But when they returned, they found that Zellen’s son, Nick, had somehow witnessed his father’s murder, and claimed the killer was none other than Alexei Sarvydas. Worse yet, the prints matched Alexei’s, leaving them no choice but to arrest him.
When Viktor Sarvydas arranged a secret meeting with him and Dantelli, Rob thought they were dead men walking. They must have missed Nick when they did the sweep of the house, and someone must have screwed up on the prints, how else would they be plastered all over the crime scene? But surprisingly, Viktor praised their work. He instructed them, as the lead investigators, to work with the prosecution in its case against Alexei, until further notice. He said he would take care of everything else.
Dantelli advised Rob not to go into any federal protection programs, probably afraid that the feds could trick him into spilling the truth. So he took early retirement and moved to Vail, where Pavel Kovalenko would protect him. So when he received the news about Dantelli, he hightailed it to the Red Menace, a club owned by Kovalenko.
A large hand gripped Rob’s shoulder. He practically jumped out of his skin. He had been like a cat on a hot tin roof since that phone call.
“I know how you love those dark skinned beauties, Rob,” Kovalenko said in his thick Russian accent, noticing his stare at the woman.
It wasn’t too hard to figure out who he was looking at—the place was practically deserted, which was not unusual. Kovalenko owned two Red Menaces, one located in downtown Denver on Blake Street, which was usually jammed wall-to-wall, often with fans from Rockies or Colorado Avalanche games, many wearing the jersey of their hero, Pavel Kovalenko. But this one in suburban Aurora usually just had a few “regulars” on a typical night. The feds were always interested how a seventeen-thousand-square-foot club could stay in business with the only customers being a couple of mobbed-up Russians drinking for free every night. They knew it was a money laundromat for Sarvydas, but could never prove it.
“She is beautiful,” Rob conceded, avoiding eye contact with Kovalenko. Just the sight of his scar-lined face usually filled him with fear.
Pavel Kovalenko was a physical defenseman, nicknamed The Red Menace, who had a distinguished career in professional hockey. But in Russian Mafiya circles, he was known as an important Sarvydas lieutenant.
As legend had it, Kovalenko came to the US from Russia at the age of seventeen, signing a contract with the New York Islanders. His interests expanded beyond hockey, which led him to the Russian World Art Gallery on Fifth Street in Manhattan. It was there that he met a fellow Russian art buff named Karl Zellen. At the time, like many Russian hockey players in the States, Kovalenko was being extorted by Moscow thugs, who were demanding a piece of his salary in exchange for his family’s safety back in Russia. They even kidnapped his mother one time to prove they were serious about a late payment. But Zellen and his business partner, Viktor Sarvydas, cleared up that problem. It was the first step in what would be a bond of vors.
After retiring from hockey, he took over the western wing of the Russian Mafiya, headquartered in Denver. With over eighty thousand Russian immigrants residing in the area, it was the perfect place to blend into. And the affluent suburbs of Glendale, Englewood, and Aurora allowed them to open legitimate businesses as a cover. Unlike the flashy styles of Brighton Beach and Miami, Kovalenko conditioned his men to not draw attention to themselves, most living in modest homes and driving Hondas.
Rob looked up at Kovalenko. He had diagonal scars on his furrowed brow, perhaps from hockey, but more likely from other activities. Rob had heard many stories about him that he hoped were just urban myths, but he wasn’t taking any chances.
“No worries, Rob. Mr. Sarvydas left me in charge of your safety, so you have nothing to fear.”
“Maybe I panicked—I shouldn’t have come and bothered you like this. I know you’re a busy man.”
The grip on his shoulder tightened. “You made the right decision. If it’s true that Zubov killed your partner, then you also could be in danger.”
“I don’t understand, I thought Zubov was Mr. Sarvydas’ most loyal soldier,” Rob began, then stopped abruptly. The less he knew the better.
Kovalenko chuckled. “Zubov is as loyal as an alley cat. And I can assure you he didn’t get his orders from Mr. Sarvydas to harm your partner. You are safe here.”
