Second Strike

CHAPTER 84

^{REAGAN NATIONAL, WASHINGTON, D.C.,}

^{AUGUST 18, 5:30 P.M. EDT}

Had any of his maintenance coworkers been paying any attention to him, they’d have immediately recognized something was wrong.

The look on Hassan Ali Daar’s face was one of dread. After nearly a year of slow, painstaking preparation, the time had arrived. Almost every workday he’d bring in another small piece. Most of the time, the piece would be attached to his key ring. He’d disguised them as ornaments. Sometimes they’d festooned the bracelet he wore on his left wrist. Occasionally, one of the larger pieces would be strewn innocuously among the items in his standard-issue toolbox.

Each time, the component would pass through the scanner undetected, never even drawing a second look. Even if they had, the various unconnected items would have appeared to be inconsequential knickknacks, some obscure pieces of metal or plastic.

More than two hundred separate workdays. More than two hundred scans. A smile, a nod of acknowledgment to the screeners, then off to work down one of the concourses.

He’d get only a minute or two each day for assembly. The airport seemed perpetually busy. But a minute or two was all he needed. Spread over two hundred workdays, it amounted to several hours. More than enough. Enough to assemble two, if needed.

Late mornings were best. Air traffic, and therefore foot traffic, was lightest then. He would scan Terminal B for travelers, coworkers, and security, and when he’d assured himself he’d have a minute or two without interruption, he’d duck into the men’s room. There, he’d first peek under the stalls. It didn’t matter if one was occupied by a traveler. After all, they couldn’t see what he was doing, and even if they emerged, nothing would seem amiss. He was maintenance. He was supposed to be there. On the other hand, if he recognized the trousers of a coworker or security, he’d take a pass, deferring further assembly to another day.

One minute was all it usually took. Sometimes two. Never more than that. With a flathead screwdriver he’d remove the aluminum cover of the stainless steel waste receptacle set into the tiled wall next to the line of sinks. Behind the aluminum cover was a black plastic cover, which he’d pull away to reveal a small cavity in the wall hollowed out using the claw of his hammer.

And therein lay the assembly project. Undetected. Growing incrementally almost every workday, one piece at a time. Gradually beginning to resemble the finished project. Until one day approximately one month ago it was complete, sitting dormant, ready for use: a PP-2000 SMG submachine gun chambered for a 9×19mm round. A fierce-looking Russian cousin of the MP7, with a forty-four-round magazine capacity. It held an extra magazine in the rear acting as a stock.

Daar also stored several additional magazines with it, each loaded with armor-piercing cartridges because some of the airport’s security personnel wore vests. The ughaz hadn’t specified the rounds be armor piercing, but Daar was taking no chances. He was determined that everything be perfect. The ughaz frightened him. Not that Daar was easily frightened. Far from it. He’d grown up in the war-torn streets of Mogadishu during the brutal reign of General Mohamed Farah Aidid. Daar had seen mass slaughter and starvation on an industrial scale.

But the ughaz inspired fear on a plane of its own. Daar had witnessed him break the back of an askari who hadn’t properly followed instructions. He’d picked the poor man up as if he were a small child and slammed him across his knee. Daar vividly recalled the sickening snap of the spine, almost as loud as a gunshot. He remembered the J-shaped scar along the ughaz’s right jawline just as vividly. The mark of the ibliisku.

So, although Daar had discharged his assignment to the letter, he remained fearful. The ughaz had called moments ago to confirm the location of the weapon. The appointed time was at hand. Untold infidels would die. Daar prayed it would be a success.

Taras Bor wheeled the minivan toward the parking garage at Reagan National, glancing in the rearview mirror at the five volunteers seated behind him. Their expressions were indecipherable to Bor, almost blank. Each carried a slim canvas backpack containing a laptop or tablet. Otherwise, they had no luggage. They would need none.

