by Jeff Nania
It felt like my face was on fire, my heart racing. This was no idle threat. Volkinov was a man who had killed without a second thought. Sweet Julie was innocently caught up in something she had no part of, something I had dropped on her doorstep.
An hour was not enough time, but that is what I had. I went out the side door, and as I passed one of the communicators, I said, “I have to run out for a minute. Advise Chief Bork I will be right back.”
Once outside, I looked and found the keys in the ignition of a sheriff’s department Suburban. I leaped in and drove slowly out of town. I hit the highway and slammed the accelerator down as far as it would go and kept it there. The tall pines and beautiful waters of the north country became a blur. The Suburban rocked and rolled in the curves. I skidded to a halt and slid into the driveway at Stone’s estate. Special Investigator Masters and her team were still there but packing up. I jumped out of the truck and, as calmly as I could, said to Liz, “Did you recover the satchel in the first bedroom left of the stairs?”
“Yes. We haven’t inventoried the contents yet. We will do that back at our office or wherever we are directed to go.”
“Give it to me. The SAC from Minneapolis wants it right now.”
“We are going to the sheriff’s office. We will hand it over to him and have him sign off to preserve the chain of custody,” Liz rebuffed.
“No, I need it right now. Give it to me,” I demanded.
Liz, tired and tough by nature, got in my face. “Cabrelli, you understand the rules of evidence. I can’t give it to you without inventory. I’m sorry but that’s the way it is. You don’t like it, take it up with the Supreme Court.”
Completely desperate, I cried, “Give me that damn satchel. If you don’t, I will tear through every bag in your truck until I find it. Give it to me right goddamn now!”
Two of her crew stepped up to flank her in case the need arose to protect their evidence or their boss. Liz looked me square in the eye. Her expression changed and somehow she knew. “Give him the satchel—the brown leather one we found in bedroom one,” she directed.
“That’s not cool, Liz. Why are you screwing up the evidence for some hothead?” one of the techs complained.
“Give it to him now. That’s an order,” she replied steadily.
The tech handed me the satchel, and as calm as I could, I got back in the truck and drove out. On the highway, I drove the truck at screaming speed. I knew a backcountry road that was rough but was a shortcut to my place. I turned off the main highway and pushed the truck as fast as I dared. The road swerved through a portion of the national forest. As I came to the point where it rejoined the highway I couldn’t believe what I saw. A state trooper and a Namekagon County Deputy had set up a checkpoint. I could make it through the ditch and past them if I hit it just right. They would be on me in a second. The Crown Vics they had would easily catch the Suburban. That would accomplish nothing. Volkinov said come alone. That did not mean followed by a trooper and deputy.
They saw me coming and rifles at ready blocked the road. I slammed on the brakes and pulled up. The deputy recognized me, “Hey, Mr. Cabrelli. Where are you flying off to?”
“I have critical evidence needed immediately regarding the shooting of Jim Rawsom. I need to go through, and I mean now. Move your cars,” I barked.
“Why are you going this way, Mr. Cabrelli? I thought everything was set up at the command center?”
“I’m only doing what I was told,” I responded. “I picked up this bag from the evidence team, and they want it delivered to a location right now. Move the cars.”
The trooper got in his car and backed it out of the way. Five more critical minutes had passed, but I was on my way again.
I fishtailed on my gravel drive and came to a sliding stop in front of the cabin. I shut off the truck, and except for a light ticking noise from the overworked engine and a quiet whisper of pine branches gently brushing each other, everything was quiet.
I waited for the instructions I knew were soon to come.
Volkinov’s voice came from inside the cabin. “Cabrelli, throw your guns in lake.”
I had been trained that giving up your gun is always a bad idea. It’s the first thing hostage-takers demand. Having the hostage is first advantage. Being the only one armed becomes the second. Training was one thing, but real life was often another thing entirely. Volkinov sensed my hesitation. His encouragement to get me to comply was both effective and brutal. He stepped into the doorway, shielded by Julie, his arm wrapped around her neck and a pistol against her head. I could see blood running from a split in her lip. One eye was almost swollen shut. With his powerful arm around her neck he squeezed tightly and lifted her from the ground choking the life out of her.
