Peter Kirsanow - Second Strike

He approached the gate, paused at the door, and darted his head into the Jetway. It was empty. Quickly but cautiously he slid down the corridor—weapon before him—hugging the left wall. The hatch to the plane was closed, the flight crew having secured it upon hearing the terminal’s alarm. A baggage handler lay on the right side of the Jetway, his head blown off.

Garin looked through the gap between the Jetway and the plane’s cabin to the tarmac below. Bor was nowhere to be seen. Behind him Garin heard a stampede of footsteps approaching down the Jetway from the terminal. Glancing back he saw a pack of armed uniformed and plainclothes security personnel led by Dwyer and Knox. Immediately behind Dwyer and Knox was a man wearing a suit with his weapon drawn, no doubt in charge of security.

Garin pointed to the tarmac. “The target’s somewhere down there,” he shouted. “Get your men and dogs down there now. Secure the entire airfield, including the area bordering the Potomac. Halt all traffic out of the airport. No cars, no cabs, no shuttle vans. Nothing.”

The lead man nodded and barked orders into a radio.

Wincing from pain, Garin motioned for Dwyer and Knox to follow him before leaping down to the tarmac from the bridge. Immediately upon landing on the concrete Garin spun in a crouch, tracking 270 degrees. With Dwyer and Knox landing behind him, he moved to a nearby baggage cart and water truck, examining each before scanning the area under the concourse bridge leading to the main terminal. Dwyer and Knox flanked him at intervals of twenty feet. They began sweeping northward along the length of the terminal’s exterior, an FBI helicopter appearing above. Far ahead, at the other end of the terminal, six SUVs screamed onto the runway and screeched to a halt. The doors exploded outward and within seconds a swarm of FBI HRT personnel in SWAT gear was busy searching and securing the airfield. Seconds later a horde of K-9 units emerged from the maintenance doors near the junction between Terminal B and the main terminal.

The speed with which the various teams had arrived and the proficiency of their respective maneuvers was impressive, the product of innumerable tactical drills and exercises. As they proceeded to move, scores more began to arrive from nearly every direction. The airport was completely locked down, the surrounding vicinity utterly secure.

Garin took a deep breath, one not of relief but of resignation. He knew none of it mattered. They were, after all, searching for Taras Bor.

They were searching for a ghost.

WASHINGTON, D.C.,

AUGUST 22, 3:10 P.M. EDT

Garin heard laughter coming from down the hall. Raucous laughter. Familiar laughter. And from the looks on the faces of several of the physicians, RNs, and techs walking in the corridor, unacceptably loud laughter, for it clearly disturbed the other patients.

But nothing would be done about it. Because no one dared to do anything about it. Earlier a charge nurse had poked her head into the room to admonish Olivia Perry’s visitors to keep it down. Upon seeing the intimidating forms of Congo Knox and Dan Dwyer, she quickly concluded that the hospital could use more sounds of levity and mirth.

Garin entered Olivia’s room and saw Knox and Dwyer sporting enormous grins at the foot of her bed. Next to Knox, in front of the window, was a beaming Luci Saldana.

Glimpsing Garin out of the corner of her eye, Olivia turned. Even after several days in a hospital recovering from the trauma of an explosion, she somehow managed to appear stunning. The only outward signs of injury were a small bandage on her left temple and a few discolored bruises on her face and neck.

Olivia smiled broadly and Garin felt an electrical charge.

Dwyer was the second to notice Garin, taciturn as usual. “Uh-oh. Fun’s over. Undertaker’s here.” More laughter. Luci came over and gave Garin a hug.

“Saved the world twice this summer,” Knox said. “What’s next, Mike? You going to Disney World?”

A flicker of a smile crossed Garin’s face, everyone in the room taking a mental snapshot before it vanished.

“Whoa,” Dwyer said, “I haven’t seen him this happy since we described Hell Week to him at BUD/S. What happened? Did the CIC convince you to come back on board for more mayhem in the service of truth, justice, and the American way?”

“We’ll talk about that later,” Garin replied. “I’m leaving tonight to see Clint Laws.”

“Outstanding. The Professor of Death and Destruction. Sounds like the band’s getting back together again.”

“We’ll see.”

Dwyer affected a gravelly British accent. “We sleep soundly in our beds because rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would do us harm.”

Garin leveled his gaze at Dwyer. “He’s still out there.” The gravedigger’s voice had returned.

Dwyer rolled his eyes. “Geez, Mikey. Give it a rest. You’ve stopped him twice now already.”

“Have I?”

There was silence for several seconds.

“Clearly you have, Michael,” Olivia assured him.

“He didn’t shoot me,” Garin said flatly. “Why not?”

“Because you didn’t have a weapon drawn. The others did,” Dwyer answered. “Respectfully, Mikey, you’re overthinking this.”

“No. There was something else. He let me live for a reason.”

“Probably to aggravate the hell out of the rest of us.”

“Bor not shooting me means something, Dan. It should worry you.”

“ Hell yeah, it worries me. It means a guy with exceptional shooting skills but piss-poor judgment is running around loose out there.”

“I have no idea what you guys are talking about,” Luci interjected cheerfully. She took Knox’s hand and pulled him toward the door. “But I’m pretty sure Captain Sunshine didn’t come here to talk about death and destruction.”

“Obviously, you don’t know him as well as we do,” Dwyer retorted.

With his free hand Knox grasped Garin’s. “Mike, if I can be of service, just let me know. I’m with you.”

“Ho, Deadeye,” Dwyer said, following the pair. “I’m paying you a gazillion dollars and you wanna run off and join this guy’s circus?”

Knox pumped Garin’s hand once. “You know how to reach me.”

The merry trio left the room. As they retreated down the hall, Garin heard Dwyer say, “Beer at my place. I think that nurse liked me. I’m gonna invite her, too.”

Garin turned to Olivia with eyebrows raised.

“A couple of more days,” Olivia said, answering the question on Garin’s face. “I had a concussion, a couple of hairline fractures, and some internal bleeding. I’m okay now. They just want to keep me for observation. After President Marshall called to check on me they’re clearly not taking any chances.”

She leaned back on the pillows propped behind her. Her impossible abundance of hair fanned in a halo around her head and shoulders. She took the killer’s hand, ambivalence yielding to attraction. Now both of them felt a charge.

“How is your ear?”

“It’s an ear,” he deflected. “I’m on antibiotics and steroids.”

“It’s more than that, Michael.” She patted his forearm wrapped in bandages. “And the burns?”

“We’ll see. Maybe some skin grafts.”

“You owe me a spaghetti Western marathon.”

“As I recall, it was a Dirty Harry marathon,” Garin replied.

“We’ll alternate. A Fistful of Dollars, Magnum Force, For a Few Dollars More, The Enforcer…”

“I’m not sure I can last that long.”

“I’m absolutely certain you can.” Olivia blushed at her own boldness.