The assassin checked the digital clock on the dashboard. They were cutting it close, but they had sufficient time for each to navigate through the airport to the TSA checkpoint and toward their respective flights in Terminal B. The departure time for each spanned a thirty-minute window. The strike points spanned another two hours after the first plane took off.

So far, everything was proceeding according to plan. Well, everything within his realm of responsibility. He had, after all, been given the signal to execute his operation, the backup plan. That meant that the event had somehow failed, or at least been delayed.

No matter. Bor’s operation would accomplish the ultimate objective. Provided, of course, they were not thwarted by Garin.

Bor held no illusions that Garin wasn’t at that very moment doing everything he could to locate Bor and stop his operation. After all, Bor had received no word from any of the Zaslon operators he’d dispatched to intercept Garin. The probability that they would kill Garin was very good. They were in an entirely different league from most other operators: They were in an entirely different galaxy from Bulkvadze’s men. But as formidable as the Zaslon operators were, Bor knew never to dismiss his former teammate until the last shovel of dirt was thrown on his grave.

And, in truth, Bor would be disappointed were it otherwise.

Accordingly, Bor would be prepared in case Garin somehow appeared. He had sufficient firepower at his disposal and he’d also provided a bit of misdirection: a decoy list of flight numbers and times that Garin had taken from one of the Butcher’s men. The actual flights departed from different concourses and earlier than those on the decoy—not by much, but enough to make a difference. Even if Garin could stop some of the volunteers, he wouldn’t stop them all.

Garin awoke in a haze of pain. Instinctively, he tried to assess the situation and locate his firearm. He saw in his peripheral vision two handguns trained behind each ear. He didn’t know if they were friendly or hostile. Either way, it didn’t matter—he was ill positioned to respond.

Dwyer and Knox came to an abrupt stop approximately one hundred feet from a mangled maroon Ford Fusion, the hood of which was nearly wrapped around a large oak on the tree lawn.

Three Arlington police cruisers surrounded the vehicle at various angles and an EMT was stationed no more than a dozen feet to the rear. It seemed one million lights were flashing. Six police officers, weapons drawn at the low-ready, were slowly, warily meandering about the Fusion, assessing the damage and any potential threats within. Concentrating on the wrecked vehicle, they appeared oblivious to the presence of the DGT SUV behind them.

Dwyer and Knox got out of the black Explorer, each with an HK416 at the ready. Dwyer motioned for Knox to flank to the right. Knox nodded and both men crept slowly behind the officers, weapons tracking the movements of the officer who appeared most primed. Dwyer identified the sergeant who appeared the most senior and advanced carefully to within a few feet to his rear, HK at nearly point-blank. Dwyer addressed the officer in a low, neutral voice so as not to startle him.

“Stand down. Lower your weapon slowly. Then look behind you.”

The sergeant did as instructed, his eyes widening upon seeing the muzzle of Dwyer’s HK inches from his face. The officer glanced to his right and saw Congo Knox with his rifle trained in the direction of the other patrolmen.

“We’re friendlies, Sergeant. So is the man in the Fusion. Tell your men to lower their firearms. We intend no harm, but if you so much as flinch, we’ll put all of you in the ground.”

The sergeant complied immediately. “Holster your weapons,” he commanded. The command disrupted the concentration of the other officers, who were startled to see Dwyer and Knox with the drop. Instantly they obeyed the sergeant’s command.

Dwyer addressed the senior officer. “Sergeant…”

“Bowman.”

“Sergeant Bowman, how often have you been told you were involved in a matter of national security?”

“Never.”

“Right,” Dwyer said. “Look at our weapons. Not your typical gangbanger pieces, right? You know about the bombings in the District, of course. So understand, the man in that vehicle is vital to stopping further damage to the national security interests of the United States. You can help. How cool is that?”

Sergeant Bowman nodded but looked conflicted.

“A healthy skepticism on your part is understandable,” Dwyer acknowledged. “Congo, cover them.”

