Peter Kirsanow - Target Omega

Garin returned his attention to the figure at the Fourteenth and I barricade. The man also appeared intrigued by the exchange between Sakai and the Hollywood Suits, so much so that he removed his sunglasses for a better look.

The man had wolf’s eyes. Predatory. The feeling of bewilderment Garin had felt the last few days returned even more forcefully.

The man Garin was looking at was dead. At least he was supposed to be. Burned to ashes. He was John Gates, Omega operator. His corpse had been exhumed from the smoldering remains of his house in Dumfries. Garin had seen the destruction himself. He had learned all of his teammates, including Gates, were dead. Yet Gates was now standing in half-assed disguise behind a police barricade waiting for Garin to be apprehended by the FBI.

Garin shook his head. He had staged the Crowne Plaza check-in for the specific purpose of flushing out who was after him, but he hadn’t expected to be more perplexed after the maneuver than before.

Garin knew why the FBI was after him, and through Olivia Perry, by way of Dan Dwyer, he might be able to obtain information on the FBI’s activities. He might even have a contact point in Sakai, who appeared to be running the show. As for Congo Knox, Garin couldn’t very well walk up and ask him why Delta was trying to kill a US citizen in apparent violation of the law. But Garin might get some information, if not an explanation, from Perry and Dwyer.

Gates, however, was another matter entirely. His return from the dead raised even more questions than the appearance of Congo Knox. Why was Gates reported dead? What purpose did it serve? How did he know Garin had checked into the Crowne Plaza?

It was the last question that troubled Garin most. Someone within the law enforcement or intelligence community had to have informed Gates that a man using Garin’s credit card had checked into the hotel, and that information had to have been conveyed instantaneously. Someone within those communities was helping Gates maintain the fiction that he was dead.

Garin could think of no innocent reason for doing so.

There was nothing else to gain from staying on the roof of the NLRB building. But he wouldn’t be able to leave until the FBI’s search was completed and the roadblocks were removed from the surrounding streets. That might take another twenty or thirty minutes, possibly more. He might as well put the time to productive use. Garin took out his cell phone, punched in a number, and recited a series of digits.

MOUNT VERNON, VIRGINIA

JULY 16 11:21 A.M. EDT

For Dwyer, the last forty-eight hours had been largely consumed by all things Garin.

The call from his former partner came seconds after Dwyer had settled into his chair in the subbasement communications room. Dwyer pressed a button on the armrest to connect.

“Where are you?” Dwyer asked Garin.

“In town. Watching the FBI search for someone in the Crowne Plaza. Up on the rooftop a short distance away is a jolly old soul. Not Saint Nick, but a scary elf from Delta. Pretty sure he’s not there to deliver presents,” Garin replied.

“My, but you’re a popular fellow.”

“More popular than you know. Even the dead are coming out to see me today.”

“Anyone I know?”

“About two blocks down around Fourteenth and I is a man who’s a ringer for my old Georgian team member,” Garin said, referring to Gates, a native of Augusta.

“Impossible. The Georgian is confirmed dead. They dragged him out of the ashes of his house after it burned to the ground.”

“What do you mean confirmed dead?”

“I mean he’s not breathing. Horizontal. Cold to the touch. They pulled his body — what was left of it — from his house. And there wasn’t much left of the house, either.”

“How do they know it was the Georgian?”

“You think someone snuck into his house while he was away, set it on fire, and then decided to take a nap in his garage?”

Garin became slightly annoyed. “C’mon, buddy, you know what I mean and I don’t have much time. Forensics. DNA. Did they confirm it was Gates?”

“DNA sampling confirms significant traces of his blood in the garage.”

“What did the body look like?”

“Like it had been through a fire. Very little, if any, flesh remained. An accelerant had been used. Extreme heat. Primarily skeletal remains.”

“Did they check dental records?” Garin asked.

“They couldn’t. Apparently, he was shot once in the forehead right at the bridge of the nose. He fell next to a stack of cinder blocks. One or two fell flush on his face, pulverizing much of his skull, including his teeth. No way to do a meaningful comparison. Besides, after they checked the blood sample, they probably figured there was no need.”

“Very convenient,” Garin scoffed. “Crushed skull, burned corpse, blood helpfully spilled for forensics examiners. Whoever that poor guy was, he wasn’t the Georgian. He was planted there to make everyone believe he was the Georgian.”

“Well, you just might be right,” Dwyer agreed, nodding slowly as he thought about it. “Everyone thinks you snuffed your whole team. Who else had the knowledge and skill to pull that off? Who else could’ve gotten so close to a group of elite operators? And, just to be sure, they — whoever’s trying to pin this all on you — even shot the fake Georgian right at the bridge of the nose. Your signature. The question is, why?”

“And who? But look, I can’t discuss that now. I’ve got to get out of here and somehow find the Georgian. He should be able to provide some answers.”

“Before you go, two things,” Dwyer said quickly. “I got a call late last night. Your hunch was right. They found the Professor of Death and Destruction by the side of the road in Kings Canyon. He’d been shot twice and thrown — or fell — down a hill off Generals Highway. Somehow the tough SOB crawled up that hill and lay at the side of the road, where some hikers found him.”

Garin winced. “How is he?”

“Not good, buddy. He was out there for more than three days. He lost a lot of blood. Exposure, dehydration. One of my West Coast guys is at the hospital right now. He can’t get any information from the medical people, but the cops have told him what they know.”

Garin’s jaw tightened. He respected Laws more than any living being in the world. From feared instructor to close friend, Laws had taught Garin more than anyone, except Pop. The two mentors were alike in many ways. Outwardly mean, physically tough old bastards with impossible standards who unapologetically expected you to meet those standards. Men who had a clear, unsentimental understanding of the world and those who populated it. Laws, Garin knew, had been targeted because of their close association, the possibility that vital information had been shared.

“Keep me updated, buddy,” Garin said quietly.

“Just so you know, my guy says the Professor has got tubes going in and out of every orifice in his body, and he’s mostly unconscious. The cops say during moments of lucidity he tries to talk.”

“Tell your guy to find out what he’s saying. Whatever he says, let me know. Don’t discount anything.”

“All he’s said so far, strangely enough, is that he’s bored. Either he’s not all there or the wicked Laws humor can overcome even the most life-threatening wounds.”

“That’s not what he’s saying,” Garin countered. “I guarantee it. He’s trying to tell them something useful. Tell your man that the Professor has very important information. Hell, ask our newfound friends in high places to send one of their specialists over there to find out what he’s saying. Damn it, the man’s not delusional or being funny. This isn’t the first time he’s been near death. He’s a pro. He’s trying to convey information — probably about who did this to him.”