Target Omega

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

Julie filed the last of the rental forms and shut down her computer for the day. She had agreed to cover the swing shift at the Terrapin Estates rental office for Lori, one of the other rental agents, so that she could attend a Nationals game with her boyfriend.

It was almost dark out. Julie had been on the job for twelve hours, but she really didn’t mind the long shift. It had been a slow day and she appreciated the overtime. She’d spent good portions of the shift shopping online and e-mailing some of her friends. The manager didn’t mind as long as she got her work done, and most of her work was complete by midafternoon, with only one new arrival checking in after three o’clock. Nonetheless, she was looking forward to going back to her apartment, taking a long shower, and relaxing in front of the television with a glass of wine. A movie she had wanted to see was debuting on pay-per-view, one she’d missed at the theater because Justin, her lying, cheating ex-boyfriend, had taken her ex — best friend, Barb, to the show instead. Julie had stumbled upon this indiscretion when she found the ticket stub in the lout’s jeans while doing the laundry. When Julie confronted him, the idiot unraveled in an instant, incoherently claiming that Barb had come on to him but that the movie had been innocent. The former was probably true. He was an idiot, but he was a really good-looking idiot, and Barb was in perpetual pursuit of pretty boys.

Julie turned off her desk lamp and began making her way out when the rental office door opened and Justin’s opposite in every way walked in. This was no pretty boy, although he was at least as good-looking and far better built than Justin. This, Julie thought, was a man — something women in her age group encountered about as frequently as leprechauns. Maybe the evening still had possibilities.

“Well, look who’s back!” Julie exclaimed, flashing a perfect set of laser-whitened teeth. “I was afraid you’d fallen into the bay or something. I’ve seen some of your friends from time to time, even though you all keep pretty much to yourselves, but you must have been practicing your imitation of the invisible man. I thought I wouldn’t see you before your rental’s up on Thursday.”

Garin smiled charmingly, an act that didn’t come naturally. He wanted to maintain the impression that he was just an average guy spending the week fishing and hanging out with his college buddies.

“My office called and I had to go back to the District to take care of some business,” Garin explained.

“So you took care of business and now here you are,” Julie said cheerfully as she came from behind the rental counter, making sure Garin got a good look at her plyometrics-toned body. “Oh, I almost forgot.” She stopped abruptly and began walking back to the desk. “Your friends asked me to make sure I called them whenever one of you guys arrived. I think maybe they wanted a head count for a beer run or something later on.”

“No need to do that,” Garin said with feigned casualness. “They called me earlier and asked me to pick up the beer and some wings on my way back.” Garin leaned against the counter. “Anybody else show up after I left?”

Julie looked conflicted. “You know,” she said reaching for the phone, “I’d better call. The one guy — built kinda like you, actually — gave me a fifty just to make sure I’d call.”

Garin glided around the counter and placed his left hand gently over Julie’s as she began to pick up the receiver. “Had to be Gates,” Garin said with a knowing grin. “That SOB. He’s setting me up again, I know it. He’ll probably have some booby trap waiting for me when I come in the door. He’s got me three times in a row now. You probably wouldn’t believe it, but he had a bag full of dog crap over the transom last time. Just missed me.” Garin reached into his hip pocket with his right hand and pulled out a roll of bills. “I’ll give you a hundred dollars not to make the call.”

“Whoa,” Julie laughed, enjoying the feel of Garin’s hand on hers. “Keep the cash, cowboy. You guys throw money around like it’s free.” She raised an eyebrow. “But I do like your style. I’ll just have to think of some other way you can repay me.” She placed the receiver back in the cradle.

“Well, Julie, maybe you and I can figure something out.”

“At least you remembered my name. That’s a start.”

“Wrote it in my diary,” Garin declared with mock earnestness.

“Not ‘hot blonde with the great ass’?”

“Well, that, too.”

Julie remained standing within inches of Garin. Most guys she knew would’ve taken that as a signal to make a move, which typically consisted of some clumsy pawing of her body. It was, after all, a killer body, so who could blame them? This man did no such thing. He just gazed steadily and smiled. Not arrogantly. Confidently. But with a hint of danger.

Under different circumstances, Garin might have had similar thoughts. But he was tightly focused on his objective. His hunch had proved correct. The Quds Force operatives were, indeed, using the same cabin. And it sounded like Bor might be with them. Garin needed to get whatever relevant information he could from Julie before embarking on a course of action.

“So, Julie, how much beer and wings should I get?”

Julie, who had eased even closer to Garin, blinked, snapping back to reality.

“Oh. Well, let’s see,” she said as she returned to her desk and restarted her computer. “You know,” she said absently as she typed in her password, “your friend — Gates, I think you called him? He sure doesn’t seem like much of a prankster to me. Real serious. A little scary, actually.”

“That’s vintage Gates.” Garin smiled. “Part of the act. Always putting people on. He’s harmless, though. Even a little bit of a wimp.”

“And the other guys I’ve seen aren’t exactly rays of sunshine either,” Julie said, scrolling down the tenant register. “No offense. I know you guys go back. They just all look like they could use a good laxative.”

“Well, I guess we all grew up and got responsibilities. Got serious.” Garin shrugged. “That’s why we wanted to come out here and unwind a little.”

“And some of them looked kinda, I don’t know, foreign, you know? Just saying.”

“Probably been in the sun, out on the bay.”

Julie stopped scrolling. “Here we go. There are”—Julie counted under her breath—“fourteen.”

Fourteen. Garin had expected three or four, max. Clearly, he needed support for this operation. He didn’t know how to reach Brandt without Olivia, and he couldn’t call the FBI. Even if he could, they would take a while. Same with Dwyer. And his friend had lost several men in the last few hours. He could hardly ask him to sacrifice more men and place his organization in legal jeopardy. But Garin had no other options. He couldn’t take on fourteen Tangos by himself.

