Garin made a show of looking puzzled. He’d come to Terrapin to track down the people who had been trying to kill him the last few days. The piece of paper he’d retrieved from the dead Iranian in Chevy Chase was a paper napkin bearing the local address of a Phillips Crab and Lobster House about a quarter mile down the road from the Terrapin Estates rental office. A friendly Phillips waitress hadn’t remembered anyone fitting the dead Iranian’s description, but she helpfully pointed out that a number of her customers were renters from Terrapin. Garin traveled over to the rental office and made up Bobby Martin and a story about joining Bobby and his fraternity brothers for a few days of drinking and fishing.
“Maybe the rental’s under the name of one of my other buddies,” Garin said. “Do you remember a party of five or six guys checking in?”
“I don’t. But they could’ve checked in late afternoon after I’m off. Any party larger than five would probably be in either the Anne Arundel or the Severn. Those are our biggest units—four bedrooms and a rollout in the living room. They can comfortably sleep eight.”
“Could you check to see if anyone’s checked into either of those cabins?” Garin asked. “The guys probably arrived a few days go. I was supposed to join them earlier but couldn’t get away from my job until now. And unfortunately for me, they’ve probably drunk up all the beer already.”
Julie moved the mouse and clicked the icon on the screen for Severn. “This might be them. Yep. Eight guys. Checked in to Severn a few days ago. Rental’s under the name Joe Jones.”
No points for originality, Garin thought.
“It looks like maybe some more of your friends checked into the Anne Arundel, too,” Julie continued as she manipulated the mouse. “Seven other guys checked in at the same time as the Severn boys. But they checked out on Saturday. Is a Jim Smith one of your fraternity brothers?”
“Yes,” Garin lied. “I didn’t think he was coming down.” Joe Jones and Jim Smith. The Iranians hadn’t wasted any effort on cover names, but they had sent an army to kill Garin and the rest of his team. Garin guessed that the seven who had checked out of the Anne Arundel on Saturday consisted, in part, of the four-man team Garin had killed in Broome County, New York.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. . . . ?”
“Webster. No. You’ve been a great help. Do you mind if I go over to the Severn and check on my friends?”
“Will you be staying?” Julie asked hopefully. “The rental fee for an additional person is only eighty-five dollars per day.”
Garin pulled out his wallet and handed Julie ten twenties. “That should cover two nights. Do you mind if I fill out the rental agreement and get the receipt later?”
“No need to fill out a separate agreement. The one signed by Mr. Jones will suffice. I’ll just put an endorsement on it noting the new number of guests,” Julie said as she pulled out a drawer in a beige filing cabinet behind her. “But you’ll need your own key.”
Garin smiled as he took the key from Julie. A bit of charm to soften the mendacity. He hoped he wouldn’t cause any problems for her by damaging any of her nice cabins. “Maybe I’ll see you again in the next couple of days.”
Julie intended to make sure of it. “Do you need help getting to the Severn?”
“If you just point me in the right direction, I’m sure I can find my way.”
“Turn right as you go out the door. Go an eighth of a mile down the access road until it dead-ends. Then a left down the hill toward the bay. It’s right on the water. Parking in the rear.”
“Thanks,” Garin said as he walked toward the door of the rental office.
“Julie.”
Garin turned. “Pardon?”
“The name’s Julie. Shorter than writing ‘the hot blonde from Terrapin with the great ass’ in your diary.”
Garin smiled and walked out the front door.
The approach to the cabin would be problematic. Garin didn’t know how many Iranians were in the cabin, or their security arrangements. Some of them could be on sentry duty or patrolling the surrounding woods. Although the cabins had a fair amount of distance between them, other residents nearby would easily be able to hear any gunfire coming from the Severn. And given the clothing he was wearing, Garin couldn’t easily conceal a weapon with a suppressor attached.
