by John Charles
We waved back. Hillary turned to me once he was out of earshot. “Why do you know so many cops?”
“Uh, well, they were interviewing people who spent a lot of time in Chinatown. At the time, I was practically eating there every day.”
“Eeewww.”
After dinner, we were both too full to carry on to something else, so I drove Hillary home. Of course, she was playing it cool and being nice. I had also made it pretty clear that I had a hot tub back at The Vic, but she insisted on going back to her place. I can’t round the bases if I’m hitting fouls all night. I would settle for a walk, though.
I must have said “For real?” at least five times before I realized how serious Hillary was about not inviting me in. But she took pity on my doe eyes because she gave me a hand job in the car and let me feel her breasts. I’ll take what I can get. I gave her a hug and a kiss and she exited the car. I hadn’t had any action in a while, so there were no complaints on my end.
I flipped my headlights on, put the car into drive, and headed home.
Grigory Orlov flicked his cigarette out of his car window and headed home too.
42
With his mother already fast asleep in her room, Detective Sokolov headed into his study to get some work done. He called this time his quiet time, when he would disappear behind the closed door and work late into the night. Most of the work had to do with the cases he and his partner worked on, but a small portion always focused on what he called his hobby—obsession, if he were honest about it. It had to be since it involved tracking Ghostface.
Tonight it was all about Ghostface. He had struck again—another public hit. This time it was a finance guru from the UK. Bloody show he put on. It was public. It was messy. It was intentional. It was as if he had wanted to sensationalize the kill. He succeeded. Normally the only people aware of hits by professionals at his caliber were the contractor, the employer, and the victim. This time, all of Paris was invited to the show.
Sokolov’s contact in Interpol had overnighted him an entire dossier on the hit—pictures, forensics, bullet casings—it was all there. The word on the street was that Ghostface was behind the kill. No one can prove it because no one knows him or what he looks like. And there’s the rub. It’s like investigating a ghost.
More and more, Sokolov was finding, Ghostface sought out higher-profile assignments, Barry Woodward being a perfect example. He was a public figure, well known in the financial world. This worried Sokolov. It meant the killer’s reputation was getting the best of him; Ghostface knew he was the best and he wanted the world to know it, too.
Sokolov’s interest in Ghostface went back to his childhood, when his father was murdered while the family lived in Novosibirsk, the largest city in Siberia. Sokolov had been fourteen at the time.
From what information he collected on his own, Sokolov discovered his father was a gambler and had outstanding debts. His mother would never admit that the old man was a drunk and gambler, the worst kind. Apparently he had gotten himself in a lot of trouble really fast with his last drinking binge. The end result? Sokolov’s father was found in an old factory, beaten to death. It was shortly after his death that Alla Sokolov moved herself and the young Sokolov to the United States—anything to prevent him from following in his father’s footsteps.
Sokolov had his own theories on his father’s death. While there was no argument that the man was murdered, by whom was still up for discussion. He believed his father was an early victim of Ghostface, when the assassin first started out as a teenager—an early hit to get his feet wet. Only rumors and guesses placed Novosibirsk as Ghostface’s hometown, but it is the only place that is ever mentioned as having a connection to the killer.
The key piece of evidence Sokolov saw firsthand: a trail of blood leading to his father’s body. The killer wanted the body to be found. The trail started in the snow-covered center of the town. Near a statue of Joseph Stalin, written in Russian were the words, “Start here.” A series of arrows then led to an abandoned building one hundred yards away. The town children were the first to discover the trail, thinking it was a game. It was for Ghostface.
Even now, no matter the victim or how he does the job, Ghostface makes sure the body is easily found.
Flipping through the information on the Paris hit again, Sokolov noted the kill took place at a café popular with tourist and locals, about as public as one can get—especially when the eye-catching finale are exploding heads. Ghostface was escalating. Each hit was becoming more public. Before the Paris hit was another show at a dinner party in a chic restaurant in Sicily.
Salvio Umberto, a colorful olive oil exporter, started foaming at the mouth during the second course, completely unable to breath. According to reports, his skin appeared to turn black and blue instantly, as if an invisible person was beating him. Blood poured from his nose and ears, even his eyes. His insides were melting and escaping through whatever orifice was available. An autopsy identified the poison as TCDD, the most potent dioxin in Agent Orange and anthrax. No one could figure out how Umberto ingested the poison. Ghostface was nothing if not clever.
Sokolov rubbed his bald head as he let out a heavy breath. Was he wasting his time? He often felt as if he was the only one working the case. Ghostface was seen as half man, half myth. How hard was anyone really hunting him? He wouldn’t give up though.
One of these days you’ll make a mistake. I’ll be there.
43
I woke up the next morning to Ralphie’s gaze. Lately the pug had taken a liking to sleeping with me in my bed. Unfortunately he likes to sleep on the same pillow I do. It’s not a pretty sight to wake up to. “Come on, Ralphie, move over,” I said as I gave him a push.
He just moaned and went limp, making it harder. I rolled over to the other side of the bed. The clock on my nightstand said 9:13 a.m. It felt like it was five in the morning. I listened to see if Tav was up. I couldn’t hear anything, so I assumed he was still passed out.
