Darby Stansfield Thriller Series (Books 1-3 & Bonus Novella)

by Ty Hutchinson

  The Elders nodded and pondered the dilemma. None of them wanted this to turn into a bigger ordeal then it needs be, but it seemed to already be heading in that direction.

  “What about Ghostface?” the Tea Maker said as he placed cups in front of the others and poured hot tea into each one.

  “He is becoming a loose cannon,” said the Oldest.

  “He is the best.”

  “He was almost caught in Paris, showing off with the sniper rifle.”

  The Tea Maker nodded. “That was stupid, but he can take care of this very easily.”

  The Oldest leaned back in the hard, plastic chair. The cozy kitchen was just big enough for him to stretch out and give thought to the options. Ghostface was the greatest assassin to ever come out of the Soviet Union and easily transition with the new Russia. Nobody had ever actually confirmed a sighting of him. No one knew who he was or where he lived. But that wasn’t why he was called Ghostface. No, that was because the only people who had ever seen him were his victims, and once they saw him, there were dead. No matter who the contract was or how difficult, a dead body always appeared.

  The Oldest took another sip of his tea and nibbled on a cookie. He turned to the Youngest and the Unreasonable One. They both nodded. He looked back at the Tea Maker. “It is done. Reach out and see if Ghostface will accept the contract.”

  Chapter 41

  San Francisco, California

  I was so excited about my date with Hillary that, in preparation, I rubbed one out.

  A normal, let’s-have-dinner, no-drama evening was what I had in mind, topped off with some bootylicious dessert.

  I spent an extra ten minutes scrubbing up in the shower. Then I put on black slacks and a hipster button-down and gelled my short hair to the right amount of stiffness.

  “Dude!” Tav yelled as I was headed down the stairs. “I can already smell you.” I might have gone overboard on the aftershave. I sprayed my balls. Is that overboard?

  Tav and Ralphie were sitting on the couch watching TV when I stuck my head in to say goodbye. “Don’t wait up for me. I got plans to mingle with all three bases and then party at home plate.”

  Tav leaned in closer to the pug, and started asking him questions. “What do you think, Ralphie? Is Uncle Darby going to get some action tonight? Will he knock boots with one part of HAM? Wait, what’s that? You find these questions preposterous? No, no, there’s no hidden camera. This isn’t a TV show. This man actually scored a date. ”

  “Ha, ha, hee, hee, ho, ho,” I mocked.

  Truth is, I didn’t mind Tav’s ribbing. I felt like a kid waiting for Christmas morning to come around. I even got ready way too early. Hillary had texted me earlier saying we have reservations at 7:30 p.m. and that I should pick her up at seven. I had a half hour to kill. I could drive slowly and take the long way to her place. I bought a Smart Car a couple of months ago. I don’t use it that much, but I needed a car. Parking in the city is a joy, that’s for sure.

  About two hours later, we were five courses into the date and things were going well. The conversation flowed playfully between us. Hillary was looking smoking hot in her white skin-tight dress. She had extra-shiny hair and her complexion sparkled. I knew every man in the room was checking her out but it was I, Darby Stansfield, who scored time with this beauty queen. With the way things were going, I was confident there would be end-of-date action.

  It wasn’t that much later when an old friend walked into the main dining room. From the heads turning, I wasn’t the only one who noticed the big man. It was Pete Sokolov, one of the two detectives I met while they were solving the Chinatown Chop Chef killings.

  “Detective, how are you?”

  “Hi, Darby. Been a long time. Are you well?”

  “Yeah, doing okay. Just enjoying dinner with the lovely Hillary.”

  The Russian stuck his hand out. “Hello, Hillary. I’m Detective Pete Sokolov. Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” she said as her hand disappeared in his.

  “And this beautiful woman is my mother, Alla,” he said, giving the diminutive woman a squeeze. “We are celebrating her birthday.”

  Pete’s mother looked to be in her early fifties and nothing like Elana Voronova, who wasn’t that much younger. Alla appeared to be a sweet woman, who dressed conservatively and had a smile that never seemed to leave her face.

  “Happy birthday,” Hillary and I answered.

  “Thank you.”

  “This is a special treat for her. Usually she only eats Russian food. I think it’s time she expanded the pallet. The food is good?”

  “Excellent so far.”

  “Okay, I will let you get back to dinner.”

  “Enjoy your dinner,” I said.

  Detective Sokolov turned away but then stopped.

  “Darby, I saw you in the Richmond district a few times, in the Russian neighborhood.”

  Shit. He knows. He probably saw me eating with Ivan Renko. I knew I was pushing it by eating there three times a week. Stupid appetite. How could I be so careless? I suddenly remembered the Big Russian Curtain mentioning he lived in the Inner Richmond area. What does he know? Am I under surveillance? Is he feeling me out? Roll with it, Darb. Be cool. “It’s the beef stroganov. Ever since I discovered it, it’s my favorite food.”

  “No more chow mein, huh?”

  “Russian food is the best,” Alla chimed in.

  I quickly changed the subject. “Hey, how’s your partner doing? Detective Kang right?”

  “Keeping busy. He travels a lot to discuss his experience profiling serial killers and catching them. Most of it revolves around the Chop Chef case.”

  Pete’s mom interrupted him and motioned to us and then to their table.

  “She’s hungry,” Sokolov said and waved.

  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 awhile, 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.

  Chapter 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 o
ne 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 has 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 were 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.

  Chapter 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 risk 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.

  “Hey 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.

  Chapter 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 along side them. Th
e 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.