Second Strike

CHAPTER 60

^{NORTHERN VIRGINIA,}

^{AUGUST 17, 11:15 A.M. EDT}

There was a loud noise and a flash of light. Then he remembered a dull pain. Next came his older sister Katy’s voice, strong and demanding.

He opened his eyes in a hospital bed, monitors arranged about him. Katy was at the foot of the bed talking to a doctor who was holding a clipboard with papers attached. She had a serious look on her face, like all Garins. They noted that he was awake and came to his side. Katy stroked his hair. She had a sad smile. Garin remembered and knew why.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“Good. Are you okay?”

Katy’s laugh was almost a cry. No matter what his condition, her little brother would always respond like that.

“Mom and Dad are dead,” Katy said. Direct, no preliminaries, no softness. The family way. Take care of business, grieve when time allowed.

Garin nodded. It came back in a rush. The family was returning from an awards banquet. Garin had been named an all-state running back. A drunk driver hit them head-on. Garin’s parents were killed instantly. Garin had been knocked unconscious. Katy had barely a scratch.

“Michael, I’m Dr. Lee.” Garin saw a man in his early sixties, tall and lean with a look of confidence. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

Dr. Lee raised the clipboard and scanned the charts. He waited a few beats before continuing. “You have a concussion and some contusions. No broken bones. Because of the concussion, we’ll want to keep you under observation for twenty-four hours before discharging you.”

Dr. Lee glanced at Katy before continuing. “When you were brought in we did the typical preliminary scans. The radiologist caught something, so we did a few more scans and tests.”

Dr. Lee continued with a lengthy but not overly technical explanation. Something about valves and chambers. All that Garin remembered was the phrase “congenital heart defect.” Dr. Lee tried to be optimistic, but it was likely Garin would not see his fortieth birthday, maybe not even his thirty-fifth.

A lone tear streaked down Katy’s cheek; otherwise, she was composed. So much so that she followed Dr. Lee out of Garin’s room, ostensibly to go to the hospital chapel, and when Dr. Lee deposited Garin’s exam results at the vacant nurses’ station and proceeded on his rounds, Katy retrieved the results and placed them in her purse. Then she quickly checked the station’s desktop computer to confirm that the results hadn’t yet been entered into the system. All record of Garin’s condition was wiped from the face of the Earth.

Several months later, their grandfather, Nikolai Garin, arrived from Europe to care for them. With his death a few years back, Katy and Dr. Lee were the only ones who knew of Garin’s condition. With passage of time and thousands of exams, Dr. Lee, if he was still alive, had probably long since forgotten.

Katy insisted Garin treat the heart anomaly as liberating. Knowing that he had only half the time he’d expected forced him to live life on fast-forward, compress eighty years of living into, at most, forty. So he held absolutely nothing back. He never paced himself. Although he wasn’t irresponsible and avoided jeopardizing the safety of others, he took risks, confronted dangers, and overcame hazards that would cause others to shrink, flinch, and cower. He felt… invincible.

In some ways, he was tantamount to dead. The dead feel no pain; pain is irrelevant. The dead have no fear; fear is irrelevant.

The same is true for the doomed. Theoretically.

Garin wasn’t dead yet.

The gash from the Butcher’s mouth to his ear was the first thing that came into focus. Within seconds everything else did as well. He was back in the present.

Garin felt a sharp pain from his right ear to the sinus cavity under his right eye. It was the pain that had caused him to lose consciousness, but also roused him awake.

“You were out only a few minutes,” the Butcher informed him. “And you did not scream. That will change.”

Garin blinked several times and shook his head. His right cheek was wet and warm. Blood trickling from his ear.

“Your body’s defense mechanisms are quite good,” the Butcher continued. “Many subjects remain unconscious far longer. A few suffer heart failure. Your heart must be quite strong. But we’re just getting started.”

Garin realized he couldn’t hear out of his right ear. He opened and closed his mouth and worked his jaw as if he had swimmer’s ear. The sensation of pain changed from a sharpness to a dull ache.

The Butcher brought the needle to within inches of Garin’s right eye. The act caused both of Garin’s eyes to water.