Dwyer lowered his weapon, letting it hang from its sling as he pulled out his cell phone and tapped the keys for SecDef Merritt’s cell. No answer. He placed the phone in his hip pocket and produced several plastic ties from his back pocket.

“All of you, please lie facedown on the ground.” They complied.

“We could use your help. I just called someone to vouch for us, but no answer. I assume you good officers are not the trusting type and will try to stop us by radioing in. So you understand why this is necessary.”

Dwyer tied their respective wrists behind their backs. “We could’ve used an escort to Reagan National. We’re going to be driving a bit over the speed limit.”

Dwyer heard a noise from the Fusion.

“Okay. We need to check on our friend. The crash looks bad, but if I know him, he’ll want to be on his way as soon as he’s able. Can I trust you not to do anything stupid?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Because all of you together are no match for my intense black friend over there.”

Dwyer nodded to Knox and to the Fusion. Knox went to the driver’s-side door, where Garin, pinned between an airbag and the seat, was struggling to get out.

“Slow down, Mike, slow down. Let me give you a hand.”

Knox let his rifle hang from its sling, grabbed Garin’s left arm, and eased him out.

“What happened?” Knox asked.

“My ear. I passed out.”

It appeared as if he was favoring his left side. “Looks like you might’ve cracked some ribs. Does it hurt to breathe?”

Garin steadied himself on the tree lawn. “Time?”

“About 5:15.”

“We’re running out of time.”

“No, Mike,” Knox countered. “The flights aren’t for at least another hour and a half. We can still get to Reagan in time.”

“Wrong.”

Dwyer grasped Garin’s other arm to help steady him. “What do you mean, Mike?”

“The flights will leave earlier. Those departure times are fake. I didn’t give it much thought before, but it was way too convenient. A handwritten list in someone’s pocket? Bor plans every detail, anticipates everything. The list was just another safety valve. A decoy.”

“Holy…” Dwyer whistled. “We better get moving.”

Knox shook his head. “Where does a guy like Bor come from? What did they do to make that guy?”

“They raised him Russian,” Garin replied.

Bor descended the escalator, strolling casually toward the Qdoba restaurant adjacent to the TSA checkpoints. The volunteers had been instructed to enter the terminal separately at five-minute intervals and proceed to the TSA line with sufficient space between them so as not to draw attention.

So far, so good. Although the TSA lines seemed interminable, Bor saw nothing else out of the ordinary. Security, though robust, appeared little different than usual. There were several armed uniformed personnel and Bor believed he had detected at least a few plainclothes security. Despite the bombings in the District, most flights were on schedule and security behaved no differently than on any other occasion. Indeed, Bor expected that security had been instructed to act in a manner calculated not to produce anxiety among travelers.

Bor had purchased a ticket to Miami under an alias so that he could pass TSA, enter the concourse, and monitor the volunteers until boarding. He entered the TSA pre-check line after the last of the volunteers had passed the scanners. A painfully skinny man by the name of Hassan Ali Daar had left a gift for him in the men’s room across from Gate 8 on the concourse, and the assassin was eager to unwrap it.

They were within a mile of the access road to Reagan National Airport, Congo Knox topping ninety miles an hour as he wove the black SUV, Garin in the passenger seat and Dwyer in the rear, around slower vehicles.

“Try her again,” Garin demanded.

Dwyer keyed Olivia’s cell for the third time since they’d left the accident scene, again with no answer. They needed to confirm that the flights were grounded.

“Nothing.”

“Try Merritt,” Garin instructed, referring to the secretary of defense.

“Not picking up. Cell phone’s off.”

Knox careened onto the ramp leading to the airport access road.

“Airport security.”

Dwyer dialed and keyed. “Nothing.”

“FBI,” Garin shouted over the squeal of the tires and blaring horns of drivers alarmed by the speeding SUV.

“No go, Mikey. Too removed from the chain of command. By the time they get the authority to ground the flights, it’ll be too late.”