When I got home last night, I was all ready to tell Tav about the hand job only to find him seriously tanked off of a couple of alcoholic energy drinks. He was a complete mess. I threw out the rest of the unopened cans and helped him to his bed. He kept saying the same thing over and over. “Hey, little buddy.”
Why prolong the inevitable? I pushed myself to get out of bed. I also pushed Ralphie. He didn’t appreciate it. But if I was getting up, so was he.
I got the coffee maker going and filled Ralphie’s bowl with a cup of extremely expensive doggy diet food. The vet said, “He needs to lose five pounds or risks keeling over one day during a walk,” so Tav started shelling out the big bucks for gourmet. After Ralphie dug in, I made my way over to Tav’s room. It was time for his wake-up call.
I knocked on his door.
“Tav? You up?”
I waited a few seconds, nothing. So I began pounding on the door.
“Tav, get up, man.”
I could hear muffled sounds coming from the room. I opened the door and faced blackness. I walked over to the drapes and pulled them open. The sun raced into the room, burning away the darkness instantly.
“Ugh, what are you doing? I’m tired,” Tav complained.
“Sorry. My house, my rules. No sleeping the day away.”
I won’t admit it, but I enjoy having Tav living here with me. The company is nice. Plus we’re best friends. Ralphie’s a great dog—though the poop presents I could do without. I discovered their existence the hard way. It’s the worst feeling when you squish down onto one. But it’s not like he does it all the time. He’s an old dog, so if you don’t take him out three times a day… plop, plop. Luckily, a good portion of the house is tiled.
I waited until Tav had half a cup of joe inside of him before reaching out. He looked sort of awake. “So last night’s date went pretty well,” I said.
That woke him up.
Tav blinked the sleep out of his eyes. “I forgot. Tell me, what happened?”
I leaned
in, using both hands for emphasis. “First off, she looked smoking hot. She had on this tight white dress. You could totally tell she wasn’t wearing any underwear.”
“Nice. Were you able to get her back here? Drop the hot tub line?”
“That line bombed,” I said, leaning back and yawning.
Tav’s eyebrows crinkled at me. “Really?”
“Yeah, she was dead set on me taking her home. The whole time I’m thinking she wants to be on her own turf for our first rendezvous.”
“Did you tag home plate?”
“Nope, never even set foot in the house.”
“Her lips were sealed?”
“I guess you could say that, but all wasn’t lost. She did give me a hand job in the car,” I motioned. “And let me feel her boobs.”
“No way!” Tav slammed his hand against the counter. “Nice. What were they like?”
“Perfect size. Soft. Round. Cupable. Pink nipples. All in all, very good.”
“You going to see her again?”
“Definitely. This was the warm-up.”
I poured us another round of coffee and headed up to my room to catch up on e-mail and Facebook. No sooner had I booted up the laptop than my Skype started to buzz me. I didn’t want to guess who would be contacting me. I looked at the familiar number. The only person I had ever Skyped with was Tatiana. And she’s dead. Curiosity had gotten the better of me. I answered the call and my video window appeared. There was no image at first, just a black screen. And then it flickered and an image appeared.
It was Viktor Kazapov, and he was smiling.
44
Lviv, Ukraine
One day earlier, Viktor Kazapov and five other men from his gang were being transported on an old school bus that had a haphazard modification to move prisoners from one facility to another. The converted bus had armored sheet metal welded to both sides of it, but this was more for show rather than purpose. A large metal bumper was fixed to the front of the rig, intended for ramming.
Viktor and the rest wore chains that shackled their feet to the wrists. Because of who they were, no other prisoners were being transported alongside them. The men had spent a night in Lukyanivska Prison in Kiev for further processing and were now en route to their final destination. The entire crew had been found guilty of the charges against them and sentenced to serve a minimum of twenty-five years of hard time.
Valery Buchko had seen to it that their time would be done at the Brygidki maximum-security prison in the city of Lviv. Hard time there was the equivalent of taking a kick to the balls every thirty seconds. The prison’s warden had a mentality of “Shoot first; ask questions later.”
Conditions at the prison were, at best, troublesome. The cells, originally built for three men, now housed six to eight men and were dank and smelly. Only the most troubled, the vilest, and the most insane prisoners that Ukraine had under their care were housed there. Even the rats that shared the living quarters were kept as prisoners. Serving time there was like receiving a death sentence. The average life of a prisoner was a mere three to four years. Mr. Buchko held true to his promise. Viktor would die in prison.
Four security vehicles, two in front of the bus and two behind, provided the additional security for the transport, courtesy of the Security Service of Ukraine, or the SBU.
Inside each vehicle were four highly trained personnel equipped with assault rifles. That was a total of sixteen armed men surrounding the school bus. Inside the bus were four more highly trained and armed guards, plus a lightly armed driver. That made five. The total number of armed security detail used to ensure safe transport of the prisoners: twenty-one.
Sadly, this number was grossly underestimated.