“Tears from the indomitable Garin. I have caused the intrepid warrior to cry.”

“Tears of joy, for your demise.”

“Your continued bravado is, I freely admit, unusual. Past subjects have evacuated their bladders by this point, especially upon seeing the needle directed at an eye. The reaction is primal; the piercing of an eye is far more frightening than that of an ear.”

“Do both,” Garin pled. “It’ll be a relief not to see your face any longer.”

The Butcher tilted his head slightly, as an entomologist might upon observing a newly discovered insect species. The art of torture depended in large part on the ability to instill fear and dread in the subject. The Butcher was a master at choreographing the various steps of the process to bring such fear and dread to a crescendo. But Garin refused to dance.

“I do not take requests, Garin.” The Butcher withdrew the needle, placed it on the metal table, and fired up the propane torch.

“Two thousand degrees, Garin,” the Butcher said, adjusting the flow valve. “That is Celsius. Three thousand six hundred Fahrenheit. Enough to quickly cut through the meat of the thigh to the femur in a few seconds. Done correctly, there is little bleeding, as the heat cauterizes the wound. The emphasis is on ‘correctly’; otherwise, there may be a mess.”

The Butcher looked from the flame back to Garin’s face. The unsettling look persisted.

“A more useful approach, however, is to apply the flame to an area that has comparatively little muscle or fat: The face, hands, and feet are ideal. Pain impulses normally travel at a slower rate than other nerve signals, usually no more than two to three feet per second. But the impulses seem to be conveyed much more quickly in these areas. And felt more acutely.”

“Less talking, more doing,” Garin said. “Otherwise you’ll miss the big show.”

“Although you have no idea what you are talking about, you have stumbled onto good counsel. The event is scheduled soon and I should be on my way shortly.”

“Bor is central to the event,” Garin said.

“This only confirms you know nothing of the event. The event consists of two stages and a backup. Bor is central to the backup.”

“Thank you for the information. It’ll come in handy.”

The Butcher nodded. “In hell, perhaps. Bor insisted you be killed before the first stage was initiated. I am told he conveyed this insistence to Mikhailov himself.”

“I’m flattered.”

“You have a right to be, Garin. One person cannot stop the plan, yet Bor is sufficiently concerned that he made your elimination a prerequisite.”

“Tell me about it so I have a sporting chance of stopping it.”

“You may trust me, Garin. Since you are a dead man, I would tell you if I knew. But they do not entrust details to someone like me. I know little, other than you will be paralyzed.”

“Then, what do you know?”

“The first stage only.”

“What does it entail?”

“Again, I know little of it.”

“As you said, I’m a dead man. Grant me my dying wish. Like a cigarette before a firing squad.”

“The first stage consists of suicide bombers.”

“Russia doesn’t use suicide bombers.”

“Russia does not use Russian suicide bombers, yes. As a means to an end, however, Russia will use suicide bombers who believe they are striking against the West on behalf of ISIS.”

“Very cynical.”

“Not really. The suicide bombers, with our assistance, are getting exactly what they want. It just happens to serve Russian interests also.”

“Marginally clever. How many suicide bombers?”

“I do not know.”

“When will they set off their bombs?”

“I do not know that either. Very soon.”

“Where will they set off the bombs?”

“Again—”

“You don’t know much, do you?”

“I know that it is a misdirection, to make you think the threat has passed, and to relax your guard.”

“Then the real event, so to speak, occurs.”

The Butcher nodded. “That is my understanding.”

“And Bor’s part of a backup plan.”

“Nikolai Garin surely taught you that Russians play chess…”

“Yes.”

“You are not even competent at checkers, Garin.”

“What’s the purpose? The endgame?”

“I do not know.”

“Well, you’re no help.” Garin nodded toward the table where the Butcher had placed the torch. “Your torch is burning. Do your thing.”

“Before I resume, it is your turn. Tell me what you know about the event.”

“What you’ve just told me is the sum total of what I know about the event. May I offer an opinion, though?”

“What is that, Garin?”

