drove the heel of his shoe down and into the outside of Borys’s right knee. The technique was designed to force the tibia out of the knee socket, destroying the tibial collateral and anterior cruciate ligaments and ripping the meniscus. He heard the satisfying pop as Borys’s knee buckled at a grotesque angle. He quickly and smoothly swung Borys’s bulk into Vadim’s line of fire.
Seamlessly, Whelan’s left hand pulled down forcefully on Borys’s wrist while he simultaneously drove his forearm upward against the big man’s upper arm. With another popping sound, Borys’s elbow joint dislocated and the weapon fell from his hand. Its polymer frame made a dull clattering sound as it hit the pavement. As Borys screamed in agony and began to collapse, Whelan literally threw the 300-pound man at Vadim. He sprinted up Borys’s massive falling body like a running back scaling linemen at the goal line. At the top, he launched a flying kick, his right heel smashing Vadim’s nose, nearly ripping it from his face. It snapped his head back. Stunned, Vadim staggered backward and almost fell.
Before Vadim could recover and refocus his weapon, Whelan closed the gap and grabbed his gun hand, thrusting a finger behind the trigger to prevent firing. He drove a knee forcefully into Vadim’s groin. A loud grunt exploded from the injured man’s lips. His knees buckled and he grabbed desperately at his assailant for support. But Whelan was too quick. He had both hands on Vadim’s right wrist and swung it up and around, careful to keep the weapon pointing away from him. He continued to sweep the arm backward and up, a difficult maneuver for ordinary people with a man as large as Vadim. But, genetically, Whelan was far from ordinary.
He tugged Vadim toward him, forcing him to shift his weight to his right foot, which Whelan swept from under him. The big man did a forward somersault and landed on the back of his neck. Before he could recover, Whelan drove the heel of his right shoe deep onto the soft tissue of Vadim’s unprotected throat, destroying his windpipe, larynx, and the scream that tried to rise from it. Unable to breathe, he quickly lost consciousness and would be dead in less than three minutes.
Whelan turned back to Borys, who was writhing in pain on the street. He picked up both men’s Glocks, then bent over Borys for an instant and brought the butt of one of the Glocks down, crushing the man’s forehead and driving bone splinters into his frontal lobes. It may not have been a deathblow, but at the very least it was enough to destroy motor skills, libido, and problem-solving and creative thought processes. Borys, if he survived, would be in a vegetative state for his remaining years.
Whelan shifted his attention to the black limo, knowing that time was running very short. Neighbors would have heard the crash. By now, they would have called the authorities. He walked swiftly, but cautiously, toward the car, keeping one Glock focused on the middle of the windshield and the other on the left rear window. When he was still fifteen feet away, the right rear door opened and another large man climbed out. He was dressed similarly to Borys and Vadim. He brought his weapon up, bracing his arms on the limo’s roof for stability. Whelan opened fire with both of the 9mm Glocks. One hollow-point round pierced the bodyguard’s left eye and exited the back of his skull, taking much of his brain matter with it. His head snapped backward, and his body countered by toppling forward. The corpse slid clumsily down the side of the limo, leaving a bloody streak all the way to the rocker panel.
As Whelan drew close to the limo, the left rear window began to slide down. He aimed both Glocks into the darkness behind it. A face slowly emerged. He kept both weapons trained on it and made a quick scan of the car’s interior. The passenger was alone. He was wearing a dark brown double-breasted Burberry trench coat and clutching a cordovan leather attaché case in his hands. His face had collected more wrinkles and his hair, still parted in the same style, was much grayer and thinner, but the years had been kind to him and Whelan recognized him immediately.
“My God! It is you!” the older man said. “But…you’re dead!” And then it was he who was dead; shot in the middle of the forehead by a slug from one of the Glocks.
2 GEORGETOWN: REUNION
Whelan heard the sounds of sirens in the distance, drawing closer. He glanced quickly around the neighborhood. Meticulously restored Georgian townhouses were pleasingly mixed with large homes in the Federal and Classical Revival styles. Lights had come on in some of their upper stories, and a few neighbors were peering out bedroom windows. Whelan squeezed off a couple of rounds, shattering the windows but intentionally not harming the occupants. It had the desired effect. The faces instantly disappeared and didn’t return.
