Peter Kirsanow - Target Omega

“Take a moment to consider that, gentlemen. One man— one —wipes out a unit of not just special operators, but super operators.” Day stared tauntingly at Bor. “Except Michael Garin. I assume Garin’s assassination, along with Clint Laws’s, was subcontracted to the Iranians? Big mistake, Bor. Big. That’s going to be a problem.”

Bor shrugged. “It wasn’t my call. But it’s not a problem. I’ve made certain preparations in case Garin surfaces. But you, my friend, have a very big problem: What do you do with me?”

“You’re not a problem. You’re a solution.”

“A rather optimistic assessment of the situation, to put it mildly.”

“I’m turning you over to the FBI. Telling them everything.”

“If you do that, at best you’re going to prison for life,” Bor said. “Possibly be executed for treason.”

“Wrong. I’ll be a hero. Celebrated, rewarded. There’s no paper trail whatsoever. No e-mails. Nothing. Nothing connecting me to you, or those madcap Iranians of yours.”

“There’s me, Mr. Day. I know everything.”

Day laughed loudly. “For someone who kills for a living, you’re spectacularly naïve. I’m counsel to Senate Intelligence. Everyone knows me — senators, intelligence officials, FBI. Vetted a million times over. Trusted with the nation’s most sensitive information. Respected. You, on the other hand, are a slimy Russian thug who slaughtered several of America’s finest patriots. You’re plotting to do grievous harm to US interests, just like you sneaky Russkies have been trying to do for more than half a century. And as the intrepid counsel to Senate Intelligence, I’ve been able to piece together your plan, having doggedly investigated all of the compromised JSOC operations over the last two years.” Day snorted. “You think I haven’t been preparing for this?” Day shook his head. “You’re fried, Bor. Done.”

“Very good. But you still have a big problem. The FBI will be very interested to know how you came to establish a seven-figure bank account in Saint Lucia. Most difficult on a public servant’s salary.”

“Wrong again. The FBI will never find out.”

Bor shook his head. “I say, again, you have a very big problem. Three, actually. The FBI will never find out only if your three friends here don’t tell them. And now that they’ve just learned of your seven-figure account, I’m sure they’ll want what’s in it. Otherwise, they’ll go to the FBI. And then, once they’ve got your money, who’s to say they still won’t go to the FBI? Now it’s not just a slimy Russian thug’s word against that of the counsel to Senate Intelligence, but the word of three of D.C. Metro’s finest. Very bad, Mr. Day.”

“Did you happen to notice that Al, Tom, and Rick are out of their jurisdiction? That’s because they’re working for me. I’ve had them with me for days in anticipation of your making a move on me. They already know about the seven-figure account, Bor. They’re getting paid — fairly generously — from that very account.”

Day turned to Al, Tom, and Rick and grinned. “But they’ve got an extra incentive to be loyal, right, gentlemen? You see, Bor, I know their secrets. All of them. Hid them where only I can find them. You’d be amazed at the kind of information Senate Intelligence can get access to. Surveillance footage. Electronic intercepts. All kinds of communications. Communications cops shouldn’t be having. Not unless they want to finish their days behind bars. Hell, you didn’t think I just picked these guys randomly, did you?”

Day gave a satisfied shrug. “So you see, Al, Tom, Rick, and I are the best of friends. They’ll each cash in as heroes, just like me. Everyone retires fat, rich, and happy. Except you, Bor. As I said, you’re done.”

Bor nodded slowly. “We thought you were committed, Mr. Day. What you would call a ‘true believer.’ Not driven by the money. Or, at least not just the money. We miscalculated.”

“I am a true believer, Bor. It’s not just the money. But apparently, with your being busy killing people and making the world safe for Russian imperialism, you haven’t had time to keep up with current events. The world’s been changing. Much more rapidly than we’d ever expected. Without the need for war. Without Russian influence.”

Day paused, then waved Al toward Bor. “In the end, a pathetic display, Bor. I don’t know how in hell you got your reputation. But now, time for you to go.”

“Hands behind your head, jackass,” Al said as he moved behind Bor. “Slow.”

With a look of resignation, Bor complied. Tom stepped next to Day and in front of Bor as Al pulled out a set of handcuffs.

For Julian Day, what happened next occurred, almost literally, in the blink of an eye.

As the lawyer’s eyelids began to close, Bor, his hands behind his head in compliance with Al’s command, reached into a nylon sheath sewn inside the back collar of his shirt, pulled out a serrated dagger, and, shifting his wrist, swung it forward over his head as if he were chopping wood with an ax. As Day’s upper and lower eyelids met, the Russian jammed the dagger savagely into Tom’s left eye socket, splitting the orb as the tip penetrated past the nasal cavity into the auditory canal.

A jet of Tom’s warm blood spurted into Day’s eyes just as his eyelids bounced open again and Bor was pulling the dagger from Tom’s eye socket. A piercing shriek fired from Tom’s lungs as he fell backward. At the same time, Bor collapsed to his knees, spun left to his rear, and plunged the dagger into Al’s left inner thigh, slicing a deep gash upward from his knee to his groin, ripping the femoral artery.

A tick before Bor’s blade severed Al’s left testicle, a stunned Rick’s right index finger reflexively squeezed the trigger of the Beretta M9 trained at the spot where Bor had been standing milliseconds earlier. The bullet discharged a full foot over the kneeling assassin’s head and slammed harmlessly into the wall over the stove.

Day’s vocal cords involuntarily generated a primal, anguished noise, his brain only now beginning to register the blur of mayhem before him. His eyelids snapped wide as Bor catapulted violently from the floor, hurling his 215 pounds of bone and muscle, dagger extended, at Rick. The blade drove into the detective’s throat just below the Adam’s apple, penetrating upward under the chin, through the floor of his mouth, and impaling his tongue against his palate — all of which were shredded by the blade’s serrated edges when Bor pulled the dagger out. Rick crashed to the floor next to Tom and Al.

Elapsed time since Day began to blink: a shade over four seconds.

The horrified lawyer stood frozen, watching torrents of blood gush from the D.C. Metro detectives lying on the tiled floor.

Immediate threats now neutralized, Bor paused, expelled a long breath of air, and collected himself before moving from Al to Tom to Rick, filleting each with a series of strategically placed incisions to ensure each was dead.

Day vomited effusively. Ten more seconds had elapsed. Maybe fifteen.

Finished, the assassin rose, shoulders back, thick cords of vein pulsing in his neck. He took a sharp gulp of air before speaking.

“ That, I suppose, is how I got my reputation, Mr. Day.”

Day began hyperventilating.

Bor drew closer. Wolf’s eyes riveted on the counsel for the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence of the United States of America.

“You’re fried, Mr. Day. Done.”

THE WHITE HOUSE

JULY 17 2:20 P.M. EDT

President John Allen Marshall had known James Brandt for more than twenty-five years and not once during that time had Brandt engaged in hyperbole or dramatics when it came to his work. He was deliberate, precise and sober. He had once described the Japanese tsunami of 2011, which resulted in more than sixteen thousand deaths and two hundred billion dollars in damage, as a “noteworthy event.” So when the national security advisor made reference to “the immediate end of the United States as currently constituted,” he commanded the undivided attention of everyone in the Situation Room.