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

by Ty Hutchinson

  “I just got home. I thought you bolted early.”

  “Good. I’m on my way there now.”

  Chapter 71

  It was close to six when I barged through the front door of The Vic. Tav and Ralphie both jumped out of their seats. Tav had a crazed look in his eyes. Ralphie began barking at me.

  “What? What’s wrong?” Tav asked nervously.

  “Viktor’s here.”

  “Here in San Francisco? How do you know? I thought he couldn’t travel.”

  “You and me both.”

  I started telling Tav about everything, how Viktor contacted me on Skype again at work and showed me a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge. I told him how I met with Detective Sokolov and together we contacted Viktor.

  “Did you get a hold of him when you called back?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I just dialed Tatiana’s number.”

  “And he answered?”

  “Not right away. We made the connection but he never showed his face. He stayed away from the camera and just text chatted. But since we were sitting in front of my laptop and my webcam was on, he could see both me and Detective Sokolov.”

  “So now what?”

  “Detective Sokolov left to sound the alarm and figure out a plan. Oh, and he said he would try to get a few more patrols around here. Other than that, there’s not much more he can do right this minute.”

  Tav looked pissed. “What does he need, a dead body?”

  “I know, I know. But until they can confirm he’s in the city…. By the way, in keeping with full disclosure, I have to tell you that you could be in danger as well.”

  “Me. Why me? I don’t know Viktor.”

  This was delicate. I had to ease Tav into this. “Sokolov said the gang tends to go after family and friends if they can. The good news is he doesn’t know you exist. To help keep it that way, we need to stay out of sight. No going out—just work and home for the time being.”

  “Man, I can’t believe this is happening all over again. I’m the one who’s gonna get the short end of the stick again. Wait, you’ll see.”

  “I promise I won’t let that happen to you.”

  “How are you going to prevent it? Huh?”

  “I don’t know but I’ll figure something out. I need to get a hold of Ivan. I have to assume Viktor snuck in under his radar as well. It’s starting to get late. It may not be safe to head over to Inner Richmond at night.”

  “Why?”

  “I have to assume this Viktor guy had help and is with his own kind, Russians.”

  “Look at that. This cloak-and-dagger stuff is becoming second nature to you. You’re starting to understand how the underworld works.”

  “Relax, Tav. That’s common sense.”

  “Yeah, for people mixed up in that world.”

  I shrugged off Tav’s observation. So what if I was thinking more like a Mafiya mind? It’s a good thing. It can help to keep me from making stupid decisions. I grabbed my cell and headed out back for my call with Ivan. I didn’t want to aggravate the situation inside The Vic anymore than I already had.

  When Ivan answered, I didn’t waste any time and filled him in. His silence seemed like a good sign, like he was processing what I had said and formulating a plan. I was sure he had a better idea for handling Viktor.

  Unfortunately, he only had one thing to say.

  “Impossible.”

  I was desperate. I pleaded with Ivan to meet with me. After about five minutes, he agreed, barely. It was a sharp reminder that these guys weren’t my friends and didn’t care about me. I could not forget that; it was one of my most important rules about the business.

  Ivan met me at our usual place. I had on an oversized jacket and a baseball cap in an attempt to stay on the down low.

  “I am surprised to hear Viktor is here,” he said somberly. “And disappointed I have to hear this from you of course. Someone in my organization is not doing his job. I will put the word out. If he is in Richmond, we will find him soon.”

  “Not to change the subject, but let’s remember what just took place right now. I might have a wireless solution that can prevent this situation from happening again.”

  “Always looking to improve business even when you’re the one in trouble.” He favored me with a small smile. “I will put a few men outside your apartment.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” I couldn’t take the chance of Sokolov running into one of Ivan’s guys outside my place, what with his uncanny ability to spot other Russians.

  “Fine. As you wish.”

  “But there is one favor you can do for me.”

  Ivan raised an eyebrow and leaned back in the booth.