“Now Cabrelli, throw guns in lake now, or I kill her. No matter to me.”
“Put her down, Volkinov. I’ll do it. Put her down.”
He set her back on her feet. She coughed and gasped loudly, starved for breath.
My options were nonexistent. I walked over and took the sheriff’s department rifle and shotgun out of their respective racks and threw them in the water along with my pistol.
“Now open all doors on truck. Make sure no cops hiding inside,” he commanded.
I complied. With guns gone and the truck cleared, he ordered me to bring his satchel to the house.
I needed to hear Julie’s voice. “Julie, please talk to me. Please say something,” I pleaded.
“John, I’m okay, I am hurt but I am okay. Sorry about your uncle Nick’s shotgun.”
It was then I noticed the prized LC Smith double barrel had been smashed to pieces and was on the porch floor.
Volkinov stepped forward. “Bitch shoot me with old gun. Not even bother me. If I don’t need you, Cabrelli, she dead right now. I shoot you too, Cabrelli, but vest stop bullet. Otherwise, you dead. Where is my bag?”
“Here,” I held up the bag. I could see where the pellets had hit the side of his face, neck, and shoulder. Probably painful but not enough to put him down.
“Throw bag to me,” he ordered.
I did. Keeping the gun at Julie’s temple, he looked through the bag with his other hand and seemed satisfied with what he found. Then he removed what looked like a satellite phone and punched in a number. Whoever was on the other end answered immediately. Volkinov spoke rapidly in a foreign language then disconnected.
After the call, his voice took on a sense of some urgency. Obviously, the person on the other end was part of his escape plan. He had operated in the shadows for many years. Up until days ago, no one even knew what he looked like. Now his face was in every police car, bus station, and airport. His picture was splashed across the screen of every news channel. He was on the run, maybe for the first time in his life. He would have planned for this possibility, and we were part of making that plan work.
“Now, Cabrelli. Walk down dirt road to building. Drive little red car back to house. Don’t be stupid or I kill girl. Even if you kill me, I kill girl first.”
I walked down the road to the storage building. Hidden behind the building was the stolen Subaru. I drove it back up to the cabin. Julie was standing on the front porch next to Volkinov, the gun still at her head.
On the ground by the porch was some sort of GPS, judging by the activated display.
“Cabrelli, pick up unit. Your woman and I follow in your truck to location. Stop there when I honk horn. Drive car into ditch. Your woman drive truck for me.”
“Volkinov, there are roadblocks and checkpoints everywhere. What if we run into one? What then?”
“Not run into checkpoint. Follow map.”
The route I drove was a maze of fire lanes and two-tracks that wound through the forest. I could only figure that Volkinov had planned and scoped out this and other escape routes when he came to the area. We drove for over forty-five minutes, and early evening was setting in. At the end of the map was a small dirt road, almost invisible from the major highway it int
ersected. Volkinov honked the horn, and I drove the car into the ditch along the edge of the highway. Leaving the keys in the ignition, I walked back to the truck. Volkinov was out, standing by the driver’s window. He opened the door and grabbed Julie by the hair, dragging her out. Then he took a set of handcuffs from the truck and threw them on top of her.
“Woman put cuffs on Cabrelli. Hands in back. Do now.”
There was no doubt in my mind that he was going to kill us. He had a plan that required both of us to accomplish. However, as soon as he got to where he was going, we would become unnecessary baggage. He would kill us like he had so many people before. I had to find a chance and take it, live or die. He must have caught the look in my eye, or maybe I changed my posture.
He pointed the pistol at Julie and said, “No thinking what you thinking, Cabrelli.” Men in his line of work developed a sixth sense that kept them alive. “Put cuffs on Cabrelli now.”
