Peter Kirsanow - Second Strike

“Thank you.”

“You know Congo’s background, of course. Ike is former Six. He was a corpsman at one time. Ty was Delta and spent a little while with Special Activities. They’re at your disposal. For liability purposes, they’ve consented to take a leave of absence, so this won’t be a DGT matter. They’ll be freelancing. If the operation succeeds without you blowing up half of D.C., I’ll give them a nice bonus. Nothing in writing. Matt will coordinate any logistics you need.”

“I owe you one.”

“Lima Charlie. Although you did save my life once upon a time.”

“Yes, I did.”

“But you still owe me.”

“Obviously. Your life isn’t worth all that much.”

“Now,” Dwyer said. “Just one condition.”

“Which is?”

“Bring them all back in good condition. These guys are superstars, the best of the best. But even they have never been pushed to Garin extremes. So be considerate.”

“If you insist.”

Dwyer turned toward the doorway and shouted, “Coe, the beast is ready!”

A startled Diesel sat up. Coe appeared seconds later carrying a small satchel.

Garin said, “Thanks for volunteering, Ike.”

“Join the Navy, see the world.”

Coe removed a syringe from the satchel. “I’ll give you a local. This is going to hurt big-time.”

“No.”

He examined the wound. “Looks like it’s third-degree, Mike. Some skin’s going to come off with the tape. This is serious.”

“No.”

Coe looked to Dwyer. “Dan, say something. Talk some sense into him.”

“I’ve been trying since BUD/S, champ. Not happening.”

Coe looked back to Garin. He appeared intractable. Coe shook his head, returned the syringe to the satchel, and removed a pair of tape cutters. “Brace your forearm on the armrest, Mike. You may want something to bite on; otherwise, you’ll scare the puppy.”

Garin remained silent.

Coe shrugged and sighed. “Okay. Here we go.”

He slipped the bottom edge of the tape cutter under the duct tape at the top of Garin’s wrist and sliced through to the elbow.

“Okay. That was the easy part,” Coe informed him. “Hold on.”

Garin remained impassive.

“Stop that this instant,” Luci demanded, having appeared at the door. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Coe blinked uncomprehendingly at Luci.

“You’re about to take off the duct tape, aren’t you? And I bet he refused a local, right?”

“Well… yeah,” Coe stammered.

“Not on my watch,” Luci declared, striding toward Garin. “He gave you his executioner’s look, didn’t he? He does that when he’s obstinate. You’ve got to ignore him. Step aside. I’ll do this.”

Coe looked to Garin, who nodded permission.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Coe asked.

“I’m his trainer. I’m not letting you or anyone else do this. He’s going to be ready for CrossFit or Badwater if I have anything to say about it.”

Dwyer looked exasperated. “Geez, Mikey. CrossFit or Badwater? You’re still on that? Give it up already.”

“He owes me,” Luci said. She examined Garin’s arm for a moment, then pulled the tape apart and unwound it from Garin’s arm, not fast, not slow. Portions of the shirt fabric Garin had used as a dressing had melded into the burnt flesh and peeled off with the tape, causing blood to ooze from parts of the wound.

Luci looked at Garin’s face. Other than a tightness in his jaws, he remained impassive.

“I’m going to debride and disinfect the wound now,” Luci warned him.

Luci used a short, bladed implement from Coe’s bag to scrape dead tissue and debris from the wound. Tiny beads of blood bubbled up from the deformed skin as she did so. Dwyer averted his gaze.

Luci blotted the affected area with an antibiotic cream and then applied a treated wrap that she secured with strips of adhesive. She observed Garin’s stoic demeanor. “You are one serious badass. But you need to get to a hospital soon. In the meantime, we’ll need to change the dressings regularly so you don’t get an infection.”

Garin flexed his arm a few times. “Thanks. It doesn’t hurt much. Maybe the nerves are dead.”

“Like the ones in your cranium.” She leaned forward and kissed the top of his head.

Diesel took her place atop Garin’s feet again, appearing at once both protected and protective.

“Chili time, Mikey,” Dwyer said. “In the meantime, I’ll send the list to Quantico for analysis. We’ll figure out what Bor’s up to and where. Then, you do death and destruction.”

Garin looked up as Matt strode quickly into the room. He was almost breathless and had a look of urgency on his face. “We just got a hit on one of the license numbers Mrs. Ponder gave us,” he said. “We think we might know where Bor is.”

MOSCOW,

AUGUST 18, 8:30 A.M. MSK

“Tell me why I should not have you killed,” Mikhailov demanded.

The blood drained from Aleksandr Stetchkin’s face. He’d known Yuri Mikhailov for more than twenty years, serving as one of his most critical and trusted associates for the last six. The Russian president was one of the few people in the entire country not frightened or intimidated by Stetchkin, and Mikhailov was one of only two people in all of Russia who frightened or intimidated Stetchkin. The other was Mikhailov’s personal assassin, Taras Bor.

“Yuri…”

“I am President Mikhailov.”

“Yes, Mr. President. I assume you have concluded that Piotr Egorshin’s death was my doing. I—”

“I have concluded, Stetchkin, that you acted in a stupid, irresponsible, and treasonous manner in defiance of explicit orders given you only a short time before. I have concluded you have compromised a strategic initiative of paramount importance to the future of this country. I have concluded you have done these things out of arrogance, idiocy, and recklessness—in part because you have never been disciplined or apprised of the limits of your authority. I have concluded that you must explain to me why the country would benefit more from your continued pathetic existence than from your elimination.”

Stetchkin sat riveted to his chair in front of Mikhailov’s massive desk. For the first time he felt small and powerless. For the first time since he’d known Mikhailov, Stetchkin conceded to himself that Mikhailov was at least as cunning and cutthroat as Stetchkin himself. For the first time since he’d risen to head the Twelfth Directorate he felt vulnerable, that his life was truly in jeopardy.

“Yuri—”

“Mr. President,” Mikhailov corrected sharply.

“Mr. President, it is true that I had Egorshin eliminated.”

“You feckless idiot,” Mikhailov said, his voice icy and low. “You did it for Palinieva. You did it because you are a wretched excuse for a man.”

“I believed I had your authority, Mr. President.”

“No one, not even you, is stupid enough to believe you had authority to kill someone on a whim, to satisfy some urge. You did it because you believed I gave you enough room to craft an excuse, to exploit a loophole. You believe you are clever.”

“Mr. President—”

“Silence, Stetchkin. We are hours from the most ambitious maneuver of the twenty-first century and you are occupied with petty personal matters. You had someone murdered for reasons that do not advance Russian interests. Yet this is not solely about actions that advance Russian interests. You murdered someone for the most banal reason. It is no longer 1950.”

“Mr. President,” Stetchkin said plaintively, “I misunderstood—”

Mikhailov cut him off. “You misunderstood nothing.”