“Plus,” Julie added, “I think one or two guys brought their wives or girlfriends. They’re not on the register, but when they drove in earlier this evening, I did see a woman. Tons of really long black hair. Pretty. I’ll just register and charge them tomorrow morning.”

Olivia…

Any remaining chance Garin had to wait for the cavalry to arrive evaporated. Bor was going to interrogate Olivia about what Garin had told her and what she, in turn, had told Brandt. Then he’d kill her. Garin had no choice but to call Dwyer and hope he and his men could get here fast. But he needed to move now.

Garin thought quickly. “Thanks. Is there a place close by where I can pick up some cold beer, maybe some wings?”

Julie shut down her computer and came around the counter again. “There’s a 7-Eleven about two miles down on Choptank,” Julie said, waving in an easterly direction. “Just hang a left onto Waverly as you come out of the access road, go a half mile, and take a right onto Choptank. It’ll be on your right, next to Dumser’s Bait and Tackle. I don’t know about wings, but they’ve got frozen pizza, cold cuts, stuff like that. The 7-Eleven, that is.”

“Great. You’ve been a real help.” Garin smiled again, trying to keep up the charade of normalcy. “Is there any possibility…”

“There might be,” Julie said with a playful look. She quickly wrote her cell phone number on the back of one of the manager’s business cards lying on the counter and handed it to Garin.

“I know you probably want to catch up with your friends tonight and all. But give me a call whenever you have some time. I’m just twenty minutes away; maybe we can grab a beer.”

Garin palmed the card, smiled appreciatively, and headed for the door before turning.

“By the way, did you happen to see my buddy Julian arrive? Skinny, glasses, thin light brown hair?”

“Oh yeah, I think so,” Julie replied. “Real worried-looking? Like he’s marching to the electric chair or something? Now, that guy really could use a vacation.”

Bor had allotted six hours to interrogate Perry and Day, but he was confident he wouldn’t need the entire time. Taking Day’s measure, Bor concluded that the Senate counsel would probably be an easier subject than the woman.

Bor stood in the living room area in the center of the cabin’s main level and scrutinized Day and Perry, seated together on a small couch. Whereas the frail lawyer was looking downward, pulling nervously at his fingernails, and appeared on the verge of evacuating his bladder, the aide to James Brandt gazed directly at Bor with a look of defiance. That look, Bor knew, was not uncommon for strangers to cruelty. They had little conception of the horrors that their fellow man had the capacity to inflict. That would change shortly.

Bor’s primary concern at the moment was the Iranians. While there was no doubt that Bor was in charge, they seemed perpetually perched on the brink of violence. Without Bor’s knowledge, a few of them had roughed up Day in the back of the van on the drive to the Terrapin Estates. Upon discovering this, Bor sent a message to the other Iranians by unceremoniously snapping the principal culprit’s right arm at the elbow. The other Iranians instantly fell into line. Bor was the undisputed alpha dog of this operation. Nonetheless, they continued to hover about Day and Perry like jackals circling carrion.

Bor much preferred working alone or with a small cadre of his own handpicked professionals. He was most comfortable with a team of Spetsnaz comrades, but he’d been impressed with the Omega operators. They were as good as anyone he’d ever worked with. He’d even grown to like and respect them, particularly their leader, Michael Garin, one of the few men Bor considered a peer.

In contrast, these Quds Force men seemed little more than highly trained thugs, with an inflated sense of their own competence. Not that they couldn’t be effective. They were a creditable special operations unit. Provided the mission was relatively straightforward, and their adversary ordinary, they were able to acquit themselves very well. But their limitations became glaringly obvious when tasked to kill Garin.

They’d been thrust on Bor by Moscow, who thought Bor needed help. In the end, Bor ended up killing most of the Omega team by himself anyway. But the Iranians at least provided logistical support.

Bor turned to Atosh Larijani, the senior Iranian. “Take Mr. Day to one of the upstairs bedrooms. We will start with him.” Larijani nodded at two Quds Force operatives, who grabbed Day roughly by each arm and pulled him off the couch. The attorney appeared almost catatonic. Although he offered no resistance, his face was tense and his body was rigid.

“Gently, please,” Bor admonished. “Mr. Day is a friend. We need not force information from him. He will cooperate. We’re just going to have a little chat.”

Day, his eyes wide with fear, hoped it was true. Why shouldn’t it be? He’d already demonstrated his willingness to provide Bor with any information he needed. He’d proven his loyalty and reliability for nearly three years. Why were they treating him like this? He hadn’t betrayed them in any way. Not really. He’d only acted defensively. This had to be a show for Perry to frighten her. That was it. Of course, that had to be it.

The two Iranians disappeared with Day down the hall and up the stairs. Bor looked at his watch. Ten fifteen. Less than six hours until exfiltration. His exfil. A speedboat manned by three heavily armed naval Spetsnaz operators was hidden in a cove less than half a mile away. A fast trip four miles down the eastern Chesapeake shoreline to a waiting helicopter. Then a short hop to a plane located at a small rural airfield in central North Carolina. He had been given explicit instructions to leave the Iranians behind. After all, their presence would be more evidence for the Americans of Iran’s culpability in the EMP attack. An attack that would occur sometime in the next eight hours.

Bor walked over to the couch and sat next to Olivia, an almost imperceptible flinch betraying her show of defiance. Bor looked at her a moment, his face inscrutable, then patted her knee reassuringly.

“We will have our little talk shortly, Ms. Perry,” Bor said in a calm, eerily detached voice. “As you no doubt have guessed, I’m interested in your conversations with my friend Mike Garin. That’s all. Nothing earth-shattering. But first I need to have a talk with Mr. Day. It shouldn’t take long. In the meantime, gather your thoughts, and if you need anything at all, just ask Atosh.”

