Second Strike

CHAPTER 19

^{DALLAS FORT WORTH AIRPORT,}

^{AUGUST 15, 9:02 A.M. CDT}

Garin left as many bread crumbs as he could.

He ran a stop sign in full view of a Dallas police officer, then dutifully provided the officer with his actual driver’s license. He explained that the car was a loaner from DGT and was pleased when, as expected, the officer radioed various entities throughout the Southwest attempting to verify the explanation from a Michael Garin, currently of Dale City, Virginia.

Shortly after the traffic stop, Garin returned to the Omni Hotel, where he checked in once again, using a credit card that had expired. When it was rejected, he apologized and provided a current one—again with his actual name.

Once registered, he proceeded not to the floor of the room assignment, but to the fourth floor, where hours ago he had killed the two shooters. He walked to the emergency door leading to the stairwell where he’d placed the bodies, opened it, and confirmed that the bodies were no longer there. Had the bodies been discovered by anyone other than Bor’s associates, the area would have been cordoned off as a crime scene and police would be everywhere. Thus, Garin knew Bor’s people were somewhere in the vicinity.

Garin returned to the front desk and checked out with an apology that he’d been summoned to an important appointment in Cleveland, Ohio. He left the hotel, returned to the DGT loaner, and parked a block away. He waited for about a half hour, smoking an Arturo Fuente and presuming it unlikely anything would happen. His presumption proving correct, he drove to DFW, where he parked the car in the long-term parking lot.

Garin entered the terminal, making sure to afford each and every surveillance camera he could find an unobstructed view of his face. He purchased a ticket for an American Airlines flight to Cleveland, Ohio, using yet a third credit card that bore his actual name. Before leaving the ticket counter he apologized to the agent and asked to change his flight to the earlier flight to Cleveland, using a different credit card. The agent happily complied. Garin then cleared passenger screening at the TSA checkpoint and proceeded to the gate.

Garin sat in the waiting area facing the concourse, observing the crush of passengers flowing through the terminal. He was confident he had triggered enough alarms in the last couple of hours for Bor’s highly placed confidant or confidants within the US government to alert the assassin and his team as to Garin’s whereabouts. If anything, the alarms had been so obvious, so blatant, that even marginally sophisticated trackers would immediately suspect Garin was triggering them intentionally. Garin was unconcerned. Regardless of whether Bor’s confederates thought the alarms were inadvertent or intentional, they would be coming after him.

Optimally, Bor would prefer one team to accompany Garin on the flight and another to be waiting for his arrival in Cleveland. If Dan Dwyer’s speculation that the team was comprised of Zaslon operators was correct, they would be tactically proficient. Garin, however, had little doubt he would be able to detect them. Men who kill know the look of men who kill.

Garin scanned the immediate vicinity and saw no one who appeared even remotely capable of posing a threat. The adjacent seating areas were populated by business travelers, vacationers, and students. Some looked pleasant, others serious, most merely preoccupied. None had the telltale hardness in their eyes.

On the other side of the concourse, however, was a man browsing in a bookstore. He wore casual business attire like many in the gate area and was too far away for Garin to discern any particular look in his eyes. But his movements gave him away. He stood with his weight on the balls of his feet rather than on his heels. His stance was shoulder-width, like that of an athlete prepared to pivot.

Garin stared at the man for several minutes. He moved slowly from bookshelf to magazine shelf to knickknack shelf. He opened a paperback, read the jacket of a hardcover, and spoke to the cashier. At no time did he cast even a glance in Garin’s direction or speak into his cell phone to report contact with Garin. A professional. Probably elite. Possibly even Zaslon level.

If, of course, there was such a thing.