Rob wasn’t sure what to believe. His glance again wandered to the woman
Kovalenko followed his eyes to the sparkling creature. “Let me talk to her and see if I can arrange a meeting with you. She seems alone, and I think you could use a friend tonight.”
Women were always his downfall.
Chapter 42
Lilly kissed him deeply on the lips. She then clasped his hand and led him to the dark room. The second they moved past the curtain, out of sight, she released his hand.
On cue, the lights came on and the clenched fist headed for Rob Bachynsky’s nose. Before he could figure out what was happening to him, Nick hit him with another punch. And then another.
Lilly had no remorse for luring the dirty cop into the backroom. A broken nose was the least this Bachynsky character deserved for being involved in the killing of Nick’s father.
After leaving Dantelli’s home in the late morning, they first headed to McCarran Airport, before stopping by to see an old friend. he provided Lilly with a Thunderbird convertible, along with a pair of “scrambled” cell phones.
Lilly did most of the driving, averaging over eighty on the desolate highways I-15 North and I-70 East. They filled up the tank in St George, Utah, where Nick walked off, saying he needed to make a call to soothe his sister’s fears, after she likely saw their faces splashed all over the television.
While Nick was on the phone, Lilly purchased a bottled water and a couple of magazines, including the latest Rolling Stone with Natalie Gold on the cover. Just another in a line of young girls she had become jealous of since her first kiss with Nick.
They rolled into the Denver area around ten, Colorado time. By 10:30, they had slipped into the Red Menace.
“You killed him, you son of a bitch,” Nick continued to pound away. Bachynsky was now huddled on the floor in a pool of blood, unsuccessfully trying to stop the attack.
“I don’t understand, Nick. I thought we were on the same side.”
“Same side? That’s a good one. I guess we are until you get into court and start playing dumb on the stand. Although, I don’t know how much acting you have to do to appear dumb.”
“I didn’t kill him,” Bachynsky pleaded.
“Don’t bullshit me—Dantelli already sold you out. Just because you didn’t pull the trigger doesn’t mean you didn’t kill him. That’s even worse…and gutless!”
Lilly felt like she was watching a replay from earlier. “I was just following orders,” Bachynsky said between blows.
“Viktor Sarvydas’ orders?”
He said nothing, which served as an admission. His eyes began shifting around the room like he was looking for help that wasn’t coming.
Lilly stood by the door, keeping a watch on the scary-looking guy named Kovalenko. Just her brief conversation with him at the bar had sent chills down her spine. For the moment, he appeared too busy running his restaurant to be concerned about the action in the backroom.
As Nick’s punches intensified, Lilly was sure that he was going to kill him, sensing he was having second thoughts about letting Dantelli off the hook. She vacated her post by the door and tried to intervene. “C’mon, Nick—you promised that you just wanted to scare him. Now you’re scaring me.”
“Sometimes plans get changed,” he replied coldly
A voice abruptly stopped the onslaught. “That is so very true. Sometimes plans do get changed. And you can think of me as a plan-changer.”
Lilly looked at the man in a suit with a neatly groomed mustache. He looked calm and composed.
Nick whispered into Lilly’s ear, “Zubov.”
Just the name made Lilly shudder.<
br />
Chapter 43
“I figured you’d be here, Rob. But Nick...what a surprise. It’ll save me a trip. And with the price of gas these days, that’s quite a blessing.”
Nick said nothing, as they watched Zubov take out a gun and twist on a silencer. Zubov’s calm, almost ho-hum demeanor scared Lilly.
Bachynsky struggled to his feet, but still looked wobbly. “We just followed Mr. Sarvydas’ orders. I don’t understand why you killed Dantelli.”
Lilly traded glances with Nick, who looked just as floored as she was. Dantelli was dead?
Zubov chuckled. “People always want to know why, why, why. Why are we here? Why me? Things happen or they don’t—it don’t matter why.”
Nobody said anything, so Zubov continued, “Getting back to the change of plans, there was once going to be a trial and now there won’t be one. Rob, Nick, and our late friend, Detective Dantelli, all have decided not to testify against Alexei.”