Viktor sat quietly in his seat, humming a tune. He stared out the window at the passing countryside. A quick look at his eyes would register nothing. His crew had long ago given up trying to seek answers from him. They were dumbfounded by his lack of concern for what was happening to all of them. It was as if he had not a worry in the world.
At exactly 1:00 p.m., it began.
The convoy was about an hour outside of Lviv when the first security car exploded into an unrecognizable heap of burning, twisted metal. The entire caravan had no choice but to come to a grinding stop. The second security car in front the bus, while not destroyed, was heavily damaged, with licks of fire making their way out from under the hood. If anyone in the second car survived the blast, they would have been too injured to do anything about it. The explosion, the caravan coming to a halt, it all took exactly five seconds—just as planned.
Viktor yawned as he sat calmly in his seat.
Behind the bus, six SUVs pulled up alongside the remaining two security cars, three on each side. Each one was filled with heavily armed men. Two of the SUVS continued on to the bus.
The remaining SUVs unloaded a storm of bullets from both sides, shredding the two security cars like heads of cabbage against a new grater. The security detail was able to get one shot off. It missed.
The other two cars that drove ahead stopped on either side of the bus and began firing on the guards. It was ten against the SBU’s four guards and their lightly armed driver.
Scratch that. Just the guards now.
The security guards got lucky and put down two of the attackers as they exited an SUV. But by now, the other vehicles had caught up to the bus and masked men began exiting the vehicles and assaulting the bus.
Viktor joined his men on the floor the second the bus took fire. The first two from his crew to hit the floor did so because of multiple bullets to the head.
One of them shouted, “Viktor, what is happening?”
Viktor turned his head to the man and just smiled.
“You knew all along?”
Viktor said nothing and waited.
The masked men advanced on the bus, shooting relentlessly and stopping only to reload. The four guards were running low on ammo, their last clips locked and loaded. Thirteen, twelve, eleven… ten, nine… eight, seven, six, five… their bullets counted down.
A booming sound reverberated throughout the bus as the back door was blown off. The front door followed a second later. The attacking men filed in. The guards were dead men standing the second the bomb went off.
45
Odessa, Ukraine
Valery Buchko looked at his wife and sighed. His face said it all. Irina knew right then and there that Viktor Kazapov had escaped. Valery hung the phone up and sat down, his head now in his hands.
“He’s gone, isn’t he?”
Valery nodded without looking up towards Irina.
“The caravan was hit. All the guards are dead. Viktor and his men were missing when the police arrived.”
“Why are we only finding out now?”
“The prison officials, the SBU—they were too embarrassed. They tried to find Viktor first, but no luck.”
Irina sank into her chair. Everything they had done in the last few weeks was slowly unraveling, becoming a distant memory. If Viktor was free, what would stop him from coming after the family? “What do we do now, Valery?”
“I will put extra security around the house and the children.”
“What about Viktor?”
“One of the guards, surprisingly, was still alive when help arrived. He said the entire ordeal took no more than fifteen minutes. They were overwhelmed by the sheer firepower of the attackers. He said Viktor and four of his men escaped. It sounds like it was planned and arranged by someone on the outside. Viktor would not have been able to plan this under his tight security.”
“Another gang?” Irina asked.
“No. Someone with more power, more reach, planned this operation. A brutal escape in the middle of day? Out on the open highway? These men were professionals, highly trained.”
“Where is Viktor now?”
“We are not sure. Borders and airports are closed, but what good is that when you deal with a man who seems to have unlimited resources? It would no
t surprise me if he is already outside of the country.”
They both sat quietly in Valery’s study, comprehending the news.
The long beep of the phone broke the silence. Valery picked it up.
“Yes, okay. Put him through… Hello, Darby… Are you sure? … Yes, it is true. Viktor escaped while being transported from one jail to another. We only found out ourselves a few minutes ago. Lots of people died, twenty guards total… How was he able to reach you? … Hmm. I wouldn’t worry too much, Darby. It is impossible for Viktor to fly to United States. He is on no-fly list. His picture is everywhere. I don’t think Viktor will come for you. Too much trouble and not worth it. His focus will be on getting his operation back up and running… I know.”
Irina moved next to Valery. “Put the call on speaker. I want to hear.”
“Darby, I’m with Irina. I put you on speakerphone. Can you hear us?”
“Yes, I can hear you.”
“Hello, Darby. It’s Irina. Did Viktor contact you?”
“Yes. He rang me through Skype no more than ten minutes ago.”
“What did he say?” Valery asked.
“I didn’t give him time to say anything. Once I saw that evil grin on his face, I disconnected the call and shut down my laptop.”
“Darby, my government will do everything possible to catch Viktor. We will bring him to justice. The borders are closed.”
“How do you know he isn’t already outside of the Ukraine? How secure is the border?”
Valery paused for a moment. “The truth is, the borders are easily crossable. If he has left Ukraine, he most likely will head north to Belarus. He has many allies in this country.”
“How helpful will the Belarusian government be?”
“We will have to work with them. Darby, there are means we have at our disposal I cannot give detail to. You have to trust we are doing everything we can. Options are limited. I’m sorry. We’re both sorry.”