Bor rose and smiled down at Olivia.

“Be back in a bit…”

Olivia was sure she’d never heard anything more menacing in her entire life.

Garin crept carefully downhill and through the brush toward the cabin housing Bor and the Iranians. The sky was moonless and the densely wooded forest with its thick canopy reduced visibility to barely five feet in every direction but one. Less than one hundred fifty feet ahead, the lights of the cabin illuminated its immediate perimeter and acted as a beacon for Garin, who would otherwise have no indication he was headed in the right direction.

Improvisation. Garin carried a six-pack of beer in his left hand. In his right he carried a cheap fishing rod he’d purchased at Dumser’s Bait and Tackle Shop next to the 7-Eleven on Choptank. Wedged between his right hand and the shaft of the rod was his SIG Sauer P226, suppressor affixed. In the dark, from a distance of more than a few feet, the SIG and the fishing rod were indistinguishable.

While driving to and from the 7-Eleven, Garin had made several unanswered calls to Dwyer. The lack of response was unusual, but Garin surmised Dwyer must still be at Carl’s bedside, cell phone off in compliance with hospital rules. Garin had left a message for Dwyer, as well as for Matt on DGT’s main line, although he knew any operation of this magnitude and sensitivity could be green-lighted only by Dwyer himself. Garin couldn’t take down the occupants of the cabin alone, not if he had any hope of Olivia’s making it out alive. He desperately needed support from Dwyer’s men.

On his way back from the 7-Eleven, Garin had placed his phone on vibrate and every minute or so he’d hit redial. That was fifteen minutes ago, with no response. He had no choice but to begin moving in on his own.

The darkness provided excellent cover as he approached the rear of the cabin. Although the curtains weren’t drawn, the main- and second-floor windows were too high for anyone at ground level to see everyone inside with certainty. From Garin’s vantage point slightly up the hill, he was even with the main-floor windows but still too far away to see the occupants clearly without a scope. Through the picture window in the living room he could see several individuals standing about, as well as others seated on a couch and chairs. But he couldn’t tell whether they were male or female, American or Iranian.

Slowly, Garin moved closer to the cabin but still well within the tree line of the surrounding forest. He expected there would be guards stationed outside, and Bor was likely to have positioned portable motion detectors and pressure plates around the cabin as well.

When he came within seventy feet of the cabin, Garin was able to discern two figures standing at opposite ends of the structure. Two more were likely stationed on the other side, but Garin couldn’t see them. He needed to take out all of them to ensure getting into the cabin undetected. But to get to anyone on the other side, he first had to leave the cover of the tree line.

Before taking care of the outside guards, Garin had to find out where Olivia and Day were in relation to their captors on the inside. While scanning the windows he continued to move closer to the edge of the tree line, approximately forty feet from the cabin.

There he detected movement in one of the upstairs windows and paused. Taras Bor. The Russian’s head was cast downward and he appeared to be speaking to someone seated to the right. An Iranian was barely visible to his left.

This complicated matters significantly, rendering a bad situation worse. Garin had expended thousands of rounds in innumerable kill-house exercises, as well as in actual hostage scenarios in both Iraq and Somalia. None had presented the challenges he was facing tonight. It would be difficult enough for one man to take out Bor and the Iranians were they all grouped together in a small area. Taking out the downstairs contingent without alerting those upstairs, and without increasing the already high probability of collateral damage, would be nearly impossible. He had no flash bangs, no backup, and poor intel on the bad guys’ positions. He needed support — lots of it — and he needed it now. Otherwise, this exercise would be futile, suicidal.

He hit the redial on his cell again to no avail. Seconds later, more movement caught his eye, this time in the living room window below. He looked down at the ground-floor window and his chest seized with astonishment. Seated on a couch was his sister, Katy. Although he couldn’t see them, he knew Joe and the kids must be nearby.

The noise outside the bunker. In the chaos of the last few days Garin had neglected to check on Joe and Katy. The seemingly omniscient Bor, however, had not. Clearly, to have located the bunker meant the Russian had extraordinary resources here in the United States. But that wasn’t an issue to be addressed now. Right now, all that mattered was that Bor had located Garin’s loved ones and was using them as an insurance policy. Just in case Garin showed up. Freeze him in place. The Russian assassin had covered all the angles. Once again, he remained one step ahead.

Garin felt a rush of adrenaline fueled by a combination of fear and fury. A jumble of childhood memories and emotion swirled in his brain, stoking his rage and causing the muscles in his neck and jaw to tense. The monsters in the cabin were holding the person who knew him best, loved him most. Maybe the only person who loved him. And they had Olivia, too. She’d taken a chance, risked her career, to help him.

So for their crimes they would suffer. Especially Bor. Garin would rip out his intestines and ram them so far down his throat they’d end up where they’d started. He was going to die slowly, in unbearable agony.

And then Garin’s training — the cold, steel discipline of Omega’s team leader — began to kick in. His training told him that any move he made now, compromised by emotion, would end in disaster. He needed to think, be rational.

His training, however, was at war with his instincts. Long ago, Laws had warned him there would be one or two extraordinary situations in his career in which that would happen. No amount of training, no amount of experience, would help. And on these occasions he would be alone, the correctness of his choice validated only by its outcome.

He sensed he was left, quite simply, with no choice but to act. If he didn’t, Katy and her family would be dead.

Katy’s eyes reflected seething hatred toward her captors. The animals had thrown her family, bound and gagged, into the rear of a filthy Econoline van and had driven from Ohio to… wherever they were. Joe, bleeding from his scalp from repeated blows to the head, had been unconscious for most of the trip. They had stopped only once, Katy presumed for gas. The family was kept locked in the van, and the kids, denied the use of a restroom, had soiled themselves. No food, no water. Nine hours of driving sprawled on the bare metal floor of the van.