  “I need a gun.”

  He took a minute to answer. Leaning in he said, “If you pull out a gun, you must be willing to use it. Do you understand this?”

  I nodded because that’s all I could think to do. I watched Ivan take out a pen and write something down on a napkin.

  “Go to this address. Tell the man there I sent you and you need a pooshka.”

  Pooshka? My brows furrowed as I shook my head.

  “It’s a gun.”

  “Thanks. I’ll head over now.”

  Ivan nodded and I got up and left the restaurant. Outside, I looked at the napkin. The man I needed to see was Grigory Orlov.

  Chapter 72

  From outside the closed garage door, the only sound within was a dull, rhythmic thumping. Inside though, it was war.

  Each arm swung like a wrecking ball into the heavy bag. Left. Right. Left. Right. These were not jabs but powerful body blows that left dents. Beaded sweat covered Sokolov’s bald head as he continued to wail on the heavy bag. His eyes were focused. His breathing controlled. A large left hook sent the bag reeling off to the side. How did you like that? That sounded like a rib snapped. Sokolov was battling demons.

  For years the bag had served a purpose, but now it was slowly losing its advantage. Each crushing hit was a knock at his father’s executioner, a shot at Ghostface. Sokolov dreamed of facing off with the almighty assassin in hand-to-hand combat. Mano-a-mano. It was the only thing the detective believed would ever bring him peace.

  The big man took a seat on an overturned bucket and began unwrapping the now-loosened athletic tape from each hand. That’s when his phone buzzed. The text message read, “Info on Ghostface.”

  Sokolov snapped to attention and texted back, “A description?” He had been waiting patiently since they last spoke, hoping this information would come to fruition.

  His source replied, “Better. A picture.”

  Sokolov stared at his phone stunned. This is what he’d wanted for years, the identity of Ghostface. Could this really be him?

  “How? Confirmation?”

  “Tourist cameras in Paris.”

  “How sure are you?”

  “This man is standing in window where the shot came from. He is a known Russian mobster.”

  Known mobster? How can that be? No one knew the identity of Ghostface. “Message me the picture.”

  A few seconds later a text came through. A JPEG was attached to it. Sokolov pressed the download button, 2.4MG. The kilobits quickly counted off. One hundred kilobits. Four hundred kilobits. One mega byte. Come on, come on…

  Finally the picture appeared. It was grainy but clear as day as to who the man standing in the window was. Sokolov was blown away.

  It can’t be! The man standing in the window, the man deemed to be Ghostface, the most deadly hitman to ever walk the earth, the man he believed killed his father, this man, this monster… The face in the picture was Viktor Kazapov.

  Sokolov wiped his eyes and stared at the image hard. There was no mistaking it. That was Viktor. Same facial features, same bald head, even from this far away. The picture was probably taken the day before when Viktor was most likely scoping out the shot.

  But how can Viktor, known in the Russian Mafiya, be Ghostface? How was he able to keep it a secret for so long? Co
uld he really be that good—able to live two complete lives within the criminal underworld and keep it a secret? If this was true, then the nickname suited him very well. And if Viktor really was in town, then hunting him just got elevated to a priority because Darby was his search and destroy mission.

  Chapter 73

  I left the restaurant feeling no safer than when I arrived. The gun would help. Obtaining a weapon was now Job One.

  As I headed over to my car, I couldn’t help but think that it was one of the smarter purchases I had made recently. I still took public transportation when there was no rush, but considering I wasn’t even supposed to leave the house, I didn’t want to rely on the timetable of the Muni bus system.

  My cell rang just as I reached the driver-side door. It was Sokolov. “Detective.”

  “Darby, are you at home?”

  “I’m running an errand.”

  “What did I say about staying low? Why are you out?” He seemed distressed.

  “I had something important to do. Do you have news?”

  “I have to speak with you in person. It’s very important. Can you go home now?”

  I shrugged as I pulled my seatbelt on. “Yeah.”

