Knox behind you, Dave.”

No reaction.

Knox looked at the team leader. “Dave,” he said simply, not expecting a response.

Garin and Knox trained their weapons on Crane. Knox circled in front of him and examined Crane’s lifeless face, eyes still staring at the back of the house.

Garin and Knox dropped deep in a crouch, weapons at eye level. Knox moved closer to the body and examined a small entrance wound in the rear of Crane’s head.

“Not a sniper,” Knox informed Garin quietly. “Looks like a .22. Good for close quarters.”

The two operators did a slow three-sixty, scanning the woods for human presence. They saw only trees. Garin pulled out his phone and examined the map for the locations of the other three watchers. Locating them, he motioned Knox toward the next closest.

They walked east—to Crane’s left—down a shallow dip and across a small creek. Garin pointed in the direction indicated on the map. Seconds later, they saw the body of the second watcher in a pose identical to Crane’s, a .22 wound in the back of the head.

Garin motioned in the direction of the third watcher, both Knox and Garin expecting to find a similar scene. Thirty seconds later they did, and a minute after that they found the last of the watchers lying dead on his right side. Four highly experienced men. Four men dead from a single shot to the head, killed by an assassin or assassins with unusual skill.

Garin and Knox stood over the body of the fourth watcher. Knox pointed to the dead man’s head. “Very close range,” he whispered. “Same with the others. Had to have used a suppressor. A ghost. Creeps up on four guys.”

“Impressive work.”

“Bor?” Knox asked.

“I’m not sure,” Garin replied with a shake of his head. “Bor prefers a larger caliber.”

“Could you do that?”

“I’m pretty sure I couldn’t.”

The two men did another three-sixty before retreating in the direction of the Explorer. They moved very slowly, once again scanning for any evidence of human presence, ready to fire at the slightest hint of it. To their relief, the two men, who between them had months of experience operating in some of the densest forests and jungles in the world, detected no sign of anyone in the vicinity.

Garin and Knox climbed into the Explorer and began pulling out of the lot. Less than one hundred feet away, shrouded by a canopy of oak leaves, a grotesque-looking man with a deep scar running from the corner of his mouth to his ear watched through rheumy, bloodshot eyes as the SUV turned right and headed toward I-95.

NORTHERN VIRGINIA,

AUGUST 16, 4:09 P.M. EDT

It was the call he had dreaded and it came sooner than he’d expected.

The phone vibration sounded angry, as if somehow trying to convey the attitude of the caller. It seemed impatient, insistent.