Julie put the cuffs on, and Volkinov ordered me to climb into the Suburban’s cargo compartment. He took a thick plastic zip tie that was stored above the truck’s visor and told her to secure my legs. He reached in and squeezed each of the handcuffs as tight as he could and cinched up the zip tie as tight as it would go. Then he slammed the cargo door. Julie got back behind the wheel and followed the same path back toward my cabin. After ten minutes the truck radio squawked with an emergency call. A State Patrol unit had come upon the Subaru in the ditch, engine still warm. All units were immediately responding to the area to begin the manhunt again. Officers who had spent hours manning the roadblocks would rush to the area, abandoning their cars, and begin the search the only way possible—on foot. Volkinov had increased the odds in his favor.
Back at the cabin, he directed Julie to park the truck on a side dirt road bordering the property where the truck would be mostly hidden by the brush. He got out with Julie and had her open the cargo door. Volkinov grabbed me by the handcuffs and dragged me over to the cabin porch. He ordered Julie to remove one cuff from me, loop it around the solid log post that supported the railing, and recuff me. Her movements were stiff, lacking any sign of the girl I knew and loved.
I needed to do something, but I had no clue what that something was. My torment at watching Julie in such pain cut me to the core. I wanted so badly to kill Volkinov, to choke the life from him, inflicting whatever pain I could.
Volkinov removed the satellite phone and made another call. Even though I didn’t understand what he was saying, I could tell he was hearing the answer he wanted to hear. He disconnected. “Cabrelli, we go soon.”
A few minutes later the satellite phone rang. He answered but didn’t speak until he ended the conversation with a simple, “Ya.”
“Now we go.”
He cut the zip tie that secured my legs, then stepped back and gave Julie the key. She unlocked me from the post but refastened the cuffs behind my back. If I was to have a chance it would be in the next few minutes. We walked across the drive to where the truck was parked.
The crunch of gravel as a big 4x4 truck turned into the driveway caused everyone to freeze. Volkinov ordered me into the cabin and dragged Julie in with his arm wrapped around her throat. The truck parked over by the boat dock. A gentle giant of a man exited the cab. He had not seen us and looked casually around. “Anyone here?” Bud yelled in a loud voice.
Volkinov said, “No time. We go. Cabrelli, out door, now.”
Julie pleaded, “Please no, don’t hurt Bud. We will do exactly what you say. I will talk to him. He will listen to me. Please.”
“Move, Cabrelli. Shut mouth, woman.”
We entered the yard and Bud looked at the three of us with a quizzical look. He didn’t speak and was clearly trying to process what he was seeing.
Julie sobbed, “Please, Bud listen to me. Don’t do anything. Please, please listen.”
“Julie, what is wrong with your face? Julie, you are bleeding. Why…” Bud’s face contorted as he realized the horror of the situation.
Volkinov squeezed tightly around Julie’s throat, making her choke, and pushed the pistol even harder to her temple. Bud froze, but I could see that something was rising from inside him. He began to tremble, not in fear, but as if energy of incredible proportions was coursing through his body.
Volkinov saw it too and quickly turned the muzzle of his pistol on Bud. Julie bit down as hard as she could on the Wolf’s arm. Hands cuffed behind me, I charged and rammed my head into his gun hand, and the pistol went flying. Then the gentle giant released his rage and rammed Volkinov, separating him from Julie. He grabbed the Wolf and lifted the huge man in the air high above his head and slammed him with all his force to the ground. A normal man would not have survived, but Volkinov was not normal. He rose to attack. As strong as Bud was, the Wolf had both the strength and experience of a lifelong street fighter. It was a battle of titans.
Volkinov had the key for the handcuffs, and my attempts to ram him with my head had little effect. Bud body slammed him again, and this time we heard the sound of breaking ribs. Volkinov winced in pain. Julie attacked him from behind hitting, kicking, and biting. Volkinov pulled her around in front of him and from his pocket pulled a switchblade knife and held it to Julie’s throat. With little pressure, the razor-sharp blade cut into Julie’s skin. Through blood splattered lips, he snarled like an animal.
“Stop now. I cut woman’s throat in front of your face.”
Bud and I both froze.
His plan was falling apart. He needed a hostage to get to where he was going; that was clear. I knew he wanted me for some reason, and Julie was to ensure I would comply. But he would take whatever he could get, and now that was Julie.
