MOUNT VERNON, VIRGINIA,
AUGUST 14, 9:45 P.M. EDT
The story of the massacre was on all the cable news shows.
According to CNN, two Georgia State Patrol vehicles were dispatched to assist another trooper who had requested backup regarding a suspicious driver. After dispatch was unable to contact the troopers, several other vehicles were dispatched but found no vehicles at the last reported location. Fox News reported that after several additional cars were dispatched on a thirty-mile stretch of I-85, aerial surveillance was deployed using infrared scopes.
MSNBC reported that a team with search dogs located the bodies of three troopers and two civilians next to three patrol cars and a Ford Transit in the woods near the last reported location. Each of the victims had been shot multiple times, including what the reports described as a coup de grace—a single shot just above the bridge of the nose.
Dan Dwyer, a former Navy SEAL and owner and CEO of DGT, a mammoth military and security contractor, watched all three broadcasts intermittently on a bank of monitors located in a multimillion-dollar secure communications room in the subbasement of his sprawling home in Mount Vernon, Virginia. The grisly story had been playing on all the news outlets, interspersed with vapid political commentary and news of the tropical depression that appeared to be evolving into a hurricane off the eastern coast of Cuba. Until the reference to the single shot to the bridge of each victim’s nose, it had all served as background noise while Dwyer studied financial and operational reports. Asleep at his feet were Max, his giant geriatric Newfoundland, and two German shepherd pups, Bear and Diesel.
The detail about the shot to the bridge of the nose, however, gave him pause. It reminded Dwyer of the favorite maxim of special operations legend Clint Laws that “there are no coincidences in this business.”
A shot to the bridge of the nose was, indeed, an effective act to ensure the victim never posed a problem again. It was not unique in the business of death, but that particular signature had played a minor role in a series of events that had culminated in the current US bombing campaign against Iranian nuclear facilities.
After the story was replayed for perhaps the third time, Dwyer switched the monitors to an all-sports network. Preseason college football practices had begun and analysts were speculating about the race for the national title. A former assistant coach at Annapolis, Dwyer also had a rooting interest in the Wisconsin Badgers, his home state team. He snorted derisively when the consensus had the Badgers at twenty-fifth, well below Big Ten rivals Ohio State, Michigan, and Michigan State.
Just as one of the commentators was concluding what Dwyer considered to be a sophomoric analysis of the state of the Southeastern Conference, a buzzer sounded, signaling an incoming call. Bear and Diesel perked. Max remained asleep. Dwyer moved to the deep-cushioned captain’s chair in the center of the room and pushed a button on the console embedded in the armrest, activating a speakerphone.
“Need help.”
Now Max perked, recognizing Garin’s voice.
“Whoa, whoa,” Dwyer said. “No salutations? No witty byplay? No prefatory explanations? I have to conclude that your miserable butt is, once again, in an impressively deep pile of excrement.”
Dwyer was, perhaps, the only person in the world who would dare address Mike Garin in that fashion. The two, after all, shared a long and varied history. Dwyer, several years Garin’s senior, had unsuccessfully recruited the latter to play football at Annapolis, Garin choosing to attend Cornell instead, where he became an honorable mention all-American at free safety. A few years later Dwyer was one of Garin’s instructors at BUD/S, the SEAL training program. Despite excelling at BUD/S, Garin one day disappeared from the program, only to inexplicably reemerge in time to save Dwyer’s life during a mountaintop operation in Afghanistan.
By then, Garin’s reputation in the special operations community had assumed near-mythic status. The two went on to found DGT along with Bob Thompson, a fellow operator. A few years later Garin cashed out handsomely and once again disappeared. It wasn’t until earlier in the summer that Dwyer had learned that Garin led the Omega team, a clandestine unit of tier-one special operators tasked with destroying or compromising rogue WMD programs on foreign soil. Garin had turned to Dwyer when every member of Omega had been assassinated and Garin was being sought as the chief suspect. Their collaboration discovered and thwarted an EMP attack against the United States. Since then, Dwyer had been trying to convince Garin to return to DGT.