The animals had taken Joe somewhere else in the cabin. She hadn’t seen him since their arrival, and she suspected the worst after Joe had punched one of the men as they were herding their captives into the cabin. Two of them leapt upon Joe, beating him as the others kept their weapons trained on him. Katy held no illusion that the beatings had discontinued. The kids were sitting together at her feet on the floor, frightened but quiet.

Seated on the couch to Katy’s immediate right was a young woman who had arrived at the cabin along with a frail, distraught-looking man a few hours after the Burns family. She had tried to speak to Katy but was slapped by one of the guards for the effort. The leader of the group seemed to take particular interest in the woman, who apparently possessed information valuable to the animals. One disapproving glance from him had caused the guard to retreat submissively.

A total of six guards, each with some sort of submachine gun, formed a semicircle in front of the couch. The one named Atosh sat in front of her in a chair. Two stood to his right in front of the living room window. Three stood to Atosh’s left. Katy let them know she was unimpressed.

“Six men with guns to cover two women and three children,” Katy hissed in contempt. “Pathetic. You’re not men. You’re not even cowards. You’re beneath cowards. My husband—”

“Will be dead soon,” Atosh said dismissively, cutting her off.

“My husband will kill you,” Katy continued. “He will—”

“Silence,” Atosh commanded. “Your husband, like all Americans, is weak. He is all but dead.” Katy heard the soft sniffles of Kimmy and Alex. But Katrina Garin Burns didn’t heed the Iranian.

“My brother will find you,” Katy continued in a poorly controlled rage. “Every single one of you. You’ve bought yourselves a nightmare. Worse. You don’t know it yet, but you’re already dead. There’s nothing you can do to change that. Nothing you can do to save yourselves. Because you can’t stop him. Can’t beat him. No one can.” A pause. “But you can still save your families. Let my children go. That’s your only chance. Otherwise, every member of your families will be dead.” Katy looked at each guard in turn. “Every. Single. One.”

A sneer crossed Atosh’s face. The impertinence of the American female. She had been a constant irritant throughout the trip from Ohio. No matter, the impertinence would soon be purged from her, along with her life. “You foolish—” He stopped in midsentence, distracted by the chirping of the outdoor motion detectors. And the sound of someone singing.

Garin, vastly outnumbered, decided to hide in plain sight. Unable to see all the perimeter guards, he determined that the risk of being detected before he was able to get into the house was too high. So Garin decided to take the risk of detection out of the equation. He’d simply make his presence known to everyone in the cabin. Garin quietly retreated from the tree line back into the woods. When he’d gone far enough, he began humming loudly and walked to the cabin again, making no attempt to conceal the noise of twigs and branches snapping underfoot.

Just before he broke the tree line, Garin began singing boisterously, feigning inebriation.

The guards peered into the dark, standing tensely, with their hands near the pistols on their hips. A third guard quickly appeared from the front of the cabin to check on what was happening.

Garin walked unsteadily toward the cabin, carrying the six-pack in his left hand and the fishing rod camouflaging the SIG in his right. His head down, he appeared lost in song, but through veiled eyes he was assessing the guards, gauging the angles.

As Garin drew closer he saw that one of the guards wore a head mike, his hand pressing against the earbud so he could hear over the noise. Someone from inside must have been inquiring what the commotion was all about.

The guard responded in Farsi to the inquiry coming over his mike. “No, Atosh, no. There is no problem. Everything is under control.” A pause, then: “A drunken American. Yes. We will send him on his way.”

Garin continued to approach, affecting an oblivious, careless manner. His eyes scanned from side to side. No other guards outside. He looked up as if noticing the guards in the dark for the first time and staggered to a halt, the picture of confusion.

“What… Wait, isn’t this the Prince George’s cabin?”

“Sir, you are lost,” said one of the guards without a trace of accent. “This is not the Prince George’s. You must move along if you wish to locate your cabin.”

“Oh man,” Garin moaned. “This is really messed up. I was just fishing… lost track of the time. As you can see I didn’t catch squat”—Garin held up the beer cans—“except this. And now here I am, lost in the dark.”

From the outlines of their torsos, Garin suspected the guards were wearing body armor. He would have to shoot each of them in the head. A neat trick in the dark, even at close range.

“Sir, you must move on,” the guard insisted politely. “This is a private rental.” The guard pointed to his left. “Perhaps your cabin is in that direction.”

Garin turned in the direction in which the guard pointed. “Where?”

The guard took his eye off Garin and turned in the direction in which he was pointing. “Over there.”

Garin seized the split second, dropped the beer and rod, and rapidly fired two suppressed rounds into the heads of each of the three guards, who collapsed onto the soft ground without a sound. Garin sprinted toward the cabin and moved to the front to confirm there were no remaining guards outside, hugging the exterior wall so he wouldn’t be seen from the windows.

As he moved along the right side of the cabin, he saw a light in a basement window. Staying to the side of the window, he bent down and glanced inside. Joe Burns, blood dripping from his head and face, was suspended by his hands from a wooden overhead beam in the basement laundry. Two Quds Force operatives, their backs to the window, were standing next to him. Even from behind, Garin immediately recognized the one holding a bent wire coat hanger in his hand as Mr. Obvious from the Diamondback. The other had what appeared to be a Mossberg 590A1 shotgun. From what Garin could see of Joe’s shredded, blood-soaked clothing, the Iranians had been beating Joe’s head, legs, and torso with the hanger.

Garin passed by the window and completed a circumnavigation of the cabin. No other guards were outside. He approached the rear door from the side and took a quick look in the door’s small window. Seeing no one, he carefully opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it. To his left, a flight of stairs ran up to the main and second floors. To his right was the door leading to the basement.

