Mr. Buchko leaned over and whispered, “Girls that are forced into prostitution usually end up psychologically damaged, some are thrown out because of diseases, but most turn into drug addicts and die eventually. We are lucky. Very lucky.”
“What do you want out of this?” the lawyer asked Natasha.
“I want Viktor to suffer. I want him to die a terrible and painful death.”
The testimony of the girls was so strong that I doubted I was needed to testify, but eventually I told the judge my story. What I had to offer was a rubber stamp testimony. I made it a point to single out Viktor as the man I recognized without a doubt that night. The only new evidence the court hadn’t heard was my accusation that the gang had made an attempt on my life.
Mr. Buchko had asked me to bring the bullet hole-ridden suitcase, even some of the clothing, with me on my trip to Ukraine. He told me there was no way to prove it was the gang, but he wanted to paint as bad a picture as possible whether it was true or not. The lawyer for the gang of course was quick to dismiss that part of my testimony because there was no proof that the gang was behind it.
When I was done testifying, the lawyer for Tatiana’s case approached me. He said he reviewed the evidence of her execution that I provided and said my personal testimony would not be needed. “Viktor has no chance.” Those were his exact words. I liked hearing that.
Chapter 36
San Francisco, California
I returned to the States knowing that the victims and their families, including myself, were getting closer to gaining closure on the whole ordeal.
The Galanovas, Tatiana’s family, was unable to travel to Odessa for the trials, so I never did get to meet them and tell them how special I thought their daughter was. I wanted to do something for them though, so I asked Mr. Buchko to give them my payment for testifying and only cover my expenses. They had lost a daughter and I believed some sort of compensation should be given. Mr. Buchko said, “Money like that will go along way to helping them.” I was completely okay with my decision. I felt like Mother Teresa.
That is until reality slapped me in the face and said to wake the hell up. Reality came in the form of one pissed-off blond, and she had me trapped in my office on the twelfth floor of Teleco. “Who do you think you are, Darby, standing me up like that? You think you’re somebody around here?”
I opened my mouth to protest.
“Shut up. I’m not done. You and that stupid dick of yours can forget about having a chance with me. What, you didn’t think I’d find you?”
“I—”
“No, I’m not done.” This barrage went on for ten minutes with no end in sight. I couldn’t get a word in. Hillary wouldn’t shut up. And when I did try to speak…I was promptly told to shut it because she had the floor.
To be honest, I totally forgot about our date. It was the day I saw Tatiana executed and then I got the call from the mysterious voice. I got caught up with what happened and deciding whether I should go to New York the next day. Then I was out of town for the trials in Ukraine. I could see how Hillary thought I blew her off and then tried to avoid her. Why on earth would I do that? She’s the “H” in HAM.
“Calm down, Hillary—”
“Don’t tell me to calm down, and don’t try to shush me.”
“I can explain.”
“I’m waiting.”
“I had a last-minute client emergency in New York and I had to fly out first thing the next morning. I was so involved with the emergency, I simply forgot that I had a date with you that night.”
“Where were you the last three days?”
“The Ukraine. Another client. Look you can check with travel. I swear it’s legit. I really am sorry. I feel so bad. The least I could have done was call and explain. I messed up. I made a huge mistake—the type of mistake I should get my butt kicked for. I don’t expect you to forgive my imbecile brain for not prioritizing correctly. You should have been top of my mind regardless of what was going on. You have every right to chew me out….”
This, me groveling, continued on for another fifteen minutes. With each reason why I was a dumb-dumb and she was the deserving one, I could sense Hillary calming down. I really did want another shot with her, especially now that I had The Vic in my arsenal. Surely I would close the deal.
“Look Hillary, let me make this up to you. How about dinner anywhere in the city? You decide. Nothing is off limits.”
I could almost see the wheels in her head turning. This was going to be very, very expensive.
“Coi.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a restaurant in North Beach. Eleven courses with wine parings. Coi is Michelin rated––two stars. That’s where I want to go.”
“Done.”
She threw her hand out to me. “Give me your credit card. I’ll make us reservations for tonight.”
“Same day reservation?”
“I know people.”
I handed it over and she left, her jaw hanging a little lower than normal. I think she expected a little pushback. Honestly, I didn’t care where we went or what it would cost. The only thing that bothered me about going to Coi was Fat Sal.
I Googled the restaurant and thankfully it wasn’t near Fat Sal’s Pizzeria. It was a safe three blocks away. That was a plus.
Here’s the deal with Fat Sal. A while back I tried to get him to buy a bunch of wireless routers from Teleco to help raise my sales performance. I came at him pretty hard, but it didn’t quite work out the way I imagined. At the time, I was a bottom-feeder at Teleco calling on mom-and-pops. It was a low point for me. My plan with Fat Sal backfired. I ended up losing him as a customer and making him an enemy. He swore if he ever saw me again, it wouldn’t be pretty.
That part of town was off limits as far as I was concerned. Nothing could convince me to venture back into North Beach—except a date with Hillary. My little helmet was willing to risk it.
Chapter 37
Moscow, Russia
The door slammed shut keeping the ugly weather at bay. But the biting wind knew the men would appear again and waited.