Terrapin Estates was hilly and densely wooded. Most of the cabins ringed the bay, with approximately a hundred yards between them. A dirt path sloped from the access road to the Severn, a distance of approximately two hundred yards. Approaching the cabin on the dirt path would be suicide. Instead, Garin threaded his way carefully through the trees and brush leading to the rear of the cabin. When he was within thirty yards of the building, he lay on a soft mat of pine needles and surveyed the surroundings.
The cabin was a relatively modern two-story wooden structure. A wide porch wrapped around the exterior and a large deck spanned the width of the second floor. A simple wooden door flanked by two large windows covered most of the building’s rear, allowing a view of the upper portion of the first floor and through the windows to the blue-green waters of the bay.
For several minutes Garin saw no movement within the cabin or in the area immediately adjacent to it. Then a bearded man dressed in black cargo pants and a light gray T-shirt appeared in the center of what appeared to be the kitchen. He was powerfully built. Garin put his height and weight at approximately six feet four inches and 250 pounds. He looked as if he was placing a kettle on the stove.
A few moments later the bearded bull disappeared in the direction from which he came, only to be replaced by a smaller, athletically built man dressed in garb similar to the bull’s. The smaller man helped himself to the kettle’s contents and disappeared in the same direction as the bull. Neither man appeared to be armed.
Garin remained prone for several minutes before advancing slowly toward the cabin, pistol drawn, using the trees and brush for cover. He was able to see enough of the interior to determine that there probably were no more than two or three men inside the cabin. He wanted at least one of them alive.
Garin proceeded to within a few feet of the back door. He could see the head of the smaller man, who was seated on a couch in a living room to the right. As Garin was beginning to calculate the time it would take him to enter the cabin and disable the Iranian, he felt a powerful blow from behind and found himself airborne, the SIG jarred from his grasp. He crashed onto the porch with the bull landing on top of him, momentarily stunned.
Garin had only a second to register his amazement that the big man had gotten the drop on him before powerful blows began raining down with relentless speed. Then he felt the sharp cold point of a knife pressing against the side of his neck, just under his left ear, as he lay prone.
“Up on knees. Slow. Hands behind head.”
The bull spoke passable English. Garin complied. In a matter of seconds the Iranian would discover his good fortune upon realizing the man kneeling before him was the lone surviving member of Omega. He wouldn’t hesitate to jam the knife into Garin’s neck and slash the jugular and trachea. Watch the slow, gurgling death. Mission accomplished.
There are six points on the human body that, if struck by a blow from an average-size man, will render one incapacitated. Garin knew every single one. But for a man the size of the bull, the best bets were the eyes, throat, and testicles. Given his position, the latter target was Garin’s only option.
In a rapid, fluid motion, Garin twisted his head to his right, away from the knife, spun on his knees, and sent a vicious uppercut to the bull’s groin. Although he was doubled over, the knife remained in the stunned Iranian’s grip. Before he could regain his senses, Garin, now standing, slammed a right hook into the man’s temple that caved in the occipital bone of the left eye. That blow was followed by a left uppercut that pulverized the man’s jaw and drove several bits of teeth into his throa
t.
Although the Iranian still remained upright, the motor functions on the left side of his body were effectively gone. His eyes were glazed, the look of a man nearly out on his feet. Now it was Garin who sought to bring the encounter to a swift and merciless end. Grabbing the back of the Iranian’s skull with both hands, Garin pulled the man’s head violently downward at the same time he thrust his right knee upward into the man’s face. The impact whipped the bull’s head backward, his body suspended momentarily in a half-upright position before crashing face-first onto the porch.
Garin dropped to one knee and turned the bull on his side. The big man’s eyes were wide, searching. In a low voice Garin said, “You’re strong. But not strong enough. Your mistake was standing too close. Playing executioner. Like back home. And hesitating. Even a second. Speed kills.” Garin drew a bit closer and whispered, “You would’ve died anyway. But you would’ve had a few more seconds. Should’ve stuck with killing civilians.”
To be sure the man would pose no further problem, Garin stepped on the back of the man’s neck, grabbed his forehead with both hands, and wrenched his head backward, snapping the neck at the base of the skull—an inelegant but effective move Garin had learned years ago from Clint Laws.
