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
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 whom 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.
“That was one of my guys in California,” Dwyer said, patting the breast pocket in which he had just stowed his cell phone. “Thanks to the help of a sheriff’s deputy who was a former swim buddy in the teams, he was able to spend several hours in the hospital room of Clint Laws, Garin’s old boss. Laws was shot and in pretty bad shape. He was in and out, mumbling things no one could understand. Garin was right, though; that tough old bird wasn’t talking about how bored he was.”
“You’ve lost me. What do you mean?”
“Laws had been shot and left for dead at the bottom of a ravine near Generals Highway in Kings Canyon. Wounds in the head and chest. Professional,” Dwyer said, shaking his head in disgust.
“Anyway, the old man refuses to die,” Dwyer continued. “Crawls up the ravine to the side of the road, where a couple of hikers find him. They call 911 and Laws is life flighted to Community Regional Medical Center in Fresno. When they get him there, he’s barely conscious, on the verge of death. Everyone thinks he’s babbling incoherently about how bored he is. Delusional.” Dwyer looked up and waved off the waiter, who had appeared at Olivia’s elbow, before continuing.
“Except for Mikey. He insists Laws is trying to tell us something. Turns out he was, but I’m not sure what.”
“Exactly what did your man tell you?” Olivia asked.
“Earlier this afternoon, he calls to say Laws described the men who hit him. Two Middle Eastern — looking dudes. Called one Mr. Obvious or something. Then the nurses come in and chase my guy off, but he gets the sheriff’s deputy to intercede and goes back in. Laws was unconscious for a long while, but a few minutes ago he told my guy that he overheard the two guys who shot him talking while they were standing over him, thinking he was dead. They were talking about reporting in to someone named Taras Bor.”