The four men took off their ushankas. Moisture beaded on the fur hats. They hung them, along with their heavy winter coats, on hooks in the entrance hallway. The small apartment, located just off of the Red Square in Moscow, was a favorite meeting place for them because of its unassuming nature. They were the Elders and they ran the Russian Mafiya.
The four men gathered around a small table in the kitchen while one of them, the Tea Maker, began boiling water. A plate of cookies sat on the table. The Oldest, and the one with the bushiest eyebrows, was the first to speak.
“What do we know so far?”
The Tea Maker answered, “Viktor is screwed. That means we could be screwed.”
“And the rest of the men?”
“The same,” he continued.
“Our entire operation is down?”
“It appears that way…for now.”
The Tea Maker poured each of them a cup of hot, black tea and then took a seat next to the Oldest and said, “Every day we are down we lose 500,000 rubles.”
“Viktor is one of the best. Who could have done this?” the Oldest asked.
“From what we know, it is an American. But Viktor has been sloppy lately.”
The Oldest raised an eyebrow. “Sloppy how?”
“He stopped in Minsk with the package to conduct some of his side ventures. His men got drunk and a girl escaped.”
“What happened to them?”
“Viktor killed the man responsible.”
The Oldest contemplated what the Tea Maker had told him so far. The other two Elders sipped their tea and nibbled on cookies, listening.
“How does a girl with no money and no transportation escape?” the Oldest asked to no one in particular.
The Tea Maker looked at the other Elders before answering. “The American. This is where Viktor made a mistake. He knew what hotel they had run to but decid
ed to return to the other girls for fear that more would try to escape. He discovered later, through a source at the hotel, that the girl left that night with two big men.”
“And the American?”
“Viktor swore he had hired some local men to take care of him but somehow he survived. It doesn’t matter. The courts say Viktor and his men are guilty of kidnapping, torture, sex trafficking, and child endangerment… The charges go on. The American helped testify against Viktor and also provided video for another murder charge.”
“What charge?”
“Viktor killed the American’s girlfriend while she was on a webcam and the whole event was recorded live. Viktor is fucked. Valery Buchko, the Minister of Finance, is behind the arrest. It was his daughter that escaped. If he get’s his way, Viktor will never see the outside world again.”
The Oldest slammed his empty cup down on the table. His eyebrows caved in over his eyes as he rested his forehead against his hand. “The American, he is a threat to us?”
“He is connected to a rival outfit in San Francisco––Odessa Mafiya. But we have a friend of a friend who can reach out and see what his involvement is.”
The Oldest frowned as he shook his head. Disappointment had spread from his eyebrows to the rest of his face. He picked up a cookie and took a bite, holding it in his mouth for a bit before chewing. “How soon can we have our operation running again?”
“Couple of weeks. What should we do about Viktor? He has a lot of information, still an asset.”
The Oldest turned to the other two men. “Any thoughts?”
The Youngest answered. “I think we already know what we must do.”
The Oldest looked at the other man, the Unreasonable One. Anger was spread over his face. He then turned back to the Tea Maker. “Do what you think is right.”
Three of the men got up and returned to their fur hats and heavy jackets in the hallway. The rigorous process of bundling their aging bodies always took a toll on them.
The Tea Maker sat quietly at the table and finished his tea. He knew what the Oldest wanted. The methods to achieving the results, however, were entirely up to him. Orders were given. Now it was time to execute them.
He already had a plan in place for Viktor Kazapov; that was the easy part. The American was the uncertainty. He wasn’t known and his involvement might be pure coincidence. Was it worth it to engage with the Odessa Mafiya? If he was involved with them, then what?
He picked up the phone and called his contact.
“Hello.”
“Your friend with the Odessa clan—he can be trusted?”
“Yes.”
“No one must know. What is your contact’s name?”
“Why must you know?”
“Insurance.”
There was a pause. “His name is Grigory Orlov.”
Chapter 38
Paris, France
Right around the same time the Elders were discussing Viktor’s situation, a busy Parisian café was brimming with tourists and locals. The sun was shining bright and the skies were incredibly clear, perfect for people-watching on Paris’ left bank.
At the famous Les Deux Magots café on St. Germain, people-watching had become an extremely popular and wildly expensive treat for many. Customers often waited on the outskirts for a table to open and would then pounce upon it the second its previous users had vacated.
It’s no surprise that English financier Barry Woodward and his mistress were enjoying cappuccinos and pastries at one of the heavily sought-after tables. They, of course, were on holiday.
Another gentleman on holiday was also enjoying the same people-watching thrill, except he wasn’t sitting at one of the sidewalk tables. He was sitting in a hotel room about one hundred yards away from the café and he was watching only one person: Barry Woodward.
For the last two days, he had followed Barry Woodward to Notre Dame, to the Eifel Tower, to the Louvre, even into the bathroom at the opera—all while having a wonderful time devising clever ways that he could kill the arrogant businessman. Poison? Bomb? Electrocution? All of it fun, but not quite right.