“You conclude correctly,” Garin responded. “A couple of hours ago two shooters tried to take me out.”
Dwyer felt a twinge of anxiety. No coincidences in this business. He hit another button on the armrest console and the monitors switched back to the cable news shows. CNN and Fox were running the Georgia massacre loop.
“Where are you?” Dwyer asked.
“On I-45 southbound from Dallas.”
“It’s not over. He’s back,” Dwyer said.
“What do you mean?”
“The news shows are reporting a mass shooting in Georgia. Three state troopers and a couple of civilians. Each had been shot—”
“In the forehead just above the bridge of the nose.”
“Bor.” Dwyer nodded. “When the news first hit it stuck in the back of my mind. But I thought we killed all those bastards.”
“All but Bor,” Garin corrected.
“And we’re bombing Iran back into the Mesozoic era. But now that you tell me someone tried to hit you . . .”
“No coincidences.”
“Never,” Dwyer affirmed. “What could they be up to now?”
“If it’s Bor, it’s something very bad.”
Dwyer registered the unease in his friend’s voice. Bor was the only person Dwyer had seen produce apprehension in Garin. In many ways, Bor and Garin were alike—physically, temperamentally, and operationally. There was, however, one quality peculiar to Bor. During his career in special warfare, Dwyer had encountered some of the most dangerous human beings mankind had produced. Bor, however, was unequivocally the closest thing to unadulterated evil Dwyer could imagine.
“If our recent experience is any guide, whatever big and bad thing Bor’s up to is going to happen fast. The man’s efficient. Practically supernatural.” Dwyer paused. “Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country, Mikey. Retirement’s over. It’s not you anyway.”
“It wasn’t retirement; it was a hiatus,” Garin corrected.
“What do you need from me?”
“I need protection for a civilian. She’s with me right now.”
“A babe, I hope?”
Garin ignored the comment. Dwyer was both a savvy and successful businessman and a proficient operator, yet regardless of almost any circumstance, his approach was that of a college sophomore at Mardi Gras.
“Luci Saldana. They’ll no doubt come for her.”
“Your trainer for the Crucible? FYI—a hiatus implies relaxation, buddy, not radical physical torture. But I expect you cruised,” Dwyer said. “Keep going south on I-45 toward Houston. Then take, I think, 59 southwest or maybe 90A to Sugar Land Regional Airport. You’ll find it. I’ll put Congo Knox on one of the Gulfstreams. He should be there in”—Dwyer examined a digital clock on the wall—“three to four hours. Go to the southernmost end of the runway off 90A near the old Central Unit 2 Prison. We have a small facility nearby that provides logistics support for our oil well, platform, and refinery security operations. I’ll make sure the manager is there to meet you. Austin Danzig. Good man. Former Air Force PJ. He’ll babysit Ms. Saldana until Congo arrives.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re racking up quite the chit, man. This, plus the support for the last time bad guys were trying to kill you—”
“We’ll settle up later,” Garin interrupted. “Right now I need you to contact Olivia.”
“I heard she’s been seeing some senator since our last encounter,” Dwyer said. “You know, though, she still only has eyes for you.”
“Thanks for the tabloid newsflash, Dan, but you need to let her know we suspect Bor’s back in operation.”
“Olivia? Why not Kessler?” Dwyer asked, referring to the deputy director of the CIA.
“We can’t trust anyone other than Olivia and James Brandt. The EMP operation was assisted, maybe even guided, by someone very high up in this government. We still don’t know who that person is. Until then, we have to operate as if everyone’s a potential mole. Same protocols as the EMP operation.”
“Okay. I assume you’re on a throwaway?”
“SIM’s coming out and it’s going out the window as soon as I get off this call, which, as far as I’m concerned, has already been too long.”
“My lines are completely, one hundred percent secure,” Dwyer said indignantly. He spent a small fortune on state-of-the-art surveillance countermeasures and was proud of it.
“My systems will screw up any . . .” Dwyer stopped. Static was coming over the speakerphone.