Garin opened the basement door slowly, praying that the hinges were well oiled. From the top of the stairs he could see the lower legs of the two Iranians and hear them talking in Farsi. Joe would be hanging a couple of feet to their left.

Taking a breath, Garin descended the stairs swiftly and silently. He reached the bottom just a few feet from the Iranians and began firing before they realized he was there, double tapping each. Both were dead before they hit the floor.

Garin stuck the SIG into the holster in his waistband, pulled out a SOG tactical knife from his left boot, and cut the ropes from Joe’s hands. Joe began to collapse but Garin steadied him with his free hand.

As Joe rubbed his arms, trying to get the feeling back in them, Garin ejected the half-spent magazine from his pistol and seated a fresh one. His next move would require him to engage at least six targets at once, and he wanted to reduce the need to change magazines in the middle of the fight. Garin looked over at Joe, who was doing his best to mask his pain.

“How bad is it?” Garin whispered.

“About as bad as it looks. They got my legs pretty good. I’m kinda wobbly. I didn’t tell them anything, though, Mike. Not that I had anything to say.”

“Can you handle one of those?” Garin asked, pointing to the Mossberg.

The sergeant major gave him a withering look.

“Katy and the kids are on the next floor. There are half a dozen of those bastards covering them. On the floor above that, there are at least three more. It’s not optimal, but I’ll need to use my pistol — I can’t use the shotgun and risk spraying Katy and the kids. Can you get up the flight of stairs?”

“I think so.”

“All right. Take a position on the landing inside the back door and smoke any bad guys that try to come your way.”

“Like hell. That’s not gonna happen. Those are my wife and kids up there in the living room. I’m coming with you.”

“Joe, listen. I need to move fast. Really fast. No margin for error. Even then… Look, I just can’t risk having you slow me down.”

Joe eyed Garin with an intensity he’d never before seen from his brother-in-law. “That’s my family up there,” Joe snarled. “You better not slow me down.”

Garin knew he was wasting precious seconds and that he wouldn’t win this argument. He conceded to himself that he needed help. Even with a second gun, the odds of pulling this off were not good.

“Okay, I’ll go up to the first floor and wait in the hallway leading to the living room.” Garin picked up the shotgun and handed it to Joe. “You continue up to the second floor. There’s a light on in the bedroom directly above the living room. There should be three bad guys standing in there, plus a skinny blondish guy who’s probably sitting in a chair or on the bed.”

“I saw them bring him in,” Joe said.

“It would be nice if he came out of this alive. Try to avoid hitting him if you can. But you’re not trained for this, so don’t be cute. When you’re ready, you go into that room blasting. Take out all the bad guys.”

“I’ve never been accused of being cute.”

“One of the guys in that bedroom is really bad. If you hesitate, even for a millisecond, you’re dead — we’re all dead. Got it?”

“We’re wasting time,” Joe replied impatiently.

“I’ll wait until you’ve made your move first. When you start firing that cannon, I’m counting on it to startle the enemy in the living room just long enough to give me an edge.”

Joe nodded. Garin proceeded quietly up the stairs to the landing at the back door. Someone was talking in the living room. Garin poked his head quickly into the darkened hallway. He could see the kids seated on the floor in front of the couch twenty feet away. An Iranian seated in a chair facing the couch blocked his view of someone Garin presumed was Katy.

Garin motioned for Joe to pass him and continue up the stairs to the second floor. As he passed, Joe patted Garin once on the shoulder.

Garin slid slowly down the hallway toward the living room, hugging the right wall, weapon extended at eye level. He could hear his sister cursing the Iranians. Balls. He stopped — remaining obscured by the shadows of the hallway, three feet from the entrance to the living room. If he stayed to the right side of the hallway when he moved forward, he’d have a clear shot at the three Iranians facing the window and the one sitting in a chair with his back to him. At the same time, the Iranians standing to the right, in front of the window, wouldn’t have a clear shot at him. He decided to start with the men on the left and then move to the other side of the hallway, engage the seated man, and finally the two in front of the window.

Garin inched forward. Alex’s eyes widened as he noticed Uncle Mike standing with a pistol in the shadows of the hallway. Garin shook his head curtly and Alex obediently cast his eyes downward just as a series of deafening explosions sounded from the upstairs bedroom.

For Garin, the next five seconds unfolded in a slow, dreamlike sequence. He stepped forward and fired six rounds at the Quds Force operatives standing to the left. Each round found its target, sending the three Iranians tumbling backward and landing in a tangled sprawl on the floor.

Katy reflexively dove on top of the kids to shield them from errant bullets. Olivia dove next to her. Atosh, the seated Iranian, wasn’t able to turn more than halfway around before two shots from Garin’s weapon tore the top of his head off, blasting him from the chair and onto the floor next to Olivia.

Mental clock ticking, Garin stepped to the other side of the living room entrance and pivoted to his right to engage the two Iranians standing in front of the window. Before he could lock onto either target, he realized that the one closest to him had already raised his weapon and was about to fire, when the living room window exploded and the skulls of both Iranians burst simultaneously into a pink mist, sending their lifeless torsos crashing to the floor amid a cascade of shattered glass.

Sniper fire.

Garin rapidly checked the six corpses, ignoring the ringing in his ears and the cries of his niece and nephews. He took a brief glance at the women and kids to confirm that they were unharmed, then bolted up the stairs to the second floor, taking three steps at a time.

Reaching the landing, he jutted his head into the hallway and, seeing nothing, moved to the bedroom door, where Joe was standing, chest heaving, Mossberg held at his hip.

Joe turned urgently to Garin. “Katy and the kids?”

“Scared witless, but good as new.”

Garin peered into the bedroom to inspect the carnage. A kaleidoscope of blood was splattered across the walls behind two bodies lying on the floor. Neither body was Bor’s.