  “I’m serious, Darby. I have important information regarding Viktor.”

  “Tell me now.”

  “No, it’s better I explain it to you in person. I’m heading into the precinct for a briefing and then I’ll come to your place.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you there. I’m heading home now.” Right after I get this gun.

  I hung up with Sokolov and made a left turn onto 8th Street, looking for the apartment unit numbered 1634. Both sides of the street were packed, no parking—unless you have a Smart Car. I was able to park near a tiny island between two driveways.

  I walked about twenty yards before spotting the address. The building stuck out from the others in the area. Most of them were painted pastels. This building, however, had a dark wood trim all around it with metal accents straight out of late 70’s. It didn’t fit. I pulled out the napkin again. The apartment number was 401.

  God I hope this guy is home.

  I entered the lobby and pressed the elevator call button. I quickly scanned the mailboxes for #401. No name was listed. Typical.

  The elevator doors opened and I pressed the button for the fourth floor. The elevator was an old one that crept along at best. It also smelled like WD40. I couldn’t tell if it was moving until the second floor button lit. Two more to go.

  After what seemed like ages, the doors opened to the fourth floor. The hallway wasn’t lit very well and one of the light bulbs had burnt out. It was chilly and smelled like what the residents cooked. If I were a betting man, I’d put everything I had on cabbage. I was glad I didn’t have to live here.

  Apartment 401 was the last one at the end of the hall. The door was pretty old. The fake wood vinyl was peeling off at the bottom. I was beginning to wonder if it was safe to have come here. But Ivan sent me, so it had to be, right?

  I gently put my ear against the door to see if I could hear anything. Nothing. Oh well. I need a gun, so here goes nothing. I knocked and waited.

  Chapter 74

  Hillary was feeling mighty feisty and decided Darby would reap the benefits. Dressed in a long black coat with absolutely nothing underneath, Hillary exited her car. In one hand she had a large plastic bag filled with rose petals and candles. In the other hand she had a bottle of champagne.

  About six months earlier, Darby had made a joke while passing her desk. He said, “One day, I’ll be a heavy-hitter and you might want to prepare yourself.” He threw a copy of is apartment key on her desk. “Pocket that.”

  Of course Hillary told Darby to drop dead, but she never got rid of the key. Today she was really glad she didn’t, because she wanted to surprise him. She hoped he was home; it would be easier. But if he wasn’t, she could wait in a bed full of roses.

  Hillary entered the complex and made her way to his apartment. She wrinkled her nose at the ugly brown color of his door. She knocked and waited but no one answered. She knocked louder and longer… still no one answered. Shoot, not what I wanted.

  Hillary took out the key hoping Darby wasn’t fudging and really did have the balls to give her the real key.

  The key slipped effortlessly into the lock. So far so good. She turned the key and to her surprise, there was no resistance. The door unlocked.

  Hillary entered the apartment and pulled the drapes open. The place had an empty, sort of clean look. Thank God there weren’t any take-out containers lying around. Pet peeve of hers. I wonder where the hot tub is that he keeps talking about.

  She walked back toward the bedroom. Surprisingly the bed was made and the room was reasonably tidy. Hillary put the champagne down on the night table. She then opened the plastic bag and dumped the rose petals onto the bed and spread them out and even left a trail from the bedroom to the front door. The perfect trail to my honey pot.

  To kill time, Hillary snooped around. She found a Penthouse magazine in the drawer of the night table and tossed it in the rubbish can. Won’t be needing that anymore. After the Penthouse find, there wasn’t much to snoop for. Darby’s apartment was kind of bare. Funny, he made it sound like he lived in some crazy bachelor pad. Oh well, he should be home any minute. She had called him earlier and he said he had some errands to run before heading home.

  Suddenly Hillary heard a noise at the front door. Daddy’s home. She quickly made her way back to the bedroom, slipped off her coat, closed the door, and took her place on the bed of rose pedals.