“I don’t understand—we followed orders,” Bachynsky blubbered.
“Let me put it so even you can understand, Rob. I used to take orders directly from the don, Viktor Sarvydas—that was good for you. But with him out of the country, I now take my orders from the don’s son. Not so good for you.”
He smiled again, and it was scary.
Another Russian accent filled the room, this one a deep baritone, “The only thing that will be good for you, Zubov, is to put down that gun and move away from Mr. Bachynsky. I still take my orders from the don.”
Pavel Kovalenko held a gun at them.
Lilly wasn’t sure who to root for. The killer taking orders from Viktor Sarvydas, or the killer taking orders from his son. Bachynsky appeared to be off the hook, but she and Nick were in trouble either way. Pick your poison.
Zubov surprisingly dropped his gun without a fight.
Kovalenko backed Zubov toward a pool table with a wave of his gun. He then indicated for Nick and Lilly to join him. Standing beside Zubov was as comfortable as laying on a bed of nails.
Still holding his gun on them, Kovalenko walked to Bachynsky and checked on his physical well-being. He was a sniveling mess. Kovalenko showed little sympathy, ordering him to stop or he would shoot him just like “the rest of them,” as if they were already past tense. He complied.
Kovalenko turned to Zubov. “Nobody crosses Viktor Sarvydas and lives to tell about it. Not even the great Zubov.”
Zubov laughed. “You are an excellent actor. You don’t work for Viktor Sarvydas any more than I do, so let’s stop the charade.”
“Charade?”
“Let me spell it out for you, Pavel. You are now working for Parmalov, as part of a coalition to take power from the Sarvydas family. I understand how system works. And with Viktor exiled, and Alexei in jail, you are making the prudent move. I have no hard feelings toward you, but that don’t mean I’m not going to kill you.”
“Do the math, Zubov. I have the gun.”
“You no deny my accusation. Viktor was teaching Alexei a lesson, and now that he has, he sees no need for trial. But he left it up to his son to make final decision, and I’m here to enforce those wishes. My condolences to you and Parmalov, maybe next time your wishes come true.” Zubov laughed again. “Oops, I forgot, there will be no next time.” The more dire his situation, the more confidence he seemed to gain.
Lilly gauged Nick, who looked unsure. But nothing compared to Bachynsky, whose darting eyes said he didn’t know who to trust. Kovalenko was his best shot to get out of here alive, but he seemed to be questioning the trust-level of that relationship.
“Don’t worry, Rob, you did everything asked of you,” Zubov read his confusion. “But I’m still going to kill you.”
Then with lightning precision, Zubov grabbed a pool cue and ripped it across Kovalenko’s face. He followed up the slash with a poke to the eyes, temporarily blinding his adversary. He crashed to the ground and Zubov pounced. He used the stick to keep Kovalenko on the defensive. Zubov then broke the stick on the floor creating a jagged edge.
Lilly knew she had to do something. “Freeze, or I’ll shoot,” she yelled out, but wasn’t sure who to shoot or who to save.
Zubov turned and looked at Lilly, who was holding the gun that Kovalenko had dropped to the floor. He exploded into laughter. “Can you imagine after all my battles, if I would die at the hands of a woman?”
Even Kovalenko found that one a little funny. The Russians didn’t lack for chauvinism. Lilly hated guns, a reaction to growing up around violence. But her father had taught her how to use one, and it felt comfortable in her hands.
Zubov’s smirk never left his face as he lunged at her with the jagged pool cue. He missed and she fired. It hit him in the shoulder and blood began to spill through his suit.
He lunged at her again. She was momentarily paralyzed, before remembering something that Nick told her about Zubov back when he was just an imaginary figure of horror. He had both his knees tattooed to tell the world that he wouldn’t kneel to anyone. It triggered her to action. Lilly fired at his knees.
He fell in a heap on the floor, writhing in pain.
There was no time to dwell on what she had just done. They had to get out of here! But there was a big problem—Bachynsky had picked up Zubov’s gun and was holding Nick hostage.