Knox braked violently as the Explorer jumped the curb onto the sidewalk in front of the sliding glass doors leading to the United ticket counter. Dozens of people scattered frantically.

Garin considered the dilemma for a split second. They had to move immediately, no time for locating and engaging in protocols, niceties, and permissions with airport security. Besides, the moment they entered the terminal with weapons, they’d be deemed threats to be neutralized instantly.

Given the circumstances, Garin spoke with preternatural calmness. “This will likely be suicidal. Security will cut down anyone who enters the terminal with a firearm, and if they somehow miss, Bor won’t. You’re civilians. It’s not your fight.”

“Not your fight either, Mike,” Knox said. “You’re a civilian too.” Knox looked at Dwyer. “We’re in.”

Garin considered the circumstances.

“Leave the rifles; SIGs only. Keep them hidden as long as you can,” Garin said. “Dan, spare mags?”

Dwyer reached behind him into a small munitions kit and passed around several spare magazines, which they stuffed into their pockets. “How we going to play this, Mike?”

“No way to finesse this. They may be boarding as we speak. We need to stop them,” Garin replied. “Any way we can.”

“Mike,” Knox said. “We need to go to security or air traffic control and tell them to halt all boarding.”

“Time. By the time they verify who we are and get permission, some flights will have taken off. Once they’re off the ground, Bor’s agents can control them. But”—Garin opened his door—“you and Dan are going to security. Tell them everything and see if you can persuade them to ground all flights, or if you can’t, get them to call the White House. On your way there keep trying to reach Olivia. Go.”

Garin stepped out of the vehicle.

“What are you going to do, Mike?” Knox asked.

Garin was already moving toward the entrance to the terminal, intensity covering his face. Over his shoulder, he said simply, “Speed kills.”

Dwyer and Knox ran toward the first uniformed security guard they saw standing near the American Airlines ticket counter, the rapid approach of the two large men causing him to tense. Dwyer raised his palms to assure the guard he wasn’t a threat. In a low but urgent voice he said, “I’m Dan Dwyer, CEO of DGT, the military contractor. I know you’ve heard of us. We have a national security threat emerging here. You need to alert the federal security director, who needs to alert the manager of airport operations that all flights need to be grounded immediately.”

The guard appeared bewildered.

“Tell them to contact DHS if they want verification,” Dwyer continued. “Move.”

Bor calmly surveyed the gates along Terminal B, scores of travelers seated or milling about the boarding areas and ticket counters adjacent to Gates 10 through 14. Strapped across his left shoulder was a canvas bag. It contained a PP-2000, fully loaded with armor-piercing shells, and several spare mags.

Hassan Ali Daar had done precisely as instructed. The submachine gun was where it was supposed to be. Bor had no difficulty retrieving it. In a few minutes he would have no use for it. Most of the volunteers were in the process of boarding their respective flights or had already boarded. The flight to Chicago departing from Gate 10, for example, had already pulled back from the gate and would soon taxi to the runway for the two-hour flight to O’Hare.

It wouldn’t make it. Shortly after takeoff it would bank slightly to the south, to the bewilderment of those on the flight deck and in the tower. Less than five minutes after that the aircraft would approach the Calvert Cliffs Nuclear Power Plant on the western shore of the Chesapeake, less than forty-five miles outside Washington, D.C. Two minutes later it would make a steep dive and its ninety-one thousand pounds of metal and composites would crash directly into Unit 2 at a speed of 520 miles an hour, instantly killing all 110 passengers and crew members and imperiling the health and safety of the nearly three million souls within a fifty-mile radius of the facility.

At Gate 11, to Bor’s left, a group of college students laughed while boarding the United flight to Hartford, Connecticut. The Jetway door would close momentarily. It would become airborne at almost exactly the moment the sirens would sound along the Chesapeake. Forty-five minutes later United Flight 7174 with eighty-nine souls on board would obliterate the Hope Creek Nuclear Generating Station in Salem County, New Jersey, along with the futures of many of the six million people who lived forty-five minutes’ driving distance from the site.

