Second Strike

CHAPTER 10

^{NORTHERN GEORGIA,}

^{AUGUST 14, 9:12 P.M. EDT}

It would have to do. Approaching from the south less than a mile away was a white Econoline van. Not as large as the Transit, but they didn’t have the luxury of selectivity. They had to get out of there right now. It had been several minutes since he’d killed the troopers. He’d made productive use of the time since then, placing the bodies in one of the cruisers and driving all three of the police vehicles into the woods adjacent to the highway. Sparse traffic favored him. The disposal was accomplished without notice, only one motorist passing before he’d completed the task—and all that motorist would’ve seen was a van and one patrol car—nothing particularly alarming.

But with each second the lack of communication from the officers was certain to arouse concern with dispatch. Another set of patrol cars was sure to appear in short order. He needed to abandon the Transit and get its driver and passengers to a secure location off the highway, preferably as far away as possible. Sometime tonight an APB would be issued, and he had no idea if any of the slain officers had radioed dispatch that the Transit held nearly a dozen occupants. If they had, any vehicle within a hundred-mile radius capable of transporting that many passengers would be targeted by law enforcement.

So the assassin stood in the middle of the highway waving his arms at the approaching van, certain it would stop. Not because of the disabled vehicle on the berm, but because no one stands in the middle of a highway at dusk waving their arms at a speeding vehicle unless it is a matter of urgency.

The Econoline slowed and halted twenty feet from the assassin, who could see that the driver was alone. The face looking through the windshield with a quizzical expression belonged to a young man, perhaps a college student. The face appeared earnest and willing to help a fellow motorist in distress. A face that sat framed on his parents’ fireplace mantel.

The assassin approached the open driver’s-side window, pulled the Glock 43 he’d taken from one of the officers from his waistband, and put three 9mm rounds through the center of that face.

The assassin gestured for two of the former occupants of the Transit to come over to the Econoline.

“Get him out and put him in the woods with the others.”

Both seemed to recoil slightly, something the assassin found peculiar given their participation in the event. But after a brief pause, they complied with his command.

Another vehicle approached in the distance as the young man’s body was being secreted in the woods. The assassin held his breath for a second as he tried to determine if it was a patrol vehicle. The headlights were on but he didn’t discern a light bar on the roof. Could be unmarked, but the odds were it was another civilian vehicle. He glanced at the Econoline and then back at the car. It had enough room to maneuver around the van, but not if he stood in the other lane, which he did, waving his arms again.

The vehicle, a Buick LaCrosse, slowed to a stop almost even with the van. The assassin approached and the driver lowered the window.

“Looks like you could use some help.” It was the voice of an elderly man. The voice of someone who knew how to fix things. The voice of a little girl’s grandfather. The assassin withdrew the Glock 43 from his waistband and with two rounds to the head silenced that voice forever.

The assassin summoned the body removers, who placed it with the others in the woods. They now had two conveyances. Less crowded. More options.

But those were ancillary considerations. The primary reason the assassin stopped the second vehicle was for emphasis. He’d observed the reaction of his ten charges when he’d shot the troopers. They were frightened. Fear was a wonderful behavioral tool, one he employed often. The killing of the Econoline’s driver was both a necessity and a statement. The killing of the LaCrosse driver was an exclamation point: The assassin is in charge. Listen to every word he says. Don’t deviate one scintilla. Obey him to the letter or die.

Body dispersal complete, the ten gathered around him expectantly, awaiting further instructions.

“Who else has a license?”

A hand went up.

“Drive the car. Three of you go with him. Follow the rest of us in the van. Not too close.”

They obeyed. A minute later they were headed north, hovering around the speed limit. They drove for little more than a hundred miles, crossing into South Carolina.

The assassin, seated in the front passenger seat of the van, directed the driver toward a small farmhouse that sat nearly a half mile off the road behind acres of corn. The car followed closely behind. The two vehicles pulled up the drive to a semicircle in front of the house and stopped. Everyone but the assassin was apprehensive. Everyone but the assassin expected the inhabitants of the house to be executed.

The assassin examined his watch. They were still on time.