To the left of the door, Julian Day sat cowering in the corner, hugging his knees to his chest. The counsel for the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence stared at the mangled bodies of the Iranians, eyes wide and his face frozen in terror. Flecks of blood covered his right arm and shoulder.

“What happened to the third Tango?” Garin asked Joe.

“Only two were here. I shot the two that were standing and tried to avoid the skinny guy like you said. He might’ve gotten nicked by some shot, but he’ll be fine.”

Garin looked at the slightly open window with no screen and understood: Hendrix. Taras Bor, the former Omega operator, had recognized the song and the singing. He’d come to the logical conclusion that Garin wouldn’t have assaulted the cabin without overwhelming force, and coldly made the most rational decision. He was gone and would not be found.

Garin’s cell vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, answered curtly, and heard a familiar voice. “You still playing Lone Ranger or is it safe to come in?” Dwyer asked.

“I thought it was you out there but was a little worried it might somehow be the FBI,” Garin said. “It’s clear. Everyone moving in here’s a friendly.” Garin ended the call.

“Cavalry?” Joe asked.

Garin nodded. “Go take care of your family.”

As Joe hobbled painfully down the hallway, Garin called after him. “Hey, Sergeant Major.”

Joe turned.

“I’m glad you married my sister.”

Garin stuck his SIG back into his waistband, noticing for the first time that he’d been grazed by a shot at the right hip. He walked over to Day, who recoiled as Garin grabbed him by the collar and pulled him to his feet.

“Shape up, Julian. We’ve got work to do.”

Garin pulled Day along the hall and down the stairs to the living room, where half a dozen of Dwyer’s black-clad men were moving efficiently about — searching, then covering the bodies of the Iranians and administering first aid to Olivia, Katy, and the kids. Dwyer stood in the middle of the room, flanked by two men carrying M110 sniper rifles. The man on the left was Matt. Although he’d never met the man on Dwyer’s right, Garin recognized him in an instant.

“Meet the man who saved your life,” Dwyer said as Congo Knox extended his hand. Garin stood motionless, bewildered. Slowly, he relaxed his grip on Day and moved warily toward Knox.

Dwyer, recognizing Garin’s hesitation, said, “Mikey, of all days, today’s Congo’s first with DGT.” Dwyer chuckled nervously. “Baptism by fire. You know he’s no longer with Delta? We signed him up this morning and he wasn’t slated to start with us until next month, but I played a hunch. He didn’t have to come on this assignment, yet he agreed right away when I told him what it was. Heck, he insisted on coming. He took out the shooter who had you dead to rights.”

“Mike, Congo Knox,” the sniper said, hand still outstretched. “Dan told me you thought you saw me in New York and D.C. You were right. He still brought me aboard, figuring the assignment to take you out wasn’t my call. I’m sure you have a lot of questions, and probably want to punch me. Maybe worse. But I don’t know where the order to take you out came from. An order like that doesn’t originate at Bragg or MacDill. But that’s the extent of my knowledge.”

After several long seconds, Garin grasped Knox’s hand. “I’m not going to make happy talk with you right now. Even though it wasn’t your call, it’ll take a while to process. And, yeah, I may have to clock you to get it out of my system. But I understand. Unfortunately. Been there.” Garin turned and glared at Julian Day. “I have an idea who might know where the order came from, though.”

Garin then pointed at Dwyer. “Just when were you planning on telling me you were bringing the guy who was supposed to kill me to DGT?”

Dwyer looked sheepish. “Mikey, like I said, it all happened in the last twenty-four. The word in the community was Congo was becoming a free agent, so we tracked him down as fast as we could. Found him down at the Green Beret Parachute Club. Figured it was better to have him on our side than on someone else’s ticket. So we took him off the market. Hey, in the end he saved your life.”

Garin did not look placated.

“What about Bor?” Dwyer asked, anxious to change the subject.

“Gone.”

“I’ll send some men after him.”

“Forget it, you won’t find him, even with NVGs. He had a plan, and he’s prepared for just this.”

Garin saw Katy approaching from the other side of the room and turned back to Knox. “We’ll talk,” Garin said as he pulled Day forward and thrust him toward Dwyer. “Keep an eye on him for me, will you, Dan?”

Katy crossed the room and embraced Garin. “Not bad, little brother,” Katy said, trying with surprising success to remain composed. “Pop would be proud.”

“Not bad yourself. It’s a good thing you’re so pretty,” Garin said drily, “because you’re one scary chick.” He tilted his head toward Kimmy, Nicholas, and Alex, who were hugging Joe. “Traumatic situation. How do you think they’ll hold up?”

“They’re kids.” She shrugged. “They’re resilient. I’m sure there’ll be a nightmare or two. We’ll talk to them, probably with Father Augustine and Sister Frances Marie. But trust me, within a week it will be Kimmy, Nicholas, and Alex’s excellent adventure. They’ll be the envy of all the neighborhood kids. And on top of that their dad’s a hero.”

“Ah, yeah, about that…”

“Don’t worry. We won’t let them talk… much. You think you’re the only one with a brain in this family? No ‘operational details,’ as you call it. Just the part where Dad saves them. Heck, that’s all they really know anyway.”

Even as Katy spoke, Kimmy, Nicholas, and Alex, showing little evidence of being shaken, gravitated to the imposing figure of Congo Knox, whose smart salutes they repeatedly returned with increasing precision and enthusiasm. The Burns family’s version of crisis therapy, thought Garin.

Noticing Katy looking over his shoulder, Garin glanced back and saw Olivia, still visibly jarred, standing behind him.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt, Michael,” Olivia murmured, her eyes watering. “I just wanted to say thank you. You were… Well, thank you.”

“I guessed you two probably knew one another,” Katy said as she brushed by Garin to comfort Olivia. Embracing the aide to the national security advisor, Katy looked expectantly at her brother. “Mike?”