“It’s going to fail.”

“Let us resume.” The Butcher picked up the parabolic razor from the table and displayed it to Garin. “This is used to peel the skin. There is some disagreement over its most effective manner of use. My preference is to use it in tandem with the torch. An incision is made across the top of the hand at the knuckles. Because your wrists are secured to the armrest, however, in this instance, we will begin at the forearm. The skin is pulled back a few centimeters toward the elbow and beyond. Then the flame is used to cauterize the wound. The process is repeated until death. If you had any useful information to impart, there would be a pause after each cauterization to interrogate. Since you have no information, this will go rather quickly.”

“Take your time. I don’t have to be anywhere soon.”

“You no longer need to convince me. Like Bor, your training has made you hard and tough. It is, however, irrelevant.”

“No, Nikolai Garin made me hard and tough.” And I have nothing to lose, Garin thought. I never have.

“I had to use quite a bit of duct tape to bind you to the chair, Garin. You are quite strong. Therefore, I will have to begin the incision just above the wrist.”

Garin remained silent. He willed himself to resist screaming.

The Butcher scooted his chair a few inches closer to Garin to make it easier to wield the blade over Garin’s right arm. Garin jacked backward to scoot his chair away, but the weight of the chair prevented him from moving more than a few inches.

“Futile, Garin.”

The Butcher leaned closer to Garin. As he did so, Garin whipped his head backward, then forward, as hard and fast as he could. Garin’s forehead slammed into the Butcher’s forehead just above the bridge of his nose, driving him backward off his chair and onto the floor, where he lay stunned and barely conscious. Bound to the chair, Garin leaned forward and extended his legs and stood as high as he could, lifting the rear of the chair several inches off the floor. He shuffled rapidly toward the Butcher and positioned the right rear leg of the chair over the Butcher’s head and neck as he lay prone on his back. Garin drove downward as hard as he could, impaling the center of the Butcher’s throat with the heavy metal leg of the chair. Garin rose and drove back down again, this time impaling the lower portion of the throat. Garin rose and drove downward again. And again. And again. And again, until the Butcher’s pulverized throat was an unrecognizable mass of blood, bone, and cartilage.

Garin assessed his options. The razor was useless in freeing him since both of his hands were bound to the arms of the chair. That left the propane torch sitting on the metal table. The problem was it was too far from the edge to be of use.

Garin shuffled to the table, lowered his shoulder, and rammed it into the apron. The torch wobbled but remained upright. He struck the table again and the torch toppled onto its side and rolled. He struck it again and the torch rolled off the other side of the table onto the floor.

Garin shuffled to where the torch was melting the plastic covering on the floor and awkwardly flipped himself onto his left side. For the next minute he wriggled and squirmed to slide closer to the torch and align his left wrist with the flame. He paused upon drawing to within a few inches of the torch and steeled himself. The only way to free himself was to make one final thrust to within an inch or two of the flame and burn the duct tape from his wrist. No sense hesitating. Pain was unavoidable. Get it over with.

He bit his lower lip and kicked and thrust himself to within centimeters of the flame, but he was misaligned. The acrid smell of the flesh burning his forearm arrived only milliseconds after the searing heat blistered much of the area around the brachialis.

He kept biting his lip as he kicked and swiveled to position the duct-taped wrist next to the flame. The flame caused the polyethylene to bubble and boil, exposing the rayon fabric, which flashed and quickly separated, but not before also burning a gash into the top of Garin’s wrist. His lungs emitted a low, feral growl of agony as he tore his wrist from the arm of the chair and shunted himself away from the flame. He growled once more as he tore the duct tape from his right wrist, then from his torso and each ankle.

Garin stood slowly and conducted an inventory. The skin along the top of his left forearm to his wrist was a gash of scarlet and black, deformed like melted plastic. The Butcher lay dead on top of his chair, next to the metal table. The metal box, needles, razor, and torch were scattered across the plastic, a section of which had been liquefied by the propane torch.

