had built his entire career on that one philosophy.
The place was so isolated that Serov had mulled over perhaps removing
the suppressor and relying on his skill as a marksman, his high-tech
scope and his well-conceived exit plan. His confidence was justified,
he believed. Just like the tree falling, when you kill someone in the
middle of nowhere, who can hear him die? And he had known some
suppressors to greatly distort the flight path of a bullet, with the
unacceptable result that no one had died, except for the would-be
assassin once his client had learned of the failure. Still, Serov had
personally supervised this device’s construction and was confident it
would perform as designed.
The Russian shifted quietly, working out a cramp in his shoulder. He
had been here since nightfall but was used to lengthy vigils. He never
tired during these assignments. He took life seriously enough that
preparing to extinguish another’s kept his adrenaline high. With risk
always came invigoration, it seemed. Whether you were mountain
climbing or contemplating murder, it ironically made you feel more
alive to have the possibility of death so close.
His escape route through the woods would take him to a quiet road where
a car would be waiting to whisk him to nearby Dulles Airport. He would
go on to other assignments, other places probably far more exotic than
this. However, for his particular purpose, this setting had its
virtues.
Killing someone in the city was the most difficult. Setting up where
you would shoot, pulling the trigger and then escaping, all were vastly
complicated by the fact that witnesses and the police were only a few
anxious steps away in any direction. Give him the country, the
isolation of the rural life, the cover of trees, the separation of
homes, and like a tiger in a cattle pen he would kill with numbing
efficiency every day of the week.
Serov sat on a stump a few feet from the tree line and only about
thirty yards from the house. Despite the thickness of the woods, this
spot allowed a clear field of fire: A bullet only needed an inch or so
of free space. The man and woman, he had been told, would enter the
house from the rear door. Only they would never make it that far.
Whatever the laser touched, the bullet would destroy. He was confident
he could hit a lightning bug from twice the distance he was confronted
with here.
Things were set up so perfectly that Serov’s instincts told him to be
on high alert. Now he had an excellent reason not to fall into that
trap: the man in the house. He was not the police. Law enforcement
types didn’t slink through the bushes and break into people’s homes.
Since he had not been made aware beforehand of the man’s presence
tonight, he concluded that the man was not on his side. However, Serov
did not like to deviate from an established plan. He decided that if
the man remained in the house after the bodies fell, he would follow
through on his original plan and escape through the woods. If the man
interfered in any way or came outside after the shots were fired-well,
Serov had plenty of ammo, and the result would be three bodies instead
of two.
CHAPTER 3
DANIEL BUCHANAN SAT IN HIS DARKENED OFFICE and sipped black coffee of
such strength that he could almost feel his pulse rise with each
swallow. He ran a hand through hair that was still thick and curly but
had gone from blond to white after thirty years toiling in Washington.
After another long day of trying to convince legislators that his
causes were worthy of their attention, the level of exhaustion was
intense, and enormous amounts of caffeine were increasingly becoming
the only remedy. A full night of sleep was not typically an option. A
catnap here or there, closing his eyes while being driven around to the
next meeting, the next flight, occasionally blanking out during an
interminably long congressional hearing, even an hour or two in his bed
at home-that was his official rest. Otherwise, he was working the Hill