He shoved a Glock into each of his windbreaker’s side pockets, and reached through the limo’s open window. Grabbing the attaché case from the dead man’s hands, he moved swiftly across the intersection, purposely heading away from Levell’s house. At the end of the next block, he turned right and ran swiftly and effortlessly for three blocks before turning right again. Levell’s house was at the end of the block.
Whelan cleared the front steps with a single leap and rang the bell. As he waited, he glanced around to make certain no one was watching. It felt like an eternity passed, so he rang the bell again. By now the police would have deciphered the residents’ excited babble. They would begin fanning out through the neighborhood, knowing the perp couldn’t have gone far on foot.
At last, the door was opened by an Asian man of indeterminate age. He was lean and wiry; about five feet seven inches tall with closely cropped black hair. His flat, finely chiseled features were expressionless. The man wore baggy black trousers, a black tee shirt, and Kung Fu slippers. Whelan guessed him to be Korean, and knowing Levell, assumed the man was a skilled martial artist.
“May I help you?” He had a high-pitched voice and a heavy accent.
“Mr. Levell is expecting me.”
The Asian man eyed him for a moment then said, “You wait”, and started to close the door.
Whelan said, “I need to wait inside.”
The man, aware of the sirens, quickly connected the dots and stepped aside. Whelan was prepared to wait just inside the door until the man returned, but Levell’s voice broke in from somewhere in the house. “Mr. Rhee, has our guest arrived?”
“Yes, he here now.”
Rhee motioned Whelan to follow him, and led the way across a large living room toward a hallway on the other side. There was a slightly musty odor in the air. Not mildew or mold; more like a space that hadn’t been aired in a long time. The living room was dimly lighted by a single Tiffany lamp on a small table in one corner. The dark woods and Victorian-style furnishings added to the gloomy atmosphere. Several paintings, which Whelan took to be Gainsboroughs or excellent imitations, hung on the walls. The windows were clothed with heavy velvet drapes. A tray ceiling created a slight dome effect and supported a large, cut glass chandelier made of lead crystal. The flooring was a dark hardwood, partially covered by a large rug. Like many of the other furnishings and accessories, it looked old and valuable.
Rhee led Whelan down a wide, dimly lit hallway to a room that obviously was a den. Tall wooden bookshelves lined three walls. A large stone fireplace and mantle were built into the fourth wall. Several logs were burning nicely. Each side of the fireplace was decorated with framed photographs taken at various points in Levell’s life. Whelan recognized some of them from his experiences with the man two decades earlier. A large paneled, wooden desk sat in the middle of the room, papers strewn across its surface. Other than the fire, a small lamp on one corner of the desk provided the only light in the room.
An older man with closely cropped iron gray hair, bushy eyebrows and a strong jaw line sat in a wheelchair in front of the desk, a heavy robe across his lap. The disability had no effect on his military bearing. Whelan had known Clifford Levell, now in his early seventies, before the automobile accident had robbed him of his mobility. With his size, voice, features and mannerisms, Levell had always reminded Whelan of Clint Eastwood. Even more so now. He remembered Levell from an earlier time—strong, vigorous, hard-liv
ing. A warrior’s warrior.
Whelan placed the attaché case on the floor and the two men looked at each other for the first time in almost twenty years. Rhee stood silently in the background, like a faithful guardian—prepared for any exigency.
After a moment, Levell spoke. “Brendan Whelan, the Prince of Wolves!” He’d always been intrigued by the Irish Gaelic meaning of Whelan’s names. His voice was clear and strong, retaining a familiar raspiness. “Son, you are a sight for these aging eyes.”
Whelan leaned over and hugged the old man, surprised at how strong Levell seemed despite his handicap. “It’s been a long time. How are you, Cliff?”
“Long? Hell, it’s been an eternity. And I’m doing all right considering I’m confined to this damn baby buggy.”
“I heard about that,” Whelan said. “I’m sorry.”
“Look, son, sooner or later life kicks all of us in the ass.” He smiled as he said it. “But I have no regrets; it’s been a good life. And it remains so.” He motioned for Whelan to sit in one of the overstuffed leather desk chairs. “I heard sirens. That have anything to do with you?”
Whelan nodded. “On the way here, I literally ran into someone from our