NORTHERN VIRGINIA,
AUGUST 16, 9:18 P.M. EDT
Bulkvadze had been Abkashvili’s man on the East Coast for nearly a decade. During that time he had lived in Boston, New York City, Newark, and Washington, D.C. He hated the latter’s weather most.
He stood next to his Mercedes on a short dead-end drive bounded mostly by wooded lots with a sprinkling of residences at the far end. The developer had seen promise in the location, but financing had run out after a few houses had been constructed.
The drive was two blocks from the safe house that Mike Garin was probably watching at this very moment.
Bulkvadze had done a light reconnaissance of the perimeter of the area before parking his car at the isolated, wooded end of the drive. Although he hadn’t seen Garin in the area—he’d stayed well outside of the sight lines of the safe house to avoid being seen by him—he had a fair idea of where Garin might position himself. There were only two decent vantage points for surveillance: the woods behind the house—and Bulkvadze concluded that for obvious reasons Garin would avoid that area—and a playground in front of the house. He planned to approach the playground from the rear; uninspired, but success, not creativity, was his primary concern. Optimally, he’d spot Garin, advance from behind to within firing range, shoot him as many times as necessary, and photograph the corpse with his cell. Then he’d send the photo to Bor.
The humidity had risen over the last few hours and the heat remained oppressive. Bulkvadze took off his black sport coat and laid it on the passenger seat of his car before locking it. He pulled his T-shirt, also black, over the Taurus stuck in his waistband and walked slowly in the direction of the playground.
By the time he reached the portion of the drive with residences, his plan immediately got more complicated. The owners of the house on the right side of the drive nearest the rear of the playground were hosting a gathering of some sort. Whatever it was, there were at least fifty people in the backyard and the chatter was low and the music tranquil, low and tranquil enough that the sound of gunfire from the nearby playground would easily be heard. Worse, parked among the guests’ cars were two police patrol cars. Clearly, they weren’t there to address a noise complaint. They were probably friends of the family, briefly dropping by to wish whomever well.
And Bulkvadze had no suppressor to attach to the Taurus. He hadn’t planned on being a shooter. He’d had five men to do just that. If only he’d brought ten.
But Bulkvadze had to kill Garin. Right away. Or Bor would kill Bulkvadze. He wouldn’t get another opportunity; that was clear. He had to locate Garin and do it now.
If he shot Garin, the people at the gathering, including the police officers, would hear the sounds crack through the still, humid air. He couldn’t then run back past the house to his car. Nor was there any way for a man of his massive dimensions to hide or look inconspicuous. He’d be caught or shot almost immediately.
Bulkvadze had to find Garin and kill him by hand. The decision was simple. The act might not be.
Bulkvadze, however, had the advantage. He was expecting to find Garin; Garin wasn’t expecting Bulkvadze. Bulkvadze had killed before by hand, and fairly adeptly. He dwarfed Garin and undoubtedly was far stronger.
And Bulkvadze was motivated.
Bulkvadze moved past the house with the gathering and past two more before coming to where the drive turned to the right and proceeded westward. Bulkvadze continued straight to a row of pines that bordered the rear of the playground.
The giant stopped behind one of the pines and looked about the playground for signs of his quarry. To Bulkvadze’s left was a baseball diamond, the backstop almost fifty feet from where he stood. To his right was another field—probably for football or soccer, although there were no goals. Along the right sideline of the field was a row of low-rise bleachers no more than six feet high. High enough, however, to obscure an advance to the far end of the playground, where there stood an array of standard playground equipment and what appeared to be a very wide sandbox. About three feet to the right of the sandbox was a wooden fence, the kind Bulkvadze had seen surrounding trash receptacles next to the drive-through at fast-food places. Standing behind the fence, at its right-hand edge, was a figure with its back to Bulkvadze.
Garin. Even in the gloom of the evening and from nearly one hundred yards Bulkvadze recognized the wide shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. One hundred pounds lighter than Bulkvadze. Five inches shorter. Focused on the house some distance beyond. Oblivious to the big man’s presence.
Bulkvadze moved farther to the right, until he was behind the bleachers. Were Garin to look back for some reason, the stands would shield Bulkvadze from view. He could walk the length of the field behind the stands and it would take him fifteen to twenty feet behind Garin. That would take a minute. Closing the remaining distance and snapping Garin’s neck would take a few seconds more. After a quick series of photos, he’d hit send and then walk back to his car. All that would remain would be dealing with Abkashvili. Not a problem. He knew Abkashvili, given a choice, would gratefully accept nearly one million dollars rather than deal with Bor.
