CLEVELAND, OHIO,
AUGUST 15, 4:17 P.M. EDT
Garin took the escalator from the terminal to the people mover that led to the parking garage. There were few people along the way.
By the time he reached the elevator to the upper floor of the parking garage, he was alone. The woman who was seated four rows ahead of him had faded into the foot traffic somewhere within the terminal.
When the elevator arrived, he pressed the button for the top floor of the garage, where a DGT fleet vehicle positioned by one of Dwyer’s men would be waiting. The vehicle, likely a Crown Victoria, would be unlocked, with the key hidden, unimaginatively, in the front driver’s-side wheel well. Garin thought the probability that assassins also would be waiting was fairly good.
The elevator doors opened and he proceeded to the top deck of the garage. The area was virtually empty—only two vehicles on the entire floor—one of them a Crown Victoria parked just a few feet away. Garin retrieved the keys from the wheel well, opened the trunk, threw in his bag, and retrieved the SIG Sauer P226—Garin’s weapon of choice—just as a spray of suppressed gunfire shattered the driver’s-side windows.
Garin dove behind the passenger side of the car as it was riddled by several additional rounds of semiautomatic gunfire. Garin dropped to the concrete floor of the garage and peered under the vehicle in the direction of the shots, spotting the thick cylindrical shapes of suppressors attached to what appeared to be HK MP5s protruding from behind concrete pillars approximately thirty yards away. He rose to one knee and fired two covering rounds at the pillars, the gunshots reverberating throughout the garage.
Barely a second later, return fire struck the body of the driver’s side, providing cover for one of the shooters to advance to a pillar closer to Garin. He fired a round at the pillar, the echo of the shot followed by the sound of a nearby police siren. By its direction, Garin guessed it was that of the Cleveland Police patrol car stationed near the passenger pickup area a few floors below. Garin estimated it would take the police about a minute and a half to negotiate through the drop-off-zone driveway, circle around the Sheraton Hotel, and arrive at the entrance to the garage. It would take another thirty seconds to maneuver up the ramps and around the turns of the garage to the top floor.
Two minutes. The shooters had less than that to kill Garin. It wasn’t a mistake on their part. No doubt they believed Garin would be unarmed coming off the flight, so they wouldn’t have anticipated that the sound of unsuppressed gunfire would summon the police.
The imminent arrival of the police complicated matters for Garin. He’d hoped to flush out and apprehend a Bor agent for questioning. The woman had been the most appealing prospect, but she had disappeared. The shooters now were his best option. Even assuming he could survive until then, he couldn’t afford the delay of being placed into custody.
Two more suppressed shots glanced off the concrete pavement. Garin saw one of the shooters sprinting toward a Ford Explorer. He fired three rounds, one of which, to Garin’s astonishment, struck the sprinter in the left temple, dropping him dead. Garin ducked his head as the other shooter fired two three-round bursts as he moved toward the Explorer. Before Garin could return fire he heard another three-round burst followed by an agonized grunt and the slamming of a vehicle door.
Garin popped his head above the Crown Victoria’s hood. Twenty feet from the Explorer lay the body of a diligent parking garage security guard, next to which was a gelatinous red blob that had once been his head. The Explorer jolted forward, bounced over the security guard’s remains, and sped down the ramp toward the lower levels.
Garin swung around the hood of the Crown Vic to the driver’s door, climbed in, and started the car. Seconds later the screeching of tires from the two vehicles mixed with the wails of the approaching police sirens. As Garin drove down the ramp to the fourth floor, he could see the Explorer to his right descending the ramp to the third floor. Another minute, maybe less, before Cleveland’s finest arrived at the garage entrance. At that point, the variables would become unmanageable. Both Garin and the shooter had few, if any, good options.
Garin needed to seize any option, for better or worse. The Explorer, having just spun around the landing at the top of the second-floor ramp, was facing him and beginning its descent one level below. Garin braced his arms against the steering wheel and yanked it hard right, driving through the wire barriers separating the ramps and plunging the Crown Vic downward several feet and into the passenger side of the Explorer, wedging it against a concrete pylon.