“I’ll make introductions all around later,” Garin said, trying his best not to sound brusque. “But right now we need to take care of some urgent business. Olivia, I assume you can reach Brandt?”

“Yes.”

“Stand by. I’m going to”—Garin searched for the right word—“debrief Julian Day.”

Garin walked over to where Day was standing between Dwyer and Knox. The kids immediately left Knox and hugged Garin’s legs.

“Awesome, Uncle Mike!” Nicholas squealed. So much for trauma.

“I had my eye on you guys,” Garin said, tousling their hair. “You’re the bravest soldiers I’ve seen in a long time.” He gently pried them from his legs and steered them back toward Knox. “Right now Uncle Mike’s got some work to do. We’ll catch up in a little bit. Okay?”

Garin turned to Dwyer. “Dan, have some of your men take the Burns family back up to the rental office,” he said quietly as he grabbed Day by the arm. “I don’t want them to hear what happens next.”

“Got it, Mikey. But do what you have to do fast. I figure you’ve got no more than”—Dwyer examined his watch—“fifteen minutes before every CIA, DIA, and FBI agent within one hundred miles shows up.”

Garin jerked Day roughly down the hallway toward the kitchen. Olivia, alarmed at the sight, tried to follow, but Dwyer placed his substantial frame between her and the kitchen. The dour look on his normally agreeable face told her not to press the issue.

Upon reaching the kitchen, Garin slapped Day hard across the face, causing him to stagger against the refrigerator. The lawyer, nerves already frayed from Bor’s interrogation, yelped as much from dread as from pain. Grasping Day with one hand, Garin ripped through the drawers under the expansive kitchen counter until he found a stainless steel cleaver. He turned to Day.

“Let’s review, Julian. With your assistance, Taras Bor and his Quds Force friends killed every single member of my team, a team vital to protecting America’s national security interests. They were good men, good Americans. Doing a job you despised and hounded them for, but without which you wouldn’t be able to go to the theater, grocery store, or ladies’ room without fear of getting blown to bits.” The words, though spoken quietly, were steeped in unmistakable malice.

“You also assisted Bor and his goons in kidnapping my sister’s family, using them as bait and insurance against an attack by me. They beat my brother-in-law half to death and abused my sister, niece, and nephews. I have no doubt they would’ve killed them all once they’d served their purpose.” Garin seized Day’s right wrist. As he spoke, Day avoided looking at Garin’s eyes and the cleaver in his hand.

“Now, you’re going to tell me how you did that and who assisted you. But before you do, you’re going to tell me everything I need to know about the EMP attack that’s going to hit us. You didn’t think we knew about that, did you? Of course you didn’t. How could we? We’re just ignorant grunts, tools of American hegemony, exploiting and violating the rights of kind, peace-loving people everywhere. While you, on the other hand, are the brilliant legal avenger, making the world safe for the perpetually aggrieved, the righteously entitled, and the morally superior.”

Garin’s voice grew softer as he spoke. Day, bizarrely, found himself straining to hear what Garin was saying, lest he miss a threat of imminent disfigurement.

“Here’s how this is going to work, Julian,” Garin continued. “Speed is critical. So first you’ll give me the big picture: time of the attack, where it’s coming from, and where it’s going to hit. Then we’ll get into the enemy’s delivery vehicles, countermeasures, stuff like that. Finally, we’ll talk about how and with whom you orchestrated all of this.”

Day struggled futilely as Garin held the lawyer’s right hand atop the granite counter. A foul odor wafted into the air. Garin angled the blade above Day’s pinky finger, using the edge of the counter as a fulcrum.

“If you lie, a finger comes off. If I think you’re lying, a finger comes off. If you hold back anything whatsoever, a finger comes off. Got it?”

Day clenched his fingers protectively. Garin responded by repositioning the cleaver over Day’s wrist. “All right,” Garin whispered. “Then this is how we’ll play it. If you lie, a hand comes off. If I think you’re lying, a hand comes off…”

“Please,” the terrified attorney pleaded, sounding utterly drained and defeated. “This isn’t necessary. I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

Garin drew his face to within inches from Day’s and studied the man’s eyes for several seconds. There was no deceit, no resistance, only exhaustion and resignation.

Garin returned the blade to the drawer, pulled Day to the doorway, and called out to the living room. “Olivia, get in here right away.”

No one present in the Situation Room was sitting. It was a maelstrom of nervous energy.

After receiving a call from SecDef Merritt approximately twenty minutes earlier, Marshall had recalled to the White House all the attendees from the earlier meeting. Merritt had just received a call from Dan Dwyer, head of DGT, advising that he and his men had located James Brandt’s senior aide, Olivia Perry, at a cabin along the Chesapeake. Dwyer informed him that his snipers were positioned around the cabin and were prepared to engage hostiles. Secretary Merritt was well aware that he didn’t have the authority to give Dwyer’s men the green light but calculated that there wasn’t any time to send the matter through appropriate channels. Deciding to act and deal with the consequences later, Merritt granted Dwyer permission to engage. What Merritt hadn’t known at the time was that Dwyer had placed the call a full minute after Matt and Congo Knox had already taken out the two Quds Force operatives in front of the living room window. Dwyer, too, believed it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission.

Minutes before everyone had assembled in the Situation Room, Prime Minister Chafetz had called Marshall to inform the president that Israeli F-15 and F-16 stealth fighters were manned, fueled, and prepared to strike Iran. Israeli agents and electronic surveillance had identified a frenzy of activity at suspected Iranian missile sites. Silos at two sites appeared hot. Marshall, in turn, informed Chafetz that the Fifth Fleet’s USS Eisenhower carrier strike group was closing in and would provide any support Chafetz requested.