And on it would go. Two hours from now nuclear power plants, oil refineries, and hydroelectric dams throughout much of the eastern half of the United States would be destroyed. The lives of millions would be devastated.

Bor noticed a look of curiosity appear on the faces of a few of those waiting to board. Next he heard shouting coming from a distant area of the terminal. Then the low rumble and buzz of some kind of commotion followed by scattered shouts and an alarm. The monitors along the concourse flickered and went blank.

Taras Bor knew Mike Garin was on his way.

A minute earlier Garin had descended the escalator to the main level near the wine bar approximately one hundred feet from the line for the TSA checkpoint leading to Terminal B. The instant he came to the bottom he sprinted at top speed toward the checkpoint. Though the sudden movement immediately captured the attention of several startled security guards, they remained frozen for several moments before reacting. Two of the more alert guards—one a K-9 unit—instinctively gave chase. Alarmed travelers in the TSA queue scattered as Garin barreled past them and toward the scanning machines.

The screams of bystanders mixed with the shouts of the security guards and the barking of the guard dog in hot pursuit. A 280-pound blue-uniformed TSA agent stood obstinately in front of the scanner toward which Garin was heading, blocking his path. A mistake. Without breaking stride, the former all-state running back lowered his left shoulder and plowed into the doughy obstruction, driving him over a metal table and onto the floor.

An airport alarm sounded as Garin, having cleared the TSA checkpoint, veered sharply to his right toward Terminal B for no other reason than its departures were primarily toward East Coast and Midwest destinations. Farther destinations presented a chance, however remote, that there would be enough time to intercept and shoot down the subject planes, if necessary.

As he turned toward Terminal B, Garin glimpsed a Belgian shepherd, its leash trailing behind it, rapidly gaining from the rear. Just as the dog reached him, Garin turned and seized its muzzle with both hands until he could secure its jaws with his right hand. With his left hand he grasped the leash and wound it tightly around the dog’s jaws several times, inserting the handle through the collar in a slipknot. The unharmed but stunned K-9 ran whimpering in circles as Garin resumed sprinting alongside the conveyor belt to Terminal B.

Within seconds, Garin entered the concourse. Three security guards, trailing approximately forty feet behind, commanded him to stop. Travelers scattered frantically; others froze.

Garin saw the unmistakable figure of Taras Bor standing at the far end of the concourse in front of Gate 11 and came to an abrupt halt. A couple of beats later the three security guards, brandishing handguns, also stopped, one flanking Garin’s right, the other two to his left. Garin’s SIG remained secured at the small of his back.

Bor stood no more than thirty feet away with the PP-2000 aimed in the direction of Garin and the guards. A girl of seven or eight stood directly in front of him. Many of the throng of travelers in the area instinctively dove to the floor. Others pressed against the walls of the concourse. The only sound was that of the alarm.

Keeping the PP-2000 trained on Garin and the guards, Bor wrapped his left arm around the girl and hoisted her in front of him, shielding his head and torso. No clean shot. Garin was vaguely aware of a woman screaming.

The look on Bor’s face was eerily calm. He made a downward motion with the submachine gun, signaling the guards to lower their weapons. They didn’t budge.

“Place your guns on the floor,” Bor commanded. “Do it so this girl may go home with her mother. You have three seconds.”

Whimpers and whispers wafted from the prostrate crowd. The guards remained motionless.

Bor counted down. “Three… Two…”

Each of the guards lowered their respective pistols to the floor.

Bor, in turn, gently lowered the girl to the floor. Then he fired a series of three-round bursts, killing each of the security officers.

Garin drew his SIG from the small of his back just as he was staggered by another spike of pain that shot from his ear to the center of his skull, clouding his vision. He fired at Bor, the round deflecting off the muzzle of the PP-2000. Almost simultaneously, Hassan Ali Daar emerged from the lavatory with his own PP-2000 and appeared in the rightmost edge of Garin’s blurred field of vision. Garin dove to the floor a tick before Daar fired a burst in Garin’s direction, the rounds slamming into the Gate 10 counter.