Garin spotted a roll of duct tape still inside the metal toolbox. He tore a strip of cloth from the Butcher’s shirt, wrapped it around the wound. Then, with his right hand, he placed the roll over his left wrist and wound the tape around his forearm from wrist to elbow. The pain produced yet another growl, and his eyes watered. In a perfect world, he would be either loaded with painkillers or—preferably—sedated when the tape was removed.

He picked up the torch and turned it off. Then he walked to the metal door, and even though the Butcher had told him the room was soundproof, he put his ear to it. He heard nothing.

He briefly considered picking up the razor as a weapon but decided it wasn’t worth it. His hands were good enough.

Garin visualized the layout of the house. It was a modest ranch-style affair. From his surveillance, he estimated that it had seven rooms, probably consisting of a standard three bedrooms, bath, kitchen, living room, and dining room. There was an attached garage. He hadn’t seen any signs the house was occupied, but, of course, the curtains had been drawn.

According to the Butcher, the entrance to the room Garin was in was undetectable. He surmised it was hidden behind a wall in the basement.

Garin opened the door slowly. The short passageway immediately outside was illuminated by a single low-wattage light bulb hanging from a low ceiling. There was a metal ladder at the far end leading to a trapdoor. He climbed up a few rungs until he was hunched under the door, paused, and listened. Nothing. He burst upward through the trapdoor onto a concrete floor and spun around in a crouch, prepared to engage the Butcher’s associates.

There was no one to engage. He’d emerged into an empty two-car garage.

The door leading into the house was at his left. He lowered the trapdoor slowly and quietly until it was flush with the concrete garage floor. The Butcher was right. No one would’ve found the torture room, at least not right away.

Garin crossed to the door and listened. He heard nothing. He turned the knob and opened the door slowly. Standing a few feet away at a breakfast nook in the kitchen was a fit, military-age male about Garin’s size with a look of astonishment on his face. Clearly, he’d been expecting the Butcher, not Garin.

Garin closed the space between the two in a blur and jammed the three middle fingers of his right hand into the man’s throat. The man dropped to the floor retching, gagging, and reaching behind him for the handgun in a holster at the small of his back. Garin reached it first. The man continued to gag and his face turned from red to purple to blue. His windpipe was crushed.

A second man appeared in the doorway separating the kitchen from a small dining room. Garin shot him in the forehead just above the bridge of his nose. Then Garin did the same to the man gasping for air on the floor.

Garin released the magazine on the weapon and checked the ammunition. He had several rounds left. He reseated it and listened for movement in the house. Nothing. After a few seconds he moved to the dining room, weapon at the ready. He scanned it quickly before moving to the living room and then clearing each of the bedrooms and the bathroom. He then opened the doorway in the hall leading from the dining room to the bedrooms. Stairs led to a dark basement. He flipped the switch at the top of the stairs and waited. He saw and heard nothing. He began a quick cost-benefit analysis of descending the stairs, but the pain in his forearm and ear made him too angry and incautious not to proceed. If any of the Butcher’s associates were down there, he was going to kill them.

Any associates in the basement had a tactical advantage. They could simply train their weapons at the bottom of the stairs, wait for Garin to come down, and open fire.

So Garin sprinted down the stairs, rolled onto the basement floor, and came up on one knee, scanning about a small rec room. No associates. He emitted another growl, having struck the burnt forearm during the fall. He took several deep breaths while he tried to mentally suppress the pain.

Other than Garin and the corpses he’d left, the house was empty. He looked about the basement for anything related to Bor, then went back upstairs and did the same, beginning with the bedrooms, followed by the bathroom, living room, dining room, and kitchen. The house was clear. No evidence, no clues about what Bor was up to. Except…

Garin rifled through the pockets of the dead man in the dining room. No wallet, no identification, not a shred of pocket litter.

The pockets of the dead man in the kitchen also contained no wallet, no identification, nor any other items. Except his right front pocket held one five-by-seven-inch piece of paper with ten lines of handwritten letters and numbers.

Garin studied the paper for several seconds before putting it in his pocket. He couldn’t discern the meaning or import of the lines, but he planned to have Dwyer’s people analyze them.

Assuming it wasn’t too late.