Second Strike

CHAPTER 39

^{QUANTICO, VIRGINIA,}

^{AUGUST 16, 7:37 A.M. EDT}

Five hundred sixty miles to the north, another group of individuals with their own network also was searching for the scary man in the video.

Shortly after Dan Dwyer had sensed the massacre in Georgia might be the work of Taras Bor, he had directed a team of DGT investigators to monitor the developments on the news and make inquiries with local law enforcement. Professional acquaintances and former colleagues were queried, extending even to a few people located at Pope Field at Fort Bragg.

Random bits of information were gleaned and analyzed. Pins were placed on points on a map. The team discussed the various scenarios and probabilities among themselves.

And they had come to the same conclusion as Ruth Ponder, although nearly an hour later. The scary man in the video taken by cameras stationed on the fuel islands of the truck stop was likely the perpetrator of the massacre in northern Georgia. But by virtue of their boss’s previous experience with the likely perpetrator, the team had something Ruth did not: a name. Taras Bor.

The DGT team also had powerful computers and a platoon of extremely skilled experts to operate them and analyze their output. Even before the FBI got its hands on the video, it had been streamed to DGT’s cybersecurity division just outside Quantico, Virginia, where it had been blown up and enhanced, its resolution sharpened. Hundreds of media reports were collated, sifted, and entered into various programs for analysis, including a report of a peculiar farmhouse explosion in rural western South Carolina and a report of shots fired near the North Carolina border.

For the most part, the adage “garbage in, garbage out” prevailed. But with the help of innovative computer programs and decades of investigative experience, the DGT team came to a conclusion similar to Ruth’s: Taras Bor was headed to Washington, D.C. More ominous, their analysis showed that Bor had already arrived in the District.

As soon as the team arrived at their preliminary conclusions, the lead analyst called Dwyer, who transferred the call to the secure communications room. Dwyer sat in the captain’s chair and put the call on speaker.

“What do you have?”

“Sir, it appears Taras Bor may be in Washington, D.C., right now.”

“Crap.”

“We have a very poor-quality video from a truck stop near Albemarle. We enhanced it, ran it through facial recognition, but the results are inconclusive. Could be Bor; might not be. But considering all of the ancillary facts—especially the style of execution—our operating premise is that it’s Bor.”

“What’s the probability on facial recognition?”

“Between fifty-five and sixty percent. Usually we don’t score it as a hit unless we get eighty percent or more.”

“Can you pull the image up right now?” Dwyer asked.

“I’m looking at a magnification of a still on the big screen as we speak, sir.”

“Can you see a J-shaped scar along the right jawline ending at the earlobe?”

“Not really, sir. The most we can see is a light shadow. Beyond a certain point, enhancement gets counterproductive. It just dissolves into spots and splotches. It could be a scar. Could just as well be the lighting.”

“Understood. What feeds your operating premise besides the style of execution?”

“Well, it seems a reach, unless you at least consider that it may be Bor,” the lead replied. “But we inputted every police, fire, and EMS report in a two-hundred-mile radius of the massacre site from the time of execution to just a short time ago. The program spit back almost everything except an explosion and fire in rural western South Carolina. The program snagged that report because a preliminary arson investigator’s assessment indicates the presence of accelerants. Plural. Magnesium, smokeless powder, possibly penta.”

“Right. Everyone expects to find penta in a farmhouse in South Carolina.”

“Exactly. There’s some evidence of a munitions cache. The program took that and a couple of other data points, including the video, and plotted a path toward Washington, northward on I-95.”

“Were you able to glean anything else?” Dwyer asked. “Makes and models? Plates?”

“Not yet. It appears as if Bor—presuming it’s him—got into a green van behind the truck stop. Most of the vehicle was obscured behind vacuum pumps and the like, but we’re working on it based on a partial configuration of the body. We’ve narrowed it down to Ford products. As far as plates are concerned—wrong angles. Nothing. We’re looking at images during that period of any green vehicles from any traffic or security cameras within a five-mile radius of the truck stop. Not many cameras in that area, so no luck so far. Our best shot is satellite data. But we’re limited in that regard, unless you can convince someone to enlist NSA, NGA, or the kind folks at the OGA, boss. Even then, I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“Okay. Good job,” Dwyer said. “You and the team keep working your magic. Keep me informed.”

Dwyer disconnected, then punched the number for Mike Garin. He needed to know his former teammate and current nemesis was probably even closer than he thought.