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

by Ty Hutchinson

  Too late. The top of the agents head erupted, leaving a chunky mix of bone and brains in the cavity. Agent Krasowski began to move toward the body.

  “Stop,” Sokolov commanded. “Don’t move another inch. That’s what he wants. He can see through that crack in the drape with his scope.”

  “We just lost Agent Wilkonson in the apartment,” Sokolov radioed to Agent Moore. “That leaves you, me, Agent Bennett and Agent Krasowski. He’s got the high ground. We’re pinned for now. I’m sending Agent Krasowski up to the roof to see if we can counter.”

  “Roger that. We’re not moving. As far as we know, he thinks there are more agents in the van.”

  Sokolov was busy radioing for help. “Multiple officers down. Need help. Very experienced sniper is positioned on a rooftop opposite our location and he has us pinned. Send SWAT. I repeat shooter is an expert sniper and is on the roof opposite our location. He has already eliminated ten men.”

  It would be only minutes before the arrival of the cavalry. Viktor knew that. He had fifteen rounds left. The van was parked facing away from him. Too bad: that eliminated the option of firing into the front window with every last round. The gun was capable of putting bullets through metal no more than a quarter of an inch thick. Viktor figured he was close enough that he could penetrate the van. But he wasn’t sure how powerful or accurate the bullet would be after puncturing metal.

  Viktor put two bullets into the back of the van, shattering both windows. To his surprise the van was lit up inside. There in his view was an agent. It looked as if one of the rounds had gotten him in the chest. He appeared to still be breathing, barely. No sense wasting another bullet on him. From what he could see, everyone else must be on the right side of the van leaning up against the metal. Perfect.

  Just then a bullet ricocheted off of the roof only inches from Viktor. He swung around looking for the shooter. He couldn’t find him. The wail of the sirens was getting louder and louder.

  Viktor either had to leave or sign his own death warrant. Thirteen rounds left. What to do? He quickly put two rounds into the once-lit window of the Victorian. Eleven left. He then turned to the van and put three into the side. Eight left. Back to the darken window he pulled the trigger twice more. Six left. Make them count.

  But Viktor was losing focus. He had to accept that he might not get Darby. The entire block was seconds away from being overrun by uniforms.

  Two more shots rang out. Viktor felt one of the bullets zip by just above his head. That was close. That shot did not come from the window.

  Then he saw the shooter. He was on the building opposite him. He swung his rifle up and fired twice at the moving shadow. Four rounds left. Where are you, Darby?

  Chapter 87

  Tav and I were lying on the floor of the van, away from the window, when two more rounds found their way into the van. The bullets had punched holes right through the metal above our heads. Thank God Agent Moore told us to lie down.

  No one said anything, not even Ralphie. He was being a good boy. He did exactly what he was told.

  I looked at Tav. He lay dormant on the floor of the van, his face devoid of any emotion. His colorless skin appeared clammy and wax like. He looked like the living dead. Once again I had put my best friend in grave danger. What is wrong with me? This is something I promised him I would never ever do again. Fail. I reached over Ralphie and patted Tav on the shoulder. My eyes told him everything was going to be okay. He said nothing. I prayed Tav would hold it together. The last thing I wanted was my best friend freaking out and getting himself killed.

  Agent Moore was shot but not bad. The bullet had clipped the side of his body armor, entering and exiting the right side of his torso. He was bleeding but he said not to worry, he would live.

  Does that mean we will live? Viktor was still shooting at us. Agent Moore had a side arm and a tactical shotgun. Not much of a match for a sniper.

  Agent Moore picked up the radio. “We’re pinned down inside the van. I’m hit but mobile. Viktor is shooting methodically at the van trying to hit us. We’re running out of room.”

  •••

  Sokolov could hear another round enter the van through the radio. He had to do something. Viktor was bound to hit one of them. He had heard Agent Krasowski fire off a couple of rounds but nothing since then. He motioned for Agent Bennett to stack up behind him.

  Sokolov then used a tiny mirror to peek out of the window. He could see the barrel of the sniper rifle hanging over the edge of the roof. It was aimed in the direction of the van.

  He radioed back to Agent Moore. “He’s looking for movement. Stay still. Don’t give away anything. Backup will be here any second. We got this psychopath.”

  •••

  Seconds later we heard screeching tires outside the van. Agent Moore stuck his head up and looked out the front window. SWAT had arrived.

  Shouting and the crackle of two-way radios soon filled the air. Within minutes bright lights lit up the street. A voice came over a loudspeaker telling residences to stay inside and lock all doors and windows. The announcement was repeated over and over.

  There was a knock on the door. Agent Moore opened the door and SFPD SWAT immediately scooped us up. There were all dressed in black, had on helmets and wore complete body armor. They quickly ushered Tav, Ralphie and me to a more secure location much further away from the van.

  “Are you hurt? Were any of you shot?” The SWAT guy asked me.

  “No, we’re fine but Agent Moore is hurt.”

  I looked up at the large beam from the bird in the sky as it trained on the rooftop, searching for Viktor. It would be impossible for him to hide or get away now.

  As the SFPD chopper flew around in circles I couldn’t help but wonder what the holdup was. Why weren’t they storming the building and rushing to the top of the roof? It was only seconds ago that he was firing on the van. How hard can it be to find a guy on a rooftop? Shit, we all knew where he was. Just get the hell up on the goddamn roof. Better yet shoot at him from the helicopter. It felt like I was in a dream and everybody was doing the opposite of what they should be doing and then to top it off, moving in slow motion. It was the worst.

  I looked over at Tav. He didn’t look any better then he had in the van. He sat in the back of a black-and-white hugging Ralphie. His eyes were still on hiatus. I messed up. I knew it. He knew it. It didn’t matter that this had nothing to do with my side ventures with the Russians. It didn’t matter because here we were, once again. I swear, if we get through this, I’m done. It’s over.

