Peter Kirsanow - Target Omega

Garin had only a second to register his amazement that the big man had gotten the drop on him before powerful blows began raining down with relentless speed. Then he felt the sharp cold point of a knife pressing against the side of his neck, just under his left ear, as he lay prone.

“Up on knees. Slow. Hands behind head.”

The bull spoke passable English. Garin complied. In a matter of seconds the Iranian would discover his good fortune upon realizing the man kneeling before him was the lone surviving member of Omega. He wouldn’t hesitate to jam the knife into Garin’s neck and slash the jugular and trachea. Watch the slow, gurgling death. Mission accomplished.

There are six points on the human body that, if struck by a blow from an average-size man, will render one incapacitated. Garin knew every single one. But for a man the size of the bull, the best bets were the eyes, throat, and testicles. Given his position, the latter target was Garin’s only option.

In a rapid, fluid motion, Garin twisted his head to his right, away from the knife, spun on his knees, and sent a vicious uppercut to the bull’s groin. Although he was doubled over, the knife remained in the stunned Iranian’s grip. Before he could regain his senses, Garin, now standing, slammed a right hook into the man’s temple that caved in the occipital bone of the left eye. That blow was followed by a left uppercut that pulverized the man’s jaw and drove several bits of teeth into his throat.

Although the Iranian still remained upright, the motor functions on the left side of his body were effectively gone. His eyes were glazed, the look of a man nearly out on his feet. Now it was Garin who sought to bring the encounter to a swift and merciless end. Grabbing the back of the Iranian’s skull with both hands, Garin pulled the man’s head violently downward at the same time he thrust his right knee upward into the man’s face. The impact whipped the bull’s head backward, his body suspended momentarily in a half-upright position before crashing face-first onto the porch.

Garin dropped to one knee and turned the bull on his side. The big man’s eyes were wide, searching. In a low voice Garin said, “You’re strong. But not strong enough. Your mistake was standing too close. Playing executioner. Like back home. And hesitating. Even a second. Speed kills.” Garin drew a bit closer and whispered, “You would’ve died anyway. But you would’ve had a few more seconds. Should’ve stuck with killing civilians.”

To be sure the man would pose no further problem, Garin stepped on the back of the man’s neck, grabbed his forehead with both hands, and wrenched his head backward, snapping the neck at the base of the skull — an inelegant but effective move Garin had learned years ago from Clint Laws.

The light went out in the bull’s eyes. Garin wondered which of his teammates this particular Iranian had killed, but the thought was quickly interrupted by the sound of cracking branches. He looked up and saw the athletically built Iranian running north through the woods, parallel to the shore. Garin cast about for the SIG, but failing to immediately locate the gun, he decided he had scant choice but to ignore another bit of Laws’s training and give chase to the Iranian without first securing his weapon.

The smaller Iranian had nearly a seventy-yard head start. Garin figured the man was unarmed and alone; otherwise, there would be little reason for him to flee. He bounded through the woods at a full sprint, hurdling fallen trees and dodging standing ones without breaking stride.

But Garin swiftly gained ground. The former track athlete was much faster than the Iranian, and he was closing the gap despite the lingering effects of Pakistan and the damage done during his hand-to-hand combat with the bull just moments ago.

Garin fixed his eyes on the Iranian’s legs. The strides were shortening, almost imperceptibly, but shortening nonetheless, the lactic acid building in his quads. Soon the air would sear his lungs. He was beginning to run out of steam; Garin was not. The pair had covered about a quarter mile. They passed behind several other cabins, the gap between the two narrowing to only thirty yards. The Iranian began glancing over his shoulder, a telltale sign that he was nearing exhaustion. He would begin slowing more rapidly now. Running at a full clip for more than a quarter mile was the province of only highly trained athletes. It was Garin’s territory. He’d have the Iranian and his secrets in the next three hundred yards, if not sooner.

Garin’s legs churned harder, gliding over a large fallen tree and jumping across a small creek. He was close enough now that he could see the strain and growing apprehension on the Iranian’s face, now colored deep red, pools of purple on his cheeks. Garin could hear his desperate gasps for breath. Shallow. Fast and irregular. He was through.

The dense canopy of leaves began to disperse and the somber twilight of the woods began to brighten. As he reached the crest of the hill, Garin heard a sustained hiss. Speed on wet asphalt.

The two men hurtled down the other side of the hill, Garin now within a few arms’ lengths of the Iranian. Suddenly the brush dispersed, revealing a two-lane highway. The startled Iranian’s momentum drove him directly into the path of an eighteen-wheel flatbed moving at sixty miles per hour.

As Garin dropped to a baseball slide to stop his forward motion, he could hear the impact of the truck’s grille against the Iranian’s body. Garin skidded to a stop on the shoulder of the highway, barely a foot from the right lane. Car horns blared. Tires shrieked as the flatbed braked to a halt.

Garin lay on the shoulder for several moments, his breathing hard — a result of both physical exertion and adrenaline from narrowly averting his own collision with oncoming traffic. He was amazed the crash and sudden stop by the flatbed hadn’t resulted in a pileup.

The Iranian’s body had been catapulted into the median more than 100 feet away and the truck had come to rest approximately 250 feet down the highway. A growing number of cars were now stopped behind the truck. Garin picked himself up and began jogging toward the Iranian’s body.

The driver jumped out of the cab to inspect the carnage. Dozens of other drivers were emerging from their vehicles as well.

When Garin reached the body, the driver was standing over him, badly shaken; his jaw was slack and perspiration was streaming down his face. Several motorists were standing about, seemingly reluctant to approach any closer than thirty feet from the body, the carnage acting as a repellant.

Their reluctance was understandable. But for the clothing, the Iranian’s corpse bore no resemblance to anything human. The impact with the flatbed had pulverized his skeleton; blood and internal organs were strewn over the pavement from point of impact to where the body lay.

A few of the motorists had their cell phones out, calling to report the accident. Garin made sure that no one was photographing the scene before he approached the Iranian’s remains. Not surprisingly, no one wished to capture the hideous sight for posterity.

The police would be arriving within minutes and the gathering crowd would no doubt identify Garin as somehow being involved in the incident. Not needing to add the Maryland State Police to the list of law enforcement searching for him, he moved quickly. Kneeling next to the body, Garin was able to identify what appeared to be trouser pockets amid the mass of blood, bone, fabric, and tissue.

More than two dozen onlookers stared in astonishment at the apparent callousness of the disheveled, dangerous-looking stranger who rifled through the dead man’s pockets, crossed the highway, and walked briskly into the woods. Garin was heading back to the Severn. He needed to retrieve his SIG and quickly inspect the premises. He’d killed several Iranians over the last two days, yet he was no closer to determining why they had wiped out his entire team. Nor why he was targeted for assassination by Delta Force. If the answers didn’t come soon, any remaining luck he had was certain to evaporate.