Jarred, Garin attempted to get his bearings as he heard sirens closing in. The front of his car had caved in the Explorer’s passenger door, pinning the shooter between it and the driver’s-side door, which was, in turn, pinned against a pylon. Through the clouds of steam surrounding the vehicles and past the airbag, Garin could see the shooter struggling to free himself, blood rushing from his nose and mouth. He appeared to be reaching toward the seat. The MP5, thought Garin.
Garin located the SIG on the passenger-side floor, grasped it, and sprang from the car. Veins bulged on the shooter’s forehead as he strained to free himself. Garin lunged for the rear passenger-side door, the only door not obstructed by metal or concrete.
Through the door’s window he could see the end of the suppressor pointing from the floor and upward toward the shooter, his right hand reaching for the trigger. Garin wrenched the door open just as the top of the shooter’s skull exploded against the roof of the vehicle.
Garin cursed, stuck the SIG in his waistband, and reached across the back seat toward the body. He frisked the torso, retrieved a phone from the right hip pocket, and placed it in his own. Then he levered himself out of the Explorer and popped the trunk of the Crown Victoria to grab his bag. The sound of the sirens began to echo, indicating that the police vehicles had entered the parking garage.
Bag in hand, Garin bolted toward the opposite end of the garage and through the metal door to the stairwell. Behind him he could hear the screeching of tires drawing closer to the wreck. He descended the stairs, taking two steps at a time until he came to the ground level, where he composed himself for a moment before opening the metal door to the exterior of the garage. Behind him the sirens and screeching tires halted abruptly.
Garin walked calmly past the parking attendant kiosks and toward the Sheraton Hotel, casting a couple of befuddled glances over his shoulder as he went, an arriving traveler curious about the commotion somewhere inside the concrete structure. He crossed the access road separating the outdoor parking area from the hotel and proceeded toward the row of taxis at the hotel’s front entrance.
Garin nodded at the tall, lanky driver who was leaning against the cab at the front of the queue. The driver opened the door for Garin, shut it behind him, and then settled behind the wheel.
Through the back window Garin could see the strobe-like reflections of flashing lights in the recesses of the parking garage. The sound of several more sirens approached from Interstate 71 to the north.
“What’s going on?” Garin asked.
“Don’t know,” the driver replied with a midwestern accent. “There was a bunch of noise coming from the garage a couple of minutes ago.” The driver glanced in the rearview mirror. “Where to?”
“Downtown.”
Garin glimpsed himself in the rearview mirror. His heart rate was elevated from the caffeine and exertion, but his appearance was unremarkable, almost serene. He pulled one of the burners from the gym bag and placed a call.
“Dwyer.”
“In a cab heading toward downtown Cleveland.”
“And?”
“I made contact with our friends and associates,” Garin informed him.
Dwyer understood from experience that Garin’s innocuous statement suggested such associates were no longer responsive. “Were you able to learn anything?”
“I have one of their phones,” Garin said, his tone suggesting he didn’t expect that phone to provide any useful information.
“What’s next?”
Garin thought briefly about checking on his sister, who lived twenty minutes southeast, but knew he couldn’t spare the time. “I’m at a dead end.”
“Why not go loud? They’ll be certain to come for you.”
“I just did that. I can’t stay here, though.”
“Last go-round most of the action was in the D.C. area. Why not come back?”
“I can’t fly out of here. And it would take six hours to drive.”
“Where are you right now?” Dwyer asked.
“About to take the I-71 to downtown Cleveland.”
“Go to Cuyahoga County Airport instead. In anticipation of your causing your usual mess, I’ve positioned one of our Bell 429s there, prepped, fueled, and ready to go.”
Garin shook his head slightly. “Either you’re getting very good at this or I’m getting very bad.”
“We’ll get you here in under two hours.”
“Good.”
“Nothing’s gonna happen before then, anyway.”
Garin wasn’t so sure.