  One leg straight, one knee up, or both legs straight but crossed—Hillary couldn’t decide what was sexier. Finally she decided on one leg straight and the other leg knee up. She propped herself up on both arms with her blond hair pulled down in front, vaguely covering her breasts, but allowing her perky nipples to peek through. She was neatly trimmed below and wet with fervor. Even the tiny hairs on her forearm were rigid, waiting to be caressed.

  What man could resist this?

  Hillary could hear movement outside the bedroom door. She was so excited that she almost called out, but she contained herself. She couldn’t wait for Darby to open the door.

  Before she knew it, the knob on the door began to turn. This is it. Everything was turning out exactly the way she wanted. The knob continued to turn. It felt like ages for the door to open. Oh, come on, Darby—get a move on. Finally the door swung open. Hillary could no longer contain herself and called out, “Daddy, I’ve been a bad girl.”

  Hillary’s surprise welcome was cut short when she saw that the person standing in the doorway didn’t look much like Darby. Darby wasn’t muscular. Darby wasn’t bald. Darby didn’t have icy blue eyes. Darby didn’t have terrible teeth.

  But Viktor Kazapov did.

  Chapter 75

  Viktor sat on the couch wiping his Glock down. He checked to be sure the chamber didn’t have a live round sitting in it. He then unscrewed the silencer from the barrel and stuck the gun in the back of his pants. The silencer went into the pocket of the jacket he was wearing.

  In the bedroom, Hillary lay in the bed with a bullet in her head. Well, what was left of it. At such close range the Glock did more damage than normal.

  Viktor was just as surprised to see her as she was to see him. But he had an advantage. He was a professional and surprising people was part of his job, so it’s no surprise that he came out on top.

  He did, however, take advantage of the situation before shooting Hillary. Not bad for an American, but he preferred them younger. Fifteen always seemed to be the sweet spot.

  Viktor had spent the last half hour looking for more information on Darby while he tried to figure out his next move. This was the only information Orlov had given him on Darby’s housing situation. As far as he knew, Darby lived in this small dingy brown apartment. He had to return sooner or later.

  He couldn’t leave the body to be discovered by Darby. That would bring m
ore unnecessary attention, which would involve more unnecessary planning on Viktor’s end. There was enough to contend with as it was.

  Viktor decided to stay put and wait for Darby to return. He would then take him out and skip town right after. That would be the most ideal situation.

  To kill time, Viktor poked around the apartment only to realize Darby wasn’t anything but a simple man. There was nothing of value to be had. He owned very little clothing. He lived a meager life, not one of a rich American. He was comparable to someone from…a village.

  Viktor sat on the couch waiting, wondering what about this place wasn’t sitting right. Something bothered him. He looked around. What is it? He found it hard to believe that a man as simple as Darby suddenly had the ear of the Minister of Finance in Ukraine. Yet nothing jumped out at Viktor.

  And then it hit him. It was too quiet.

  He looked over to the open kitchen. There was no hum from the refrigerator. They always hum. Viktor leapt to his feet and opened the door to the fridge. All of his suspicions were answered. Either the fridge was turned off or the electricity was. He immediate flipped all the switches to the apartment. None of them worked. The electricity was out. Darby wasn’t living here. How could he have missed such an easy sign?

  When he entered, the sun was still out and shining right into the apartment. There was no need to turn on a light. The bedroom curtains were drawn but it was lit with candles, so no light was needed there. Viktor hadn’t bothered to blow the candles out, and their glow still lit the room.

  He checked the cupboards. They were all empty. He checked the bathroom for toothbrushes and combs. Nothing. All of Darby’s daily clothing and grooming tools were gone. Darby wasn’t hiding—he was living someplace else.

  Where?

  Viktor looked around for clues—a crumpled note, an envelope with an address on it, anything. He flipped through an old newspaper on the dining room table. A piece of paper fluttered from beneath the stack onto the chair. There was an address on it.