Peter Kirsanow: Target Omega

Garin’s apartment was a basement-level unit in Building C, directly accessible from the outside. It consisted of a living room that doubled as a bedroom, a small efficiency kitchen, a bathroom, and a five-by-five storage space. A single mattress lay on the floor next to a lamp and a neat stack of about a dozen history books. The only other furnishing was a metal folding chair that Garin would pull up to the kitchen counter to eat his meals. The refrigerator rarely contained more than milk and some fruits and vegetables, and most of the cabinets above the sink were bare, save for a few glasses and dishes. Above the refrigerator, however, sat an impressive array of nutritional supplements, energy drinks, and meal-replacement packs.

The entire living space was no more than four hundred square feet, a place to “flop” when Garin was in town, which was infrequently. The apartment made no statement about Garin other than his indifference to comfort and his affectless efficiency. It was only a fifteen-minute drive from Quantico to the west and Fort Belvoir to the east, and barely a quarter mile from the Dale City Rec Center on the other side of Minnieville Road.

The clusters of apartment buildings in the complex were separated by fairly large expanses of grass worn bare from the incessant soccer games played by his neighbors’ kids. On Sundays the day laborers played on the largest such field, opposite Garin’s apartment.

Since he was often away, Garin had few occasions to interact with the other residents of the complex, but he found them pleasant and likable when he did. He was an enigma to the adults and a subject of speculation for the kids. The young boys, some of whom tried to copy every nuance of his walk, were especially intrigued by him. Though they disagreed wildly about Garin’s occupation, they were unanimous that whatever he did, it must certainly be something highly nefarious.

The leader of the twenty or so boys who lived in Garin’s cluster was ten-year-old Emilio Val Buena, who lived with his mother and somewhat bookish older sister in the unit two floors above Garin’s place. Emilio was smart and one of the better soccer players in the complex, but part of his elevated status was due to the fact that he was the only kid to have actually spoken to the mysterious Señor Lofton. In fact, it had been Emilio who had pried loose the name. From there, of course, it took very little for Emilio to embellish the routine salutations the two exchanged and report to his friends the details of Señor Lofton’s many epic adventures. A trip to the gym became a rendezvous with a spy; a bruise on the arm signaled a battle with multiple assailants. Emilio could not know how closely he sometimes swerved toward the truth.

Emilio had taken an almost proprietary interest in Garin and jealously guarded his position as the complex’s primary contact with the enigma. And like many kids, Emilio was an expert at surveillance, especially regarding goings-on in the complex. So it was Emilio who first spotted Garin’s Jeep pulling into a parking space almost directly below the front window of the Val Buenas’ apartment. Señor Lofton had been gone for nearly two weeks — enough time, clearly, to topple a small African nation or kidnap a crime boss’s girlfriend. In fact, the two strangers Emilio had seen in the parking lot earlier that day were probably the crime boss’s henchmen, coming to exact a terrible revenge on Señor Lofton.

Spotting Emilio in the window, Garin waved as he climbed out of the Jeep. The soccer fields were deserted due to the stifling midafternoon heat, the neighborhood kids having sought refuge in their air-conditioned apartments with video games for entertainment.

Garin pulled his bags from the back of the Jeep and glanced back up to Emilio before proceeding down the concrete steps on the west side of the building that led to his apartment. Emilio stood before the window with a look of concentration, or perhaps one of anticipation, on his face. Interesting. Random bits of information floated through the part of Garin’s brain devoted to self-preservation. An odd club patron, a Nike bag in the back of a rental car. If there is any question…

Garin slowed his pace, taking note of his surroundings again before wedging the smaller of his two bags into his armpit so that he could remove his Oakleys and insert the key into the door. Garin shut his eyes for a moment to acclimate them to the dark apartment and then opened the door.

Light from the blazing sun spilled in a rhomboid pattern across the carpeted floor and reflected dimly off the suppressed Makarov PMM held in the outstretched hands of a figure obscured by shadow. Garin sprang forward furiously, knocking the intruder backward as a round tore into the gym bag under Garin’s right arm. As the two crashed to the floor, Garin seized the weapon with both hands and ripped it from the intruder’s grasp as the man’s head bounced off the floor. Rolling swiftly to his left off of the momentarily dazed assailant, Garin landed on his back facing the open door. Standing there, as Garin intuited, was the assailant’s partner, his figure outlined in the doorway against the streaming sunlight. Garin squeezed the trigger four times, striking the second man twice in the head and twice in the upper torso. The figure dropped limply to his knees and fell forward onto his face. Garin immediately shifted his aim to his left, where the first assailant was struggling to sit up. Garin fired two shots into the man’s chest. Then, springing to his feet, Garin stood over the man’s motionless body and fired a round into the bridge of his nose.

Garin crouched slightly with the weapon grasped in both hands before him, tracking across the room from left to right. He then strode quickly toward the second assailant, the Makarov trained on his body, and kicked the man’s weapon clear. Garin reached down with his left hand and pulled the body clear of the doorframe. After turning on the adjacent light switch, he shut the door and looked about the tiny apartment, the scent of cheap aftershave filling his nostrils. He paused to gather himself and moved quickly to check the bathroom and closet.

Satisfied that the apartment was clear, Garin looked at his watch: 2:45. He estimated that he had no more than fifteen minutes before the team backing up the pair lying dead on the floor would arrive to see why they hadn’t checked in. They clearly weren’t amateurs, a matter made plain by the fact that, despite his suspicions, he had failed to detect the second assailant. Although he hadn’t seen any signs of another crew in the vicinity when he drove up, he had to assume that another team was watching the apartment.

Garin again hit the call key for support on his phone and waited. Nothing. He quickly disconnected and repeated the action. Same result. Garin didn’t have time to dwell on his inability to contact his team’s support. Instead, he methodically searched the bodies for any identification. Nothing. No licenses, no credit cards. Not even a cell phone. Even their faces yielded little: perhaps Mediterranean, but beyond that, no specificity. He went to the window next to the doorway and peered through a slight part in the drawn curtains for any evidence of surveillance. Again, nothing.

Garin began to feel a dull pain in his ribs that had been shielded by the gym bag when the first assailant had discharged his weapon. He was fortunate that the bullet hadn’t even pierced the bag, having been slowed by the presence of several hardcover books, a water bottle, running shoes, and assorted gear packed tightly inside. It was unlikely that the ribs were broken, but the ache was sure to remind him of the encounter for a few days.

He went into the closet, where a black gym bag nearly identical to the one that had just saved him was stored on a shelf above the clothes rack. Garin placed the bag on the kitchen counter and, facing the door, unzipped the side compartment. The next person to come through that door uninvited would be met by the unfriendly contours of the SIG Sauer P226 that Garin pulled out. Opening the bag’s end compartment, he found a suppressor and two extra magazines and stuffed them into his pockets. He pulled back the slide to check the chamber and placed the pistol on the counter.