“I don’t know what’s going on here, but I’m leaving this place alive,” he yelled out.
“Let him go,” Lilly sternly warned, riding the wave of confidence from her stunning take-down of Zubov.
“Drop the gun!” Bachynsky yelled back at her. “Drop the gun or Nick dies!”
Lilly began to lower her gun.
Nick shouted, “Don’t do it, Lilly! You drop that gun and he kills me.”
Lilly overloaded with doubts. Bachynsky raised his gun to Nick’s temple and repeated, “Put the gun down or he dies.”
“Shoot him, Lilly,” Nick countered.
Lilly couldn’t lose Nick—not now. She showed her gun to indicate that she was going to slowly lower it to the ground.
As she lowered the gun, she made eye contact with Nick. “I trust you, Lilly,” he said.
“I told you never to do that,” she replied back.
Bachynsky should have taken the same advice. He momentarily let down his guard.
Just before laying the gun on the cold linoleum, Lilly quickly raised it and fired. Now she was the plan changer.
Chapter 44
After ridding himself of Becks—dropping the teenager from hell back at her school—Darren returned home. He planned on a quiet evening of wallowing in self-pity, hoping to wake tomorrow to find that this whole thing was just a cruel nightmare.
But like a masochist, he couldn’t resist turning on the television. And as was true to his luck, he was just in time to hear Jessi Stafford reporting that Lilly and Brett Buckley had been spotted at a Las Vegas wedding chapel.
He angrily shut the TV off, and sat in silence. At just before nine, Treadwell dropped by. He came straight from the airport, returning on the route they were supposed to have piloted together.
He first complained that Darren’s emergency exit had caused a chain reaction in the scheduling that resulted in him having to fly back to New York tomorrow, and throwing a wet blanket on a night of club-hopping he had planned.
Darren filled him in on the details as best he knew them. Starting with Lilly’s abduction and taking him up to his trip to South Chandler High.
“Then what are you doing here?” Treadwell asked, sounding baffled.
“What am I supposed to do—drag her back here like I’m her dad, and send her to her room?”
“You need to track Lilly down so you can tell her that you’re sorry.”
“I should apologize to her?”
“It’s your fault. She gave you like five years to grow a pair, how long did you expect her to wait?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Come to think of it, you also owe me one.”
&nbs
p; “You?”
“I could have taken Lilly home that night, but I sacrificed my own pleasure for my friend. And how do you repay me—by screwing the whole thing up.”
“You must be kidding me. You and Lilly?”
“I don’t have looks, wealth, or even one of those senses of humor that women are always claiming they want. Yet I’m always flying first class with the ladies. You wanna know why?”
“We’re talking about marriage, not picking up some girl in a bar.”
“It all comes down to the same thing—what women really want is a man. And not the modern day sissified types like yourself, who are masquerading as men. They want a cave man. So if I were you, I’d be on the next flight to Vegas. I’d track her down, club her over the head and drag her back home. Show her who the man is. That punk high school boy wouldn’t know what hit him!”
Treadwell made himself a sandwich like this was a normal night, and watched the Diamondbacks game to its conclusion. When he eventually left, the words began to soak in for Darren. While most of it was the typical over-the-top Treadwell, he did make one point that was indisputable—he had to get to Lilly as soon as possible.
Darren had his keys in his hand ready to head to the airport when a knock on the front door stopped him. He checked his watch—it was quarter to eleven. Who could be here at this hour?
Chapter 45
In stumbled Becks, carrying a twelve pack of Corona.
“What are you doing here?” Darren asked with chagrin.
“I hate drinking alone,” she said, and plopped down at his kitchen table like it was a bar stool. She was wearing the same pair of shorts and flip-flops from earlier, but had on a different T-shirt, this one read: I Caught Senioritis From Your Boyfriend.
“How did you get beer, you’re not twenty-one?”
Her words slurred, “When you think about it, it’s kinda ironic that teenagers can’t drink. We’re the ones who need a drink the most...since we have to deal with you adults!”
The Truant Officer v5 Page 15