The light went out in the bull’s eyes. Garin wondered which of his teammates this particular Iranian had killed, but the thought was quickly interrupted by the sound of cracking branches. He looked up and saw the athletically built Iranian running north through the woods, parallel to the shore. Garin cast about for the SIG, but failing to immediately locate the gun, he decided he had scant choice but to ignore another bit of Laws’s training and give chase to the Iranian without first securing his weapon.
The smaller Iranian had nearly a seventy-yard head start. Garin figured the man was unarmed and alone; otherwise, there would be little reason for him to flee. He bounded through the woods at a full sprint, hurdling fallen trees and dodging standing ones without breaking stride.
But Garin swiftly gained ground. The former track athlete was much faster than the Iranian, and he was closing the gap despite the lingering effects of Pakistan and the damage done during his hand-to-hand combat with the bull just moments ago.
Garin fixed his eyes on the Iranian’s legs. The strides were shortening, almost imperceptibly, but shortening nonetheless, the lactic acid building in his quads. Soon the air would sear his lungs. He was beginning to run out of steam; Garin was not. The pair had covered about a quarter mile. They passed behind several other cabins, the gap between the two narrowing to only thirty yards. The Iranian began glancing over his shoulder, a telltale sign that he was nearing exhaustion. He would begin slowing more rapidly now. Running at a full clip for more than a quarter mile was the province of only highly trained athletes. It was Garin’s territory. He’d have the Iranian and his secrets in the next three hundred yards, if not sooner.
Garin’s legs churned harder, gliding over a large fallen tree and jumping across a small creek. He was close enough now that he could see the strain and growing apprehension on the Iranian’s face, now colored deep red, pools of purple on his cheeks. Garin could hear his desperate gasps for breath. Shallow. Fast and irregular. He was through.
The dense canopy of leaves began to disperse and the somber twilight of the woods began to brighten. As he reached the crest of the hill, Garin heard a sustained hiss. Speed on wet asphalt.
The two men hurtled down the other side of the hill, Garin now within a few arms’ lengths of the Iranian. Suddenly the brush dispersed, revealing a two-lane highway. The startled Iranian’s momentum drove him directly into the path of an eighteen-wheel flatbed moving at sixty miles per hour.
As Garin dropped to a baseball slide to stop his forward motion, he could hear the impact of the truck’s grille against the Iranian’s body. Garin skidded to a stop on the shoulder of the highway, barely a foot from the right lane. Car horns blared. Tires shrieked as the flatbed braked to a halt.
Garin lay on the shoulder for several moments, his breathing hard—a result of both physical exertion and adrenaline from narrowly averting his own collision with oncoming traffic. He was amazed the crash and sudden stop by the flatbed hadn’t resulted in a pileup.
The Iranian’s body had been catapulted into the median more than 100 feet away and the truck had come to rest approximately 250 feet down the highway. A growing number of cars were now stopped behind the truck. Garin picked himself up and began jogging toward the Iranian’s body.
The driver jumped out of the cab to inspect the carnage. Dozens of other drivers were emerging from their vehicles as well.
When Garin reached the body, the driver was standing over him, badly shaken; his jaw was slack and perspiration was streaming down his face. Several motorists were standing about, seemingly reluctant to approach any closer than thirty feet from the body, the carnage acting as a repellant.
Their reluctance was understandable. But for the clothing, the Iranian’s corpse bore no resemblance to anything human. The impact with the flatbed had pulverized his skeleton; blood and internal organs were strewn over the pavement from point of impact to where the body lay.
A few of the motorists had their cell phones out, calling to report the accident. Garin made sure that no one was photographing the scene before he approached the Iranian’s remains. Not surprisingly, no one wished to capture the hideous sight for posterity.
The police would be arriving within minutes and the gathering crowd would no doubt identify Garin as somehow being involved in the incident. Not needing to add the Maryland State Police to the list of law enforcement searching for him, he moved quickly. Kneeling next to the body, Garin was able to identify what appeared to be trouser pockets amid the mass of blood, bone, fabric, and tissue.