This was the exciting part of the job, the part the assassin liked best. Twice he had to resist the urge to kill old Barry Boy. He so wanted the perfect assassination. Two requirements were needed to achieve this: There must be an audience and it must be visually spectacular. Only the best, thought Ghostface.
At two hundred yards, the Dragunov SVD sniper rifle can pierce half an inch of armored metal easily. At one hundred yards, it can turn a head into an exploding water balloon—just the theatrical effect he was looking for.
Ghostface continued to watch Barry through the PSO-1 scope. Barry didn’t move his head very much. This was just too easy. A challenge would have been nice. The hitman waited a few more minutes figuring he had at least until Barry finished his cappuccino.
Fingering the trigger, Ghostface watched Barry take another sip. When you put that coffee cup down, I’m going to put you down. But Barry didn’t put the cup down. He held it just below his chin. Motherfucker.
Ghostface waited another ten seconds but still, Barry held on to the cup. Time was up. Patience had run out. I’m going to make you put that cup down now. He let out a breath and then pulled the trigger.
Barry’s head exploded like an overripe cherry tomato under a thumb. Brain matter and fragments of skull erupted in a ten-foot radius, showering the audience. This was stellar people-watching material. This was a show they would be talking about for a while. Gather ’round, children. This is the stuff nightmares are born of. What made this one extra special, extraordinary even, was that it was a double feature. Barry’s mistress moved at the last minute and lined her head up with his. After annihilating Barry’s head, the 7.62mm bullet continued on to pulverize hers.
Two-for-one special. Today only. Seating limited.
Chapter 39
San Francisco, California
Grigory Orlov sat at the kitchen table in a one-bedroom apartment not too far from the Russian Tsar restaurant. A half-eaten sandwich lay on a plate in front of him while he sipped his black tea. He lit a cigarette while waiting for a phone call arranged through a trusted friend in Kazan, Russia.
Orlov grew up in Kazan, a large industrial town about a two-hour flight east of Moscow. Since he was twelve, he had been working for the Vory. They became the family he never had, and the code of the Russian Vory was instilled into his thinking at such a young age that it was the only way he knew how to live. Orlov took the Vory v zakone seriously. He was proud of his background and what he was: a thief.
The Russian Vory are different from the Russian Mafiya. Both are organized, but the Vory are the oldest form of organized crime in Russia. Some Vory, like Orlov, end up working in the Russian Mafiya. But they never really acclimate to the ways of the Mafiya. That’s why he had a big problem with Ivan Renko’s befriending the phone salesman, Darby Stansfield.
As far as Orlov was concerned, Darby wasn’t one of them and therefore had no business knowing the inner workings of the gang. He had said as much to Ivan, but the man wouldn’t hear of it. The phone salesman was helping Ivan to make the gang more profitable, and money was all big men like Renko cared about. He has no respect for tradition, Orlov thought.
A few days earlier, Orlov’s friend had called him for help. He had some contacts in Moscow who were looking for information on a certain American from San Francisco. As planned whenever Mafiya organizations work together, Orlov didn’t know the gentlemen who would be calling for the information. A mutual friend of both parties set up the call so if for any reason something went wrong, neither of them could identify nor confirm the other.
The phone rang.
“Yes?”
“You know Darby Stansfield?” asked an unfamiliar Russian voice.
“Yes.”
“What can you tell me?”
“He consults with our organization. His business is wireless products. He is allowed access to our operations
so he can make recommendations on how his product can improve productivity.”
“What else?”
“He is untouchable by anyone in the organization. We must work with him.”
“What about outsiders?”
“What about them?”
“How would someone not associated with the gang get to him?”
“I can help.”
The line went dead.
A broad smile spread across Orlov’s face. The angry crinkles in his forehead softened. He took one last drag on his stumpy cigarette and left the smoking tombstone buried in his sandwich. Life for the salesman was going to change, Orlov was certain of that.
Chapter 40
Moscow, Russia
“Untouchable?” the Oldest repeated.
The Tea Maker nodded. “No one in the Odessa Mafiya can touch Mr. Stansfield, and we don’t know why.”
“He’s a salesman, no?”
“It makes no sense,” the Tea Maker said, throwing a hand up in the air. “What does he do that makes him so important to the organization? He sells phones.”
The Unreasonable One leaned forward, pointing at the others. “Something important is being left out. I don’t want any surprises.”
“He is right,” the Oldest motioned. “This American helped convict Viktor. He is associated with Odessa. We cannot let this go. The Oldest looked at each one of the Elders. “We must send a message and remind them that we are in charge.”
Getting rid of the American could also serve as an opportunity to throw a kink in the Odessa operations. Either way, it was clear that the Elders wanted Darby dead, his punishment for upsetting their business. Of course the easiest way would have been to find an unhappy member in the Odessa clan and have that person do the deed for a nice fee. But that was no longer an option.
The Tea Maker clasped his hands together and rubbed them slowly. “If we are to take care of this ourselves, we must think—is it worth it? This American is a nobody. We are angry at the disruption of our operations. It’s understandable we should want someone to pay.”
Darby Stansfield Thriller Series (Books 1-3 & Bonus Novella) Page 38
