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 throat.
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.