More than two dozen onlookers stared in astonishment at the apparent callousness of the disheveled, dangerous-looking stranger who rifled through the dead man’s pockets, crossed the highway, and walked briskly into the woods. Garin was heading back to the Severn. He needed to retrieve his SIG and quickly inspect the premises. He’d killed several Iranians over the last two days, yet he was no closer to determining why they had wiped out his entire team. Nor why he was targeted for assassination by Delta Force. If the answers didn’t come soon, any remaining luck he had was certain to evaporate.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
JULY 16 • 5:15 P.M. EDT
The Edgar in the Mayflower Hotel was one of the better places to people watch in Washington, D.C., although that wasn’t the principal reason Dan Dwyer frequently had dinner there.
It wasn’t uncommon to see a senator or cabinet official strolling through the promenade that led from the reception area to the ballrooms past the restaurant. Talking heads from the various news shows and eggheads from the numerous think tanks were also habitués of the bar.
What drew Dwyer to the Mayflower, however, was the likelihood of encountering at least one stunningly attractive woman there, languidly sipping Chambertin Grand Cru while waiting for one of the rich and powerful to ask if he could join her. Dwyer took mischievous delight in the fact that he, the youngest of a struggling Wisconsin dairy farmer’s four sons, was now among the richest and most powerful.
Dwyer held no illusions about the reason for his current appeal to women. He had boyish good looks for a middle-aged man, yet even fifteen years ago, when he was forty pounds lighter and his face reflected the intensity of an active SEAL, Dwyer’s luck with women came nowhere near that of most of his warrior brethren. Women tended to view Dwyer more like a funny, protective big brother than a smooth lothario. But now that his photograph had accompanied more than a few newspaper and magazine articles speculating his wealth to be in the hundreds of millions, women ranging from Hollywood starlets to horse-country socialites suddenly realized that he was intellectually stimulating and physically irresistible.
The woman for w
hom Dwyer was waiting this evening rivaled even the most beautiful of the starlets and socialites who fawned over him, but she seemed immune to Dwyer’s newfound allure. With Olivia, he was, once again, the funny, protective big brother. In turn, Dwyer viewed her almost like the brainy yet vulnerable little sister he never had, though he readily conceded that no one in his family looked remotely as good.
Dwyer was deciding whether she needed to be protected from the lethal good looks and altar-boy charm of a certain special operator. It was becoming apparent to Dwyer that Olivia’s interest in Mike Garin went beyond the professional. Kid sisters should not, Dwyer believed, consort with stone killers, no matter how smart and courteous they might be.
And there she was, standing at the hostess station at the entrance to the restaurant. She wore a simple, sleeveless blue-black dress that matched the color of the lustrous hair that fell in abundant cascades to the small of her back. Nearly every pair of male eyes in the room fastened on her face. For a moment, Dwyer reconsidered. Maybe it was Mike Garin who needed protection.
As the hostess escorted Olivia to Dwyer’s table, his cell phone vibrated. He threw an apologetic wink at the hostess and answered the call in violation of the restaurant’s prohibition against cell phone use. He was happily indulged by a waitstaff accustomed to Mr. Dwyer’s ridiculously generous tips.
Dwyer listened intently, rising absently as Olivia came to the table. He disconnected as they both sat down. “Haven’t seen you in ages,” Dwyer said with his standard mischievous grin.
“It’s still not funny, Dan. I thought that some sort of wild animal had gotten loose in your house.” Olivia was referring to Max, Dwyer’s geriatric, overweight, and excessively friendly Newfoundland, which had the run of Dwyer’s residence. The previous night, Dwyer, Matt, and Carl had rushed upstairs upon hearing Olivia’s shrieks to discover their guest—looking magnificent in a white cotton nightshirt that fell barely to midthigh—attempting to barricade herself in the bathroom against Max’s overly enthusiastic greeting. Prying the enraptured Matt and Carl from the scene proved nearly as difficult as removing Max.
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