Peter Kirsanow - Target Omega

After rounding the block, Garin again drove by Day’s residence and parked beyond the sight line of Day’s home. Turning off the ignition, he remained in the vehicle for another minute or so, checking the rear- and side-view mirrors.

Garin took the SIG from the center console and stuck it in the holster at the small of his back, covering it with his gray T-shirt. He put on a black ball cap, adjusted his Oakleys, and stepped out of the SUV, walking casually toward Day’s house. He knew that if Day were looking out his window, it would take him only a second or two to recognize Garin, but he didn’t have the luxury of even a light reconnaissance.

Though it was early evening, the heat of the day had yet to dissipate. The doors and windows in all the houses were tightly shut, a discernible whirring noise indicating that air conditioners were doing their best to combat the swelter. Thankfully, this ensured that the homes’ occupants were unlikely to hear a wooden door being forced open.

As Garin approached Day’s house, he turned into the driveway and walked swiftly toward the rear, removing his pistol after he had disappeared from street view behind the house. Day’s red Volvo sat in front of the garage. Fortunately, there was a rear door that didn’t look very secure. In one fluid motion, Garin climbed the back steps, opened the screen door, and directed a powerful kick toward the lock. The door yielded easily, with less noise than Garin had expected, and moments later Garin, weapon at the low-ready, was sweeping silently through a hallway, then the kitchen, half bath, office, and living room. No sign of Day.

Garin paused at the bottom of the staircase that led to the second floor, listening for any sounds. Hearing none, he took the stairs two steps at a time and swept three bedrooms, a bath, and a small sunroom. Still no Day.

Garin retraced his steps, returning to the kitchen, where he spotted the basement door beyond the refrigerator. Fifteen seconds later he had confirmed that Day wasn’t at home, though his car was still in the driveway.

Standing in the kitchen, Garin began to resign himself to waiting until Day returned, when he noticed a cup sitting on the counter next to the range and detected a wisp of steam coming from the stainless steel coffeepot on the front left burner. He tapped the pot quickly with his index finger and confirmed that it was still warm. Day must’ve left just minutes earlier. And before he had a chance to pour himself a cup. On the wall just above the range was what appeared to be a fresh patch job. Garin put a finger to it. Still damp.

His suspicions aroused, Garin examined the rear door and determined that the reason it had opened so easily was that it had been unlocked. Garin made a mental note never to mention this detail to anyone, lest he suffer merciless ridicule from Dan Dwyer.

It took only seconds for Garin to find a third telltale that Day’s hasty exit had been involuntary: fresh scuff marks on the kitchen’s tile floor, indicating resistance. Crouching to get a better look, he detected tiny flecks of a reddish-brown substance in the grout. The floor had been scrubbed but particles of drying blood remained.

Garin had no time to ponder the implications of this, however, because he spotted the tops of two police caps, insignia on their crests, passing a side kitchen window in the direction of the rear door. A neighbor must’ve alerted police to the presence of a stranger. Since Garin had been in the house for barely three minutes, they were probably responding to reports of Day’s earlier abduction.

Because of the height of the kitchen windows, the cops hadn’t seen Garin. He stood flush against the wall next to the kitchen door. The cops would no doubt see the signs of forced entry, radio dispatch, and draw their weapons before entering.

A firefight with the cops was the very last thing Garin needed. He placed the weapon in his holster, and assumed his position against the wall. Then he braced for speed and violence.

Eight miles northeast, the convoy of SUVs carrying Olivia Perry and her DGT detail had finally escaped the Beltway and was proceeding down H Street on the way to the Old Executive Office Building, when Olivia caught a glimpse of a man to their left who appeared to be carrying a long plastic tube on his shoulder. Carl saw him too and immediately began shouting something, when the lead SUV burst into an orange fireball, catapulting six feet off the ground and coming to rest on the passenger side of the vehicle.

Unable to avoid the stricken vehicle, Olivia’s SUV slammed into the wreckage, and a wall of flames engulfed the front of the vehicle. Moments later the trail SUV also exploded, its occupants blown out of the vehicle as it, too, rolled onto its right side. Amid a swirl of frantic shouts, flames, black smoke, and screeching metal, Olivia was vaguely aware of debris raining down around her and a dazed Carl drunkenly searching for the MP7 thrown from his grasp in the crash.

The last thing Olivia remembered seeing before losing consciousness was the man with the plastic tube, a submachine gun strapped across his chest, aiming a device that resembled a small TV remote at the vehicle. The last thing Olivia heard before losing consciousness was the click of the door locks opening simultaneously.

Garin saw the barrel of the lead cop’s weapon first. The officer’s extended arms, sweeping from side to side, and then his torso appeared in the doorframe. He entered the kitchen cautiously, passing by Garin, whose back was flat against the wall next to the door. The first cop had gotten approximately three feet inside the kitchen when the barrel of the second cop’s weapon came into view, this time at the ready but pointed downward and to the right, away from his partner’s back.

Garin shot forward between the two and smashed his right elbow into the second cop’s nose and forehead, then slingshotted the same arm forward, driving his fist into the base of the first cop’s skull. As the second cop flew sprawling backward out of the house, the lead cop dropped heavily to his knees, his pistol falling from his grasp. The second cop crashed unconscious onto the rear pavement just as the first cop fell face forward on the kitchen floor. Garin swiftly retrieved their respective weapons and tossed them into one of two green garbage cans outside the kitchen door. Grabbing the second cop under his arms, Garin dragged him inside and placed him down next to his partner on the kitchen floor.

It was then Garin noticed a small pool of blood expanding from under the lead cop’s face. Garin cursed, dropped to one knee, and checked the man’s pulse. Still strong. Relieved, Garin turned him over slightly and examined his face. A nose broken by the fall was the source of the blood.

Garin noted blood seeping from under the head of the other cop as well. He performed the same ritual on the man, determining that he, too, was fine, save for a broken nose of his own. No real long-term damage other than embarrassing explanations at the station house offset by a few weeks of paid leave.

Garin went to the living room and peered outside the window, scanning the neighborhood. Everything remained quiet. He returned to the kitchen and used a dish towel to wipe down the surfaces he had touched before stepping over the bodies of the two cops and exiting the house. He remembered to wipe down the cops’ pistols as well as the lid of the garbage can before leaving.

Given the arrival of the cops, he assumed a neighbor was probably still monitoring the scene, watching. There was no point in feigning casualness, so he trotted toward his vehicle. At the intersection he turned left and disappeared around the corner. At least no one would connect Dwyer’s black SUV with the man jogging from the house containing two bloody cops.