Prone, with his SIG extended before him, Garin fired repeatedly at Daar, striking him five times in the head, neck, and torso. The Somali’s body flipped backward over a row of chairs in the seating area adjacent to Gate 11.

Still prone, Garin shifted his aim back to Bor… who had disappeared. Garin cursed under his breath, sprang to his feet, and bolted toward Gate 11, firing at the ticket counter to provide cover until he had expended his ammunition. When he was within a few feet of the counter, Bor sprang up with the submachine gun trained at Garin, who hurled himself over the counter and into Bor, slamming the Russian backward and onto the floor, Garin landing on top as his SIG clattered under the scanning station.

Garin seized the stock of the PP-2000 as Bor, momentarily stunned by the collision, struggled against Garin’s weight to regain control of the weapon sandwiched between their torsos. Garin responded by pinning the PP-2000 against Bor’s chest with his left hand and jackhammering Bor’s face with several blows from his right. The weapon discharged in a staccato series of three-round bursts that shattered the windows overlooking the tarmac adjacent to the concourse, causing travelers to scream and scurry frantically in the direction of the main terminal.

Bor heaved and rolled to his left, throwing Garin, who maintained a grip on the weapon, off of him. Another series of three-round bursts fired, a ricochet catching a wailing gate attendant in his left thigh.

Garin now used both hands to attempt to wrest the weapon from Bor’s grasp. As he struggled to maintain control, Bor’s finger squeezed the trigger and he heard the hollow metallic click signaling an empty chamber.

Garin immediately released his grip on the weapon and pumped several savage punches at Bor’s face, producing a torrent of blood from the assassin’s nose and mouth. Bor countered with a brutal thrust of his knee to Garin’s abdomen that caused him to roll away in agony.

Almost simultaneously, both combatants leapt to their feet. Bor, still grasping the empty submachine gun, swung its stock like a bat at Garin, who absorbed the blow on his left shoulder, pivoted to his right, and thrust his right forearm into Bor’s bloodied face. The Russian barely recoiled, moving back a half step before driving the butt of the PP-2000 upward under Garin’s jaw.

Staggered, Garin instinctively retreated a step to gather himself. Bor pressed forward with another thrust of the stock toward Garin’s head but missed as Garin crouched under the blow and then sprang forward, driving the top of his skull into Bor’s exposed face. The assassin grunted in pain and dropped the PP-2000, but barely moved. He spun furiously to his right in a complete three-sixty—elbow raised at shoulder level—to generate enough centrifugal force for a debilitating blow to Garin’s head. In the fraction of a second Bor began the move Garin recognized his former teammate’s maneuver, ducked under it, and pounded a hook into Bor’s exposed ribs. Bor winced in pain, the blow cracking two of his floating ribs, but continued to spin rightward, slamming his left fist into Garin’s head. Though jarred, Garin lowered his shoulder and drove Bor against the Gate 11 ticket counter, knocking the wind out of him. Garin quickly windmilled a flurry of punches at Bor’s head and torso.

His arms pinned against the counter, the assassin thrust the edge of his right foot toward Garin’s left knee. Had the knee not been slightly bent, the blow likely would’ve shattered the patella. As it was, the force of the blow threw Garin off-balance, causing him to fall onto his back next to a row of chairs in the waiting area. Bor dove atop him, seizing both sides of Garin’s head, and began repeatedly slamming the back of his former leader’s skull against the low table between the seating.

Garin tasted blood and noted the familiar sharp smell of ammonia that signaled concussion. Desperate to avoid unconsciousness, he launched a roundhouse at Bor’s head, missed, then threw another that barely connected. As Bor continued to pound Garin’s head onto the edge of the table, Garin twisted his head, dug his teeth into the middle of Bor’s left forearm, and ripped off a chunk of flesh, generating a guttural cry from deep within the Russian’s chest.