  And then I heard two words crackle over the radio that said otherwise.

  “He’s gone.”

  Shortly after I heard those two words, we were ushered to a waiting ambulance and taken to UCSF Medical Center to get looked over. A couple of hours later, Sokolov arrived at the hospital. “Darby, how are you doing?”

  “I’m fine. What about Viktor? Did he get away? I heard someone say he’s gone.”

  The big man took a deep breath. His defeated eyes shifted away then back on me as he exhaled. “He got away.”

  I had already known what his answer would be. But until I heard it, until it was deemed true, I had hope—hope that I just might be wrong. But now all hope had fled my body, leaving me deflated. Why me? Where are my lucky days? Shit never goes right for the Darb. “How did he get away? I don’t understand. You guys had him surrounded. You even had a helicopter.”

  “I know it looks impossible, but Viktor’s last move was firing a couple of rounds into the van. The barrel of the gun was hanging out over the rooftop. We all thought he was still there. Sometime between his last shot and when the helicopter showed up, he escaped.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “We believe he left the country.”

  “He got through all the checkpoints? Just like the ghost he is, huh?” My voice was bitter; I couldn’t help it.

  “Look, I know this is not what you want to hear. It’s not easy taking this guy
down. This is the closest anyone has gotten.”

  Good effort. A lot of good that does me. I knew the big man wasn’t to blame. But still I couldn’t help but feel like I’d been left to fend for myself again.

  Chapter 88

  Teleco reached out and did what they could for us. They gave us some time off from the company to get ourselves together. They even provided professional counselors to talk to.

  We camped out at Tav’s mother’s house in Palo Alto. It was good to be away from the media circus that followed the shoot-out. No one knew we were there except Detective Sokolov and the head of human resources at Teleco, Linda Sawyer. That didn’t last long.

  We had gotten a taste of the media frenzy at Hillary’s funeral and it wasn’t fun. Being mobbed by twenty or so reporters all shouting questions in an attempt to get a reaction was insane. I mean, it was a frickin’ funeral, for Christ’s sake. You’d think they would have backed off. Now I understand why people have bodyguards.

  Speaking of funerals, hers was the first funeral I had attended that was newsworthy enough to be on TV. It was a huge ordeal. Over a thousand people attended. Granted, most of them were Teleco employees. Still she had probably 250 friends show up. I honestly had no idea how popular of a girl I was dating. The number of flower arrangements on site was massive. There must have been close to fifty of them. The largest were placed around a sixteen by eighteen portrait of Hillary, a beautiful picture I had taken of her at the Cliff House with the sun setting behind her.

  Oddly enough, there was very little family. A sister who lived in Ohio flew out and there was an aunt who lived in San Jose. I knew her parents were both deceased. It was weird. Hillary was one of the most popular people I knew. I just assumed she had a big popular family as well.

  The huge showing definitely helped me feel better. Because of the events that happened that night, Hillary’s death didn’t hit me fully until two days later. I was a complete mess. I couldn’t help but feel like I was responsible. I gave her the key. Sure, the whole Viktor thing wasn’t my fault, But still––I gave her the key.

  I was beginning to think I was destined to be alone. Obviously I was dangerous to be around. Tav’s pleas did not go unnoticed either. He was right: had I not been in business with the Russians, I would never have been in that neighborhood and seen that flier about dating Russian women and Hillary would be alive today.

  Tav and I were sitting up front with what little there was of Hillary’s family on folding chairs. My only request was that the funeral be held outside, at the gravesite.

  I leaned over toward Tav. “Beautiful isn’t it?”

  In front of us was Hillary’s coffin. It was solid mahogany with hand rubbed stain and satin finishes, courtesy of Teleco.

  “It’s the rock star of coffins,” he said.

  Just then, the stench of Harold caught my nose. I didn’t have to look far to spot the hog man. He had waddled to the front, opposite us, his eyes locked on the coffin. He can’t be having a moment. He was blackmailing her. He must have known their rendezvous wasn’t the real thing. Yet there he stood, a hint of sadness hanging on his jowls. We’ll have a truce for today. But come tomorrow, it’ll be back on.

  Chapter 89

  It was a day or so after the Hillary’s funeral that I found myself in the familiar place of having to explain myself to Tav. I had once again endangered his life, even Ralphie’s.

  Tav and I had hunkered down in the den. It was one of the few places in his mother’s house that afforded us a little privacy. Avigail Woo-Kaminsky didn’t like going in the den since that’s where Tav’s dad, her ex, had spent a lot of time.

  “This is the second time, Darb,” Tav said as he held up two fingers. “That’s one too many. Hell, it should’ve never happened the first time.”

  “Yeah but—”

  “Shut up. I’m not done. I know you’re going to say that the first time was a mistake and you’re to blame for it and that this second time had nothing to do with the local Russians, that Viktor was a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time… Well I don’t buy that.”

  “I’m not trying to get out of anything here, Tav. What happened happened.”

  “Right. So now what?”

  He was right, yet again. This was Tav’s second almost-got-killed moment. Most people would tell the person who keeps doing this to them to take a hike. Not Tav. He was a true friend, but for how much longer? Was this all worth it? Did I need to keep targeting the gangs? Could I remain a heavy if I went legit? Could I be happy as a bottom feeder?

  “I don’t know Tav. I’m going to grab a soda. Want one?”

  Tav nodded and I left for the kitchen. The hallway was a shrine to Tav and every stage of his life. Looking at all the pictures brought back a lot of memories. I had spent a lot of time at Tav’s house when we were kids. I had known him since we were seven. “Best friends 4eva,” we would write on our arms with markers.

  I hadn’t seen Ms. Kaminsky in a while. She was the same