Peter Kirsanow - Second Strike

And, in truth, Bor would be disappointed were it otherwise.

Accordingly, Bor would be prepared in case Garin somehow appeared. He had sufficient firepower at his disposal and he’d also provided a bit of misdirection: a decoy list of flight numbers and times that Garin had taken from one of the Butcher’s men. The actual flights departed from different concourses and earlier than those on the decoy—not by much, but enough to make a difference. Even if Garin could stop some of the volunteers, he wouldn’t stop them all.

Garin awoke in a haze of pain. Instinctively, he tried to assess the situation and locate his firearm. He saw in his peripheral vision two handguns trained behind each ear. He didn’t know if they were friendly or hostile. Either way, it didn’t matter—he was ill positioned to respond.

Dwyer and Knox came to an abrupt stop approximately one hundred feet from a mangled maroon Ford Fusion, the hood of which was nearly wrapped around a large oak on the tree lawn.

Three Arlington police cruisers surrounded the vehicle at various angles and an EMT was stationed no more than a dozen feet to the rear. It seemed one million lights were flashing. Six police officers, weapons drawn at the low-ready, were slowly, warily meandering about the Fusion, assessing the damage and any potential threats within. Concentrating on the wrecked vehicle, they appeared oblivious to the presence of the DGT SUV behind them.

Dwyer and Knox got out of the black Explorer, each with an HK416 at the ready. Dwyer motioned for Knox to flank to the right. Knox nodded and both men crept slowly behind the officers, weapons tracking the movements of the officer who appeared most primed. Dwyer identified the sergeant who appeared the most senior and advanced carefully to within a few feet to his rear, HK at nearly point-blank. Dwyer addressed the officer in a low, neutral voice so as not to startle him.

“Stand down. Lower your weapon slowly. Then look behind you.”

The sergeant did as instructed, his eyes widening upon seeing the muzzle of Dwyer’s HK inches from his face. The officer glanced to his right and saw Congo Knox with his rifle trained in the direction of the other patrolmen.

“We’re friendlies, Sergeant. So is the man in the Fusion. Tell your men to lower their firearms. We intend no harm, but if you so much as flinch, we’ll put all of you in the ground.”

The sergeant complied immediately. “Holster your weapons,” he commanded. The command disrupted the concentration of the other officers, who were startled to see Dwyer and Knox with the drop. Instantly they obeyed the sergeant’s command.

Dwyer addressed the senior officer. “Sergeant…”

“Bowman.”

“Sergeant Bowman, how often have you been told you were involved in a matter of national security?”

“Never.”

“Right,” Dwyer said. “Look at our weapons. Not your typical gangbanger pieces, right? You know about the bombings in the District, of course. So understand, the man in that vehicle is vital to stopping further damage to the national security interests of the United States. You can help. How cool is that?”

Sergeant Bowman nodded but looked conflicted.

“A healthy skepticism on your part is understandable,” Dwyer acknowledged. “Congo, cover them.”

Dwyer lowered his weapon, letting it hang from its sling as he pulled out his cell phone and tapped the keys for SecDef Merritt’s cell. No answer. He placed the phone in his hip pocket and produced several plastic ties from his back pocket.

“All of you, please lie facedown on the ground.” They complied.

“We could use your help. I just called someone to vouch for us, but no answer. I assume you good officers are not the trusting type and will try to stop us by radioing in. So you understand why this is necessary.”

Dwyer tied their respective wrists behind their backs. “We could’ve used an escort to Reagan National. We’re going to be driving a bit over the speed limit.”

Dwyer heard a noise from the Fusion.

“Okay. We need to check on our friend. The crash looks bad, but if I know him, he’ll want to be on his way as soon as he’s able. Can I trust you not to do anything stupid?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Because all of you together are no match for my intense black friend over there.”

Dwyer nodded to Knox and to the Fusion. Knox went to the driver’s-side door, where Garin, pinned between an airbag and the seat, was struggling to get out.

“Slow down, Mike, slow down. Let me give you a hand.”

Knox let his rifle hang from its sling, grabbed Garin’s left arm, and eased him out.

“What happened?” Knox asked.

“My ear. I passed out.”

It appeared as if he was favoring his left side. “Looks like you might’ve cracked some ribs. Does it hurt to breathe?”

Garin steadied himself on the tree lawn. “Time?”

“About 5:15.”

“We’re running out of time.”

“No, Mike,” Knox countered. “The flights aren’t for at least another hour and a half. We can still get to Reagan in time.”

“Wrong.”

Dwyer grasped Garin’s other arm to help steady him. “What do you mean, Mike?”

“The flights will leave earlier. Those departure times are fake. I didn’t give it much thought before, but it was way too convenient. A handwritten list in someone’s pocket? Bor plans every detail, anticipates everything. The list was just another safety valve. A decoy.”

“Holy…” Dwyer whistled. “We better get moving.”

Knox shook his head. “Where does a guy like Bor come from? What did they do to make that guy?”

“They raised him Russian,” Garin replied.

Bor descended the escalator, strolling casually toward the Qdoba restaurant adjacent to the TSA checkpoints. The volunteers had been instructed to enter the terminal separately at five-minute intervals and proceed to the TSA line with sufficient space between them so as not to draw attention.

So far, so good. Although the TSA lines seemed interminable, Bor saw nothing else out of the ordinary. Security, though robust, appeared little different than usual. There were several armed uniformed personnel and Bor believed he had detected at least a few plainclothes security. Despite the bombings in the District, most flights were on schedule and security behaved no differently than on any other occasion. Indeed, Bor expected that security had been instructed to act in a manner calculated not to produce anxiety among travelers.

Bor had purchased a ticket to Miami under an alias so that he could pass TSA, enter the concourse, and monitor the volunteers until boarding. He entered the TSA pre-check line after the last of the volunteers had passed the scanners. A painfully skinny man by the name of Hassan Ali Daar had left a gift for him in the men’s room across from Gate 8 on the concourse, and the assassin was eager to unwrap it.

They were within a mile of the access road to Reagan National Airport, Congo Knox topping ninety miles an hour as he wove the black SUV, Garin in the passenger seat and Dwyer in the rear, around slower vehicles.

“Try her again,” Garin demanded.

Dwyer keyed Olivia’s cell for the third time since they’d left the accident scene, again with no answer. They needed to confirm that the flights were grounded.

“Nothing.”

“Try Merritt,” Garin instructed, referring to the secretary of defense.

“Not picking up. Cell phone’s off.”

Knox careened onto the ramp leading to the airport access road.

“Airport security.”

Dwyer dialed and keyed. “Nothing.”

“FBI,” Garin shouted over the squeal of the tires and blaring horns of drivers alarmed by the speeding SUV.