Blood spurted onto Garin’s face as the assassin released his grip. Garin’s eyes rolled in their sockets as he strained to regain focus. His survival instincts insisted on immediate movement—but his body struggled to respond.

In his right periphery he saw Bor beginning to stumble to his feet as he grasped his torn forearm. The piercing sound of the terminal’s alarm imparted an even greater sense of urgency, and Garin responded by rolling onto his hands and knees. He shook his head and took two quick, deep breaths to regain his sense of awareness. His mental clock told him he had no more time to recover before his adversary would make his next move. He needed to engage now.

Down the concourse toward the main terminal he could hear the sound of officious voices, issuing multiple commands and directives. More security was approaching. To his right he saw Bor reaching for the empty PP-2000. Garin shook his head once more and craned himself upright. Bor had released the submachine gun’s spent magazine and was slamming in a fresh one retrieved from a back pocket. Garin shot forward and with his right fist jacked two fierce punches at Bor’s head while using his left hand to attempt to tear the weapon from the assassin’s grasp. Bor stumbled backward as another blinding bolt of pain streaked from Garin’s ear and through his head, causing him to double over at the waist, nothing in his field of vision but white light. He sensed the presence of several security officers immediately to his rear. There were several angry shouts, then staccato bursts from a submachine gun and the distinctive sound of metal striking flesh.

Though still staggered, Garin began to regain his bearings a couple of seconds later. He was surrounded by the bodies of four dead security personnel. Bor was gone.

Garin recovered the SIG from under the ticket scanner, released the magazine, and seated a full one.

He approached the gate, paused at the door, and darted his head into the Jetway. It was empty. Quickly but cautiously he slid down the corridor—weapon before him—hugging the left wall. The hatch to the plane was closed, the flight crew having secured it upon hearing the terminal’s alarm. A baggage handler lay on the right side of the Jetway, his head blown off.

Garin looked through the gap between the Jetway and the plane’s cabin to the tarmac below. Bor was nowhere to be seen. Behind him Garin heard a stampede of footsteps approaching down the Jetway from the terminal. Glancing back he saw a pack of armed uniformed and plainclothes security personnel led by Dwyer and Knox. Immediately behind Dwyer and Knox was a man wearing a suit with his weapon drawn, no doubt in charge of security.

Garin pointed to the tarmac. “The target’s somewhere down there,” he shouted. “Get your men and dogs down there now. Secure the entire airfield, including the area bordering the Potomac. Halt all traffic out of the airport. No cars, no cabs, no shuttle vans. Nothing.”

The lead man nodded and barked orders into a radio.

Wincing from pain, Garin motioned for Dwyer and Knox to follow him before leaping down to the tarmac from the bridge. Immediately upon landing on the concrete Garin spun in a crouch, tracking 270 degrees. With Dwyer and Knox landing behind him, he moved to a nearby baggage cart and water truck, examining each before scanning the area under the concourse bridge leading to the main terminal. Dwyer and Knox flanked him at intervals of twenty feet. They began sweeping northward along the length of the terminal’s exterior, an FBI helicopter appearing above. Far ahead, at the other end of the terminal, six SUVs screamed onto the runway and screeched to a halt. The doors exploded outward and within seconds a swarm of FBI HRT personnel in SWAT gear was busy searching and securing the airfield. Seconds later a horde of K-9 units emerged from the maintenance doors near the junction between Terminal B and the main terminal.

The speed with which the various teams had arrived and the proficiency of their respective maneuvers was impressive, the product of innumerable tactical drills and exercises. As they proceeded to move, scores more began to arrive from nearly every direction. The airport was completely locked down, the surrounding vicinity utterly secure.

Garin took a deep breath, one not of relief but of resignation. He knew none of it mattered. They were, after all, searching for Taras Bor.

They were searching for a ghost.