Peter Kirsanow: Target Omega

The connection was silent for a moment. The patrician understood that the assassin preferred to resolve the possibilities by himself; he wouldn’t entrust it to surrogates, although he’d allow them to provide any necessary logistical support.

The assassin said, “It will be done,” and severed the connection.

The patrician casually returned the phone to his pocket and flicked the cigarette butt onto the beach below. Calm for a man who had just unleashed hell.

DUMFRIES, VIRGINIA

JULY 12 9:35 P.M. EDT

The assassin was pleased with the house he had chosen. A two-bedroom nondescript ranch, it sat at the terminus of a dead-end street, ensuring that there would be no passersby.

The house was separated from its only neighbor to the west by an eight-foot-high row of hedges and was set back sixty feet from the street. The yard on the east side of the house dropped into a thickly wooded ravine. There were no houses immediately across the street, only a wooded lot.

The assassin backed the black Ford Explorer into the driveway until the rear bumper was about four feet from the garage door. He exited the SUV, glanced casually about the perimeter of the yard, and proceeded to unlock the manual garage door, lifting it open in a single pull.

The assassin opened the hatch of the Explorer and examined the rolled-up carpet, most of which was encased in a yard-size black garbage bag. He pulled the carpet toward him and, once clear of the hatch, heaved it over his right shoulder. He carried the carpet into the garage, closing the door behind him.

The powerfully built killer gently laid the carpet on the concrete garage floor. Extracting a box cutter from his left rear pocket, he opened it and sliced the rope binding the carpet with a swift upward movement. Before standing, he pulled the weapon from the holster attached to his right calf and affixed a sound suppressor from his waistband.

The assassin stood over the carpet for a moment, his right hand holding the pistol loosely at his side. In the dim light he could detect a slow rhythmic expansion and contraction near the center of the roll. He placed the thick rubber heel of his boot at the crest of the roll and pushed hard, unrolling the carpet and exposing the man who had lain wrapped within.

The man remained motionless except for the steady rise and fall of his chest. Multiple strips of duct tape covered his mouth. Several more were wrapped around his ankles. His arms were bound at the sides of his torso.

The assassin stepped over the man toward a wooden workbench along the length of the west wall of the garage. The bench had a variety of tools, which he casually flung on the floor. He did the same to a row of shovels and rakes that were leaning neatly against the wall.

The clattering of the tools against concrete caused the man on the floor to stir. The assassin strolled over and looked into the man’s face. His eyes registered a mix of fear and confusion. The killer understood. He had seen the look numerous times before. Each time, he had sincerely wished he would not have to see it again.

The assassin moved to the crown of the man’s head. Bending down, he grasped the man’s armpits and dragged him toward the east wall of the garage, where a six-foot pile of gray cinder blocks left over from the construction of a small backyard gazebo was stacked next to a push mower. The assassin noted that the man didn’t even struggle against his restraints. That was unusual. The man was relatively young and strong, yet he put up less of a fight than many of the assassin’s previous victims who had been older and smaller. Young Americans, he thought, were growing soft and weak. Lots of bluster and strutting, but fewer and fewer cowboys among them.

After positioning the man directly beneath the stack of cinder blocks, the assassin reached up and pulled one from the top. He lifted it over his head and prepared to drop it on the man’s head. This elicited a more vigorous reaction from the target, who whipped his head back and forth as muffled noises came from the duct tape covering his mouth. The look in the man’s eyes had evolved from fear to terror.

The assassin hesitated and then replaced the cinder block atop the stack. The man’s agitation subsided a bit as the assassin assumed a relaxed stance, his head tilted slightly to his left as if regarding a puzzle. The two men looked at each other for a few seconds before the assassin drew the pistol from his waistband and shot the target an inch below the center of the forehead, the sound of the suppressed pop resonating in the garage resembling the abrupt release of a champagne cork.

The assassin inserted the weapon back into his waistband and picked up the shell casing from the garage floor as the doll-like eyes of the dead man held the assassin’s gaze. They were all like that. First a pause, as if they would return to life again after recharging their batteries. Then oblivion.

The assassin looked about the tool-strewn floor once again. An artist practicing his craft. Satisfied, he retrieved the cinder block from the top of the stack and dropped it flush on the dead man’s face, the corpse’s head yielding with the soft crunching sound of compressed bone and cartilage. Then the assassin dropped another.

As a stream of blood pooled around the target’s head, the assassin walked to the doorway leading from the garage to the kitchen of the house. Before entering, he pulled the box cutter from his pocket, extended his left arm, and with a slight wince made a longitudinal incision along the top of his forearm. He paused briefly. Then he walked into the kitchen, fixed himself a pot of black coffee, and leisurely sipped until the last drop of the brew was gone. It was the beginning of a very long night. And a new world order.

CENTRAL CALIFORNIA

JULY 12 10:10 P.M. PDT

The raucous postrace atmosphere in the lounge of the Diamondback wasn’t quite what the doctor would have ordered, but Garin hadn’t felt better in weeks. Even though he hadn’t been a formal entrant, he’d followed a caravan of vehicles from Mount Whitney Portal toward the watering holes about an hour’s drive west.

He sat at the corner table on the raised level of the lounge, affording him an excellent view of the goings-on and a direct path to both the men’s room and the exit. On the table in front of him was his fifth ice-cold beer of unknown provenance. They kept magically appearing in front of him and he dutifully consumed the contents.

After returning to the United States following the operation in Pakistan, Garin flew to the West Coast to participate in the Badwater Ultramarathon, unquestionably one of the most grueling physical challenges in the world. More than anything, however, Badwater was a test of will. To complete it, it helped to be one of the best-conditioned athletes in the world, yet ninety-nine percent of those individuals wouldn’t even think of entering the race, let alone have the ability to finish it. It was 135 miles through one of the most unforgiving environments on the planet. Through the bowels of Death Valley and partway up Mount Whitney. Temperatures frequently soared to 120 degrees. The dry air sucked the moisture out of runners’ lungs and muscles.

Garin hadn’t trained for Badwater. At least, he hadn’t altered his normal training routine. He planned to rely primarily on sheer willpower. To test himself. See how deep he could reach. How far his determination and discipline could take him.

Garin, however, had arrived too late to participate. Although disappointed, he acknowledged that Tanski was probably right. Relying on sheer willpower was lunacy. He’d probably have caused himself serious physical harm.