Just before he broke the tree line, Garin began singing boisterously, feigning inebriation.
The guards peered into the dark, standing tensely, with their hands near the pistols on their hips. A third guard quickly appeared from the front of the cabin to check on what was happening.
Garin walked unsteadily toward the cabin, carrying the six-pack in his left hand and the fishing rod camouflaging the SIG in his right. His head down, he appeared lost in song, but through veiled eyes he was assessing the guards, gauging the angles.
As Garin drew closer he saw that one of the guards wore a head mike, his hand pressing against the earbud so he could hear over the noise. Someone from inside must have been inquiring what the commotion was all about.
The guard responded in Farsi to the inquiry coming over his mike. “No, Atosh, no. There is no problem. Everything is under control.” A pause, then: “A drunken American. Yes. We will send him on his way.”
Garin continued to approach, affecting an oblivious, careless manner. His eyes scanned from side to side. No other guards outside. He looked up as if noticing the guards in the dark for the first time and staggered to a halt, the picture of confusion.
“What… Wait, isn’t this the Prince George’s cabin?”
“Sir, you are lost,” said one of the guards without a trace of accent. “This is not the Prince George’s. You must move along if you wish to locate your cabin.”
“Oh man,” Garin moaned. “This is really messed up. I was just fishing… lost track of the time. As you can see I didn’t catch squat”—Garin held up the beer cans—“except this. And now here I am, lost in the dark.”
From the outlines of their torsos, Garin suspected the guards were wearing body armor. He would have to shoot each of them in the head. A neat trick in the dark, even at close range.
“Sir, you must move on,” the guard insisted politely. “This is a private rental.” The guard pointed to his left. “Perhaps your cabin is in that direction.”
Garin turned in the direction in which the guard pointed. “Where?”
The guard took his eye off Garin and turned in the direction in which he was pointing. “Over there.”
Garin seized the split second, dropped the beer and rod, and rapidly fired two suppressed rounds into the heads of each of the three guards, who collapsed onto the soft ground without a sound. Garin sprinted toward the cabin and moved to the front to confirm there were no remaining guards outside, hugging the exterior wall so he wouldn’t be seen from the windows.
As he moved along the right side of the cabin, he saw a light in a basement window. Staying to the side of the window, he bent down and glanced inside. Joe Burns, blood dripping from his head and face, was suspended by his hands from a wooden overhead beam in the basement laundry. Two Quds Force operatives, their backs to the window, were standing next to him. Even from behind, Garin immediately recognized the one holding a bent wire coat hanger in his hand as Mr. Obvious from the Diamondback. The other had what appeared to be a Mossberg 590A1 shotgun. From what Garin could see of Joe’s shredded, blood-soaked clothing, the Iranians had been beating Joe’s head, legs, and torso with the hanger.
Garin passed by the window and completed a circumnavigation of the cabin. No other guards were outside. He approached the rear door from the side and took a quick look in the door’s small window. Seeing no one, he carefully opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it. To his left, a flight of stairs ran up to the main and second floors. To his right was the door leading to the basement.
Garin opened the basement door slowly, praying that the hinges were well oiled. From the top of the stairs he could see the lower legs of the two Iranians and hear them talking in Farsi. Joe would be hanging a couple of feet to their left.
Taking a breath, Garin descended the stairs swiftly and silently. He reached the bottom just a few feet from the Iranians and began firing before they realized he was there, double tapping each. Both were dead before they hit the floor.
Garin stuck the SIG into the holster in his waistband, pulled out a SOG tactical knife from his left boot, and cut the ropes from Joe’s hands. Joe began to collapse but Garin steadied him with his free hand.
As Joe rubbed his arms, trying to get the feeling back in them, Garin ejected the half-spent magazine from his pistol and seated a fresh one. His next move would require him to engage at least six targets at once, and he wanted to reduce the need to change magazines in the middle of the fight. Garin looked over at Joe, who was doing his best to mask his pain.
“How bad is it?” Garin whispered.
“About as bad as it looks. They got my legs pretty good. I’m kinda wobbly. I didn’t tell them anything, though, Mike. Not that I had anything to say.”
“Can you handle one of those?” Garin asked, pointing to the Mossberg.
The sergeant major gave him a withering look.
“Katy and the kids are on the next floor. There are half a dozen of those bastards covering them. On the floor above that, there are at least three more. It’s not optimal, but I’ll need to use my pistol — I can’t use the shotgun and risk spraying Katy and the kids. Can you get up the flight of stairs?”
“I think so.”
“All right. Take a position on the landing inside the back door and smoke any bad guys that try to come your way.”
“Like hell. That’s not gonna happen. Those are my wife and kids up there in the living room. I’m coming with you.”
“Joe, listen. I need to move fast. Really fast. No margin for error. Even then… Look, I just can’t risk having you slow me down.”
Joe eyed Garin with an intensity he’d never before seen from his brother-in-law. “That’s my family up there,” Joe snarled. “You better not slow me down.”
Garin knew he was wasting precious seconds and that he wouldn’t win this argument. He conceded to himself that he needed help. Even with a second gun, the odds of pulling this off were not good.
“Okay, I’ll go up to the first floor and wait in the hallway leading to the living room.” Garin picked up the shotgun and handed it to Joe. “You continue up to the second floor. There’s a light on in the bedroom directly above the living room. There should be three bad guys standing in there, plus a skinny blondish guy who’s probably sitting in a chair or on the bed.”
“I saw them bring him in,” Joe said.
“It would be nice if he came out of this alive. Try to avoid hitting him if you can. But you’re not trained for this, so don’t be cute. When you’re ready, you go into that room blasting. Take out all the bad guys.”
“I’ve never been accused of being cute.”
“One of the guys in that bedroom is really bad. If you hesitate, even for a millisecond, you’re dead — we’re all dead. Got it?”
“We’re wasting time,” Joe replied impatiently.
“I’ll wait until you’ve made your move first. When you start firing that cannon, I’m counting on it to startle the enemy in the living room just long enough to give me an edge.”
Joe nodded. Garin proceeded quietly up the stairs to the landing at the back door. Someone was talking in the living room. Garin poked his head quickly into the darkened hallway. He could see the kids seated on the floor in front of the couch twenty feet away. An Iranian seated in a chair facing the couch blocked his view of someone Garin presumed was Katy.