Bulkvadze walked behind the stands in a slight crouch, pausing every ten yards or so to check Garin’s position. Bulkvadze could feel his heart begin to beat more rapidly and his muscles tense and flex involuntarily, much like a power lifter preparing for a maximum dead lift. An intense, brutal move—all the strength in his body summoned and channeled toward a single effort.
Bulkvadze came to the end of the bleachers. He was close enough to see the movement of the gun stuck in Garin’s back as his lungs expanded and contracted with each breath. Bulkvadze paused, gathered himself, and crept to within five feet of his target. Then he burst forward with his right hand outstretched, ripped the gun from Garin’s trousers, and flung it out of reach. Simultaneously, he clamped his left arm around Garin’s neck in a choke hold, nearly lifting the smaller man off the ground in the process.
Garin had begun to turn before Bulkvadze was able to close the choke hold, but not fast enough. Garin could feel his windpipe cinch, cutting off the air to his lungs. Blood rushed to his skull with such force that his eyes bulged from their sockets and his eardrums felt as if they would burst. His chest heaved as his lungs tried to suck in any available oxygen, but there was none. Garin sensed the cartilage in his neck compress and heard the internal acoustics of bone beginning to separate from bone.
Garin frantically pumped his right leg backward—as if kickstarting a motorbike—in search of his attacker’s knee. His aim was off-center, the heel of his shoe catching the outer portion of the man’s kneecap—not nearly enough force to collapse the huge joint, but enough to cause acute pain.
Yet it wasn’t enough to cause the giant to release his choke hold. It was only enough to cause a slight and momentary relaxation of the muscles in the man’s arm. Garin twisted hard to his right with his elbow raised, striking his attacker in the ribs, but he wasn’t able to generate sufficient torque for the blow to be of consequence. He immediately whipped his body in the other direction, other elbow raised, and struck the attacker’s left side. This time he was able to generate a bit more force and felt his attacker cave slightly to the left. Once more Garin spun to his right and dug the sharp point of his elbow into the man’s ribs.
The choke hold loosened, not much, but enough for Garin to make a quarter turn and jam the heel of his right hand under the man’s chin, snapping his head backward and causing him to bite off the tip of his tongue.
Blood spurted from the man’s mouth, but he refused to release his grip. It did, however, loosen. Just a few millimeters, but enough for Garin to twist and thrust the heel of his right hand once more, this time catching Bulkvadze under the nose and driving upward into his skull.
Garin had once killed a man with a similar blow, driving bone and cartilage into his brain. It merely stunned Bulkvadze.
But that gave Garin an opening. The choke hold loosened a bit more, allowing Garin to turn his head sideways, drop under the man’s arm, and collapse to the ground. Garin crabbed backward out of reach but butted up against the wooden fence. He began to raise himself upright when Bulkvadze’s left forearm slammed into Garin’s chest, knocking what little wind he had out of him and driving him against the fence.
Time then inched to a crawl.
Garin could feel the fence give and bend slightly against his back and he caught the scent of linseed oil covering its wood. As the fence bucked and rebounded, Garin used its force to propel himself, head cast slightly downward, toward the big man.
The top of Garin’s head struck Bulkvadze midway between his throat and chin, crushing both. Still, it wasn’t enough to drop him. Bulkvadze staggered backward two steps before regaining his balance and pulled his right hand back to throw a roundhouse.
Garin was quicker. He threw a right hook to Bulkvadze’s left temple, followed by a left cross to Bulkvadze’s right temple, followed by a knee to Bulkvadze’s groin.
Bulkvadze’s head whipsawed right and left from the punches and he doubled over as the air was forced from his lungs.
Though hunched over, he remained on his feet, almost as an act of defiance. Garin could hear his own gasps for air, rapid from exertion and ragged from the choke hold. He heard similar sounds from Bulkvadze, blood now gushing from his nose as well as his mouth. There was a glazed look in his eyes, and a ropelike artery pulsed in his right temple. In one motion, Garin spun behind the big man and with his right arm enveloped Bulkvadze’s neck and fell backward to the ground, using both of their body weights to violently snap the big man’s head backward at its base. The sound was that of a dry tree branch breaking. Garin lay on the ground with Bulkvadze on top of him and with all of his strength continued to apply pressure to the man’s neck. It was unnecessary. All of the tension in the giant’s body was gone. There was no beat against Garin’s arm from the pulse in the man’s neck. No breathing. Nothing.
Speed beats size. Speed kills.
Garin lay on the ground with Bulkvadze on top of him for several seconds, trying to catch his breath. Then he squirmed and shoved and pulled himself from under the corpse, got to one knee, and stood erect.
Garin took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He could feel the endorphin rush of extreme exertion begin to flow through his body. The twin exhilarations of victory and narrowly escaping death washed over him.
And then everything went black.