Peter Kirsanow - Target Omega

Garin climbed into the vehicle and sat for a moment, wondering what else could go wrong. The cascade of setbacks and bad news over the last few days was beginning to overwhelm him. He seemed to be making scant progress in either getting answers or clearing his name. Wherever he went, someone seemed to be one step ahead of him or pursuing one step behind.

Garin returned his focus to Day. The working assumption was that Day had been abducted by the Iranians, of which there suddenly seemed to be an endless supply. The traces of blood on the floor were an ominous sign. Where had they taken him? They appeared to have used the cabin on the Eastern Shore as their base of operations, but where had they gone since? Where could an indeterminate number of foreign operatives possibly hole up without attracting undue attention?

Garin caught himself. Maybe he was asking the questions from a false premise. What if the Iranians hadn’t moved their base of operations after all? Why, in fact, should they? The Severn cabin was perfect — spacious, secluded, and within reasonable driving distance of D.C. Garin was the only one who knew of it and in his present circumstance he would be considered no threat to them. Even he had assumed there was no reason to go back since he had dispatched the Iranians who were there.

He pulled away from the curb, conceding to himself that this particular theory was more than just a little attenuated. He had simply run out of better options.

Garin navigated toward the Beltway to pick up Route 50 toward the Terrapin Estates. The cast of the midsummer sky was beginning to soften. Nightfall would be approaching soon. He would make an obligatory check of the Severn and then return to DGT’s Quantico facility to reevaluate.

He had been driving for a while, making scant progress, when he took a call from Dwyer on the hands-free option.

“Mike, where are you?” There was a distinct edge in Dwyer’s tone.

“On 50. Traffic seems to be a mess everywhere.”

“Where are you headed?”

“You don’t want to know,” Garin said, resignation in his voice. “Why?”

“They got Olivia.”

“What? What do you mean? How’s that even possible?” One of the few times Dwyer had heard Garin’s voice register alarm.

“We’re trying to figure that out right now.”

What else could go wrong? Garin thought.

“We’re still debriefing Carl,” Dwyer continued. “I’m here with him at George Washington University Hospital, standing in the waiting room. They make you turn off your cell in the patient’s room so it doesn’t interfere with the medical equipment.” He paused. “He’s in pretty bad shape. They were escorting Olivia to the OEOB. Standard escort protocol like we used with the State Department personnel in Iraq. Nothing special, but we thought it was overkill for a run in Washington, D.C. Then a guy with a rocket launcher— a rocket launcher in the District —appears. Don’t know how unless he has drones or satellite feeds, but he just so happens to choose one of the only relatively deserted spots on our route. Hits the lead and trail vehicles. Eight of my men, killed instantly. Olivia’s vehicle crashes into the lead. Carl loses consciousness. When he comes to, half of the D.C. Metro force is there, but Olivia’s gone. Crowder and Gamble in the front seat are dead from multiple gunshot wounds. Close range,” Dwyer’s voice cracked. “Carl was hit too, but so far he’s hanging on.”

That explained the traffic. “How many attackers?” Garin asked.

“Attacker.”

“What?”

“One attacker. One man.”

“Carl give you a description?”

“Uh-huh.”

“It was Bor, wasn’t it?”

“J-shaped scar along the right jawline,” Dwyer confirmed. “Hold on a second. I’m getting a call from Matt at Quantico.”

Garin was beginning to develop a rare sense of desperation. The bad guys seemed to be everywhere at once. They seemed faster, cleverer, and better prepared than his allies. Garin couldn’t remember confronting many adversaries like this, Bor in particular. Not only had he been able to fool Garin for more than two years; Bor seemed able to anticipate Garin’s every move. Garin had always respected his enemies but never feared them. He wondered if that was about to change.

Dwyer returned to the call. “Matt says we’re picking up intermittent data from the GPS nanotracker we sewed into the heel of Olivia’s shoe.”

“Bor’s sure to find it. He’s no dummy. He’ll wand her first chance he gets, if he hasn’t done so already. He finds it, she’s dead.”

“No way, Mike. It won’t register. Its shell is polymer and it emits its signal in microbursts. Unless he wands her at precisely the millisecond it transmits, he’ll never detect it. Either the battery’s damaged or there’s some electronic interference with the GPS, but we did get a brief signal twenty minutes ago near Annapolis. A few minutes later a blip about two miles from there. Nothing since then. The vector suggests she’s moving toward somewhere on the Eastern Shore, but the destination could be anywhere within a one-hundred-square-mile area.”

The Eastern Shore. Garin felt a flutter of hope. “Keep me updated. Dan, listen, have someone make an untraceable call to the McLean District Police. Tell them two cops are down inside Day’s house.

“Geez, Mikey,” Dwyer whispered. “Are they dead?”

“No, just bad headaches and bruised egos. They’re probably up and back at the station by now. But just in case, they may need an EMT.”

“Thank God. Where are you going?”

“Just following a hunch. I’ll let you know if it pans out. Let me know if you get any more GPS coordinates.”

“Roger that. And, Mike, keep your head on a swivel. These guys are everywhere.”

“Tell me about it.”

THE WHITE HOUSE

JULY 17 8:10 P.M. EDT

Arlo led Brandt down the hall toward to the Oval Office. After Brandt had left the Situation Room, he’d proceeded next door to the Old Executive Office Building to meet Olivia. He had been there barely ten minutes when he took the call from Iris Cho informing him of the mayhem that had occurred on H Street.

Brandt’s anguish was plain on his face. The placid countenance, the cool demeanor, were gone. Olivia wasn’t simply his aide. She was his closest confidant, their relationship more familial than professional. The two of them had been a prolific intellectual team in the comfortable cocoon of academia. Now the real world had intruded ruthlessly.

“They’re all inside, Mr. Brandt,” said the president’s secretary, Maggie Dixon, a note of sympathy in her voice.

Arlo remained with Maggie as Bob Bertrand, head of the president’s Secret Service detail, escorted Brandt into the room. The president was seated at his desk. Secretary of Defense Merritt and Joint Chiefs Chairman Robert Taylor were seated opposite him on a low couch. As Bertrand guided Brandt to a chair next to Merritt, Marshall stood.

“Jim, for the thousandth time, you know that Arlo’s welcome here.”

“The Secret Service insists he stay with Maggie, Mr. President,” Brandt replied.

“Hell, I’ve known Arlo longer than I’ve known Bertrand here.” Marshall cut himself off, not wanting to make light in view of the situation. “Jim, I want you to know we’re doing everything we can to find Olivia. We’ll get her back. You have my word.”

“Thank you, sir,” Brandt said as he lowered himself into the chair.

Marshall sat. “I’ve read Doug and Bob in on our talk with President Mikhailov. I’ve also spoken to Prime Minister Chafetz and relayed the intel about the EMP threat, just as we discussed — neutral, just the facts. I offered support from the Fifth Fleet if needed. He didn’t hesitate. He definitely thinks it’s necessary.”