He moved quickly taking Julie with him toward the truck. He opened the passenger side door.
“Volkinov stop,” I yelled. “I will go with you, no tricks. Leave Julie with Bud. I think it’s me you need, and this is your chance. We will go now. Right now.”
“No good, Cabrelli. I take you and woman.” He reached into the truck where he had been sitting and pulled out the AR-15 he had taken from the deputy.
Unable to stop himself and completely consumed with saving Julie, Bud let out a primal roar and charged. Volkinov raised the rifle and pointed it at Bud’s chest. The sound of a rifle shot filled the air coupled with the smack of a bullet hitting flesh. Volkinov turned and the AR dropped from his hand. Another boom and he slumped on the ground.
Out of the evening mist came a figure, a lanky form with long strides. Len Bork walked up, his Marlin .45-70 rifle in his hand. His uniform was ripped and dirt covered. He stared down at the now lifeless body of the Wolf with two holes in his chest.
The chief broke the silence. “I’m sorry I could not do this sooner. I didn’t have a shot earlier; I was afraid that I would hit one of you. I couldn’t get any closer because I thought he would see me and ruin my chance.”
“Where the hell did you come from, Len?” I asked bewildered. “How did you know to come here?”
“I didn’t at first. Liz Masters called after you showed up at Stone’s house demanding she turn over that satchel to you. With everything going on it was believable that Bob wanted that now.
But Liz said there was something else going on and said you
seemed desperate. So I gave Bob a call and asked him. He told me he hadn’t asked you get the satchel but would check around to see if anyone else did. Then when we were doing a status check, a trooper and a deputy reported that nothing had happened other than you had passed through their checkpoint going in the direction of Spider Lake. Well, I had a hunch. I got here and pulled my car off into the bush in time to see things getting pretty desperate. I crawled on my belly over the ridge and down and got as close as I could. Then I waited and prayed he didn’t kill one of you before I got a shot.”
“Thank God, Len. You saved our lives. He would have killed us,” I said.
At that point, we took stock of each other. Bud had his arms wrapped around Julie, and the
big man was sobbing. Violence is a poison. Some become accustomed to the after-effects and through experience develop methods to cope. A gentle man like Bud who had never tasted the poison would survive, but he would never be the same. I let them be.
Len used the truck radio to call out on the emergency channel requesting an ambulance, crime scene unit, SAC Thompson, and the coroner.
While we waited, night set in, and the noises of a north country evening took center stage. Chorus frogs and spring peepers joined the occasional bullfrog’s deep bass. Waves lapped against the shore. A gentle pine-scented breeze filled the air.
The peaceful evening sounds were soon drowned out by sirens piercing the air. Flashing strobes stole the north country darkness as emergency responders arrived. A completely exhausted Liz Masters and her crew began to secure the scene. The ambulance took Julie and Bud to the Musky Falls Hospital. Len and I followed in his car. The law officers did what they always do—summoned new energy and went to work.
Epilogue
The next morning, FBI, Department of Criminal Investigation, and local law enforcement took up observation positions around Superior Shipping and Container. At 8:00 a.m., three dozen heavily armed agents and officers backed by a helicopter served a search warrant. They entered the executive offices and detained everyone. One person tried to make a break for it but was quickly subdued. The president and vice president were not there. Agents watching their homes entered and found no one. Warrants were immediately issued for their arrests.
Using information obtained from Edwin Milton, the search focused first on specific areas of the container yard. They searched container after container, and finally hit pay dirt in the form of the largest quantity of heroin ever seized in the Midwest. Along the wharf there were several containers ready to be loaded onto ships. The dockworkers said they thought they were going to Russia. When agents opened the last container in the first row, they found what they had all been trying to find for so long—the body of the missing federal undercover agent. The medical examiner determined cause of death was a broken neck. Dirt and debris found adhered to her body and clothing was consistent with soil found at the now burned down cabin in the woods. The watch was identified as one that had been given to her as a gift from her father.