Shortly after Merritt had spoken to Dwyer, Brandt received a call on his cell phone from Olivia, stating that she had reliable information on the Iranian EMP plans. Brandt informed Marshall, who directed White House Communications Agency Major Clayton Cord to arrange a secure call back to Olivia in sixty seconds and to place the call on the Situation Room speaker. Major Cord’s voice came over the speaker.

“Mr. President, we are now connecting to Ms. Perry.”

There was a click, then: “Mr. President?”

“Ms. Perry, this is President Marshall. You are on the speaker in the White House Situation Room. Among those present are Secretary of Defense Merritt, Secretary of State Lawrence, Director of National Intelligence Antonetti, DCI Scanlon, Joint Chiefs Chairman Taylor, and Jim Brandt.

“We’re all grateful that you’re all right. Jim tells me you have information on a planned Iranian EMP strike on Israel. As a preliminary matter, Ms. Perry, what makes you believe that the information is reliable?”

“Mr. President.” Olivia’s voice sounded strong and confident to everyone in the room except the person who knew her best. Brandt recognized that Olivia was both nervous and scared. “The information comes from Senate Intelligence counsel Julian Day, who confesses to working with the Russians and, by extension, the Iranians, to coordinate an EMP strike.”

Expressions of amazement covered the faces in the Situation Room. “And how did you obtain this information?” Marshall asked.

“Mr. President, Michael Garin obtained the information from Day. Mr. Garin is standing next to me right now.” The expressions of amazement became more pronounced. Several individuals leaned toward the speaker.

“Where is Mr. Day at this moment?”

“He’s in another room nearby, guarded by DGT personnel.”

Marshall scanned the faces of everyone in the room. A few nodded as if to somehow validate the legitimacy of the information Perry was about to convey.

“Okay, Ms. Perry. Time is of the essence. Just give me the headlines.”

“Mr. President, within the next eight hours, Iran will launch several missiles, all but one of which carries a nuclear warhead with a yield approximating the bombs dropped on Nagasaki and Hiroshima. Missiles will be launched — I’m having Dan Dwyer forward the precise coordinates to Secretary Merritt and General Taylor as we speak — from sites in northern Iran between the Caspian Sea and the North Alborz Protected Area… and all but one of the missiles will detonate over various targets in Israel.”

“All but one?” Marshall asked.

“Yes, Mr. President. The final missile, with a one-megaton yield, will be launched toward the United States. It’s set to detonate at an altitude of one hundred twenty miles somewhere between Kansas City and Chicago, creating an electromagnetic pulse that will cover two-thirds of the continental United States.”

The room fell into stunned silence for several seconds as its occupants sought to absorb the enormity of what they’d just heard.

As multiple questions began to percolate among them, James Brandt knifed through the confusion. “Olivia,” Brandt said. “Jim here. Two questions: Iran’s missiles do not have the capability of hitting the United States. They can barely be certain to hit Israel with any degree of accuracy. Am I correct in assuming that the Russians provided that capability to the Iranians?”

“That’s correct, Professor. The Russians and North Koreans have been working with the Iranians for the last two and a half years — Day says to modify the Shahab-3, increasing both distance and accuracy as well as modifying the Shahab’s payload capacity for a larger warhead to detonate over the US.”

“Second,” Brandt resumed, “an Iranian nuclear strike on Israel can destroy enough of that country’s strategic capacity that Iran could survive a retaliatory strike. But surely the Iranians know that they wouldn’t even make a dent in our nuclear capability, and a retaliatory strike by the United States would annihilate them. How does Day explain that?”

“The Iranians don’t know they’re hitting us,” Olivia replied.

“What in the world do you mean, Ms. Perry?” Marshall asked.

“Just a moment, Mr. President,” Olivia said, handing Dwyer’s phone to Garin.

“Pardon me, Mr. President. This is Mike Garin. Sir, the Iranians don’t know that one of the missiles is targeted at the United States because the Russians controlled the project — the development of the nuclear missiles. They never let the Iranians get near the computers, guidance, telemetry, or anything but the material for the warhead. And they let them work on the warhead only because they didn’t want the payload’s nuclear signature to be Russian.

“The Iranians believe all the missiles are targeted toward Israel. The strike will all but obliterate their enemy. Iran is willing to accept the losses from whatever limited retaliatory strike Israel may be able to mount. The mullahs believe they’ll be heroes for destroying Israel.

“The Russians, for their part, will have total deniability regarding the EMP attack on the United States. The United States and every other country in the world will be tracking the missile launch from Iran that detonates over the United States. Everyone will blame Iran. It’s an Iranian missile, launched by Iran, from Iranian soil.

“Mr. President, the missile aimed at the United States is located inside a foothill near Mount Azad Kuh, south of Chalus. To my knowledge, it’s not a site previously identified by either the CIA or Mossad. There are two other sites previously unknown to us located at Shahrud and another at Gorgan. Those sites, among others, will hit Israeli targets.”

“Mr. Garin, one moment, please,” Marshall said.

The president pointed at Secretary Merritt and Chairman Taylor. “Gentlemen, I gather you have the location for this Mount Azad Kuh?”

“Yes, sir,” the men responded in unison.

“Do anything and everything you have to do to destroy that site right now. Go.”

The two men moved rapidly toward secure phones at the other end of the room. Marshall pointed to Ted Lawrence. “Tell Prime Minister Chafetz everything we’ve just heard. Wait until the Pentagon informs you that our forces are in the air, and then inform our NATO allies, starting with the Brits. Meanwhile, I’ll have a talk with President Mikhailov personally. Have Carole Tunney demand an emergency meeting of the Security Council. Go.”

Marshall then turned to his chief of staff. “Iris, we’ll need to address the American people contemporaneously with our attack. Have our—”

The president abruptly stopped speaking. He and everyone else in the room were startled by the distinct sound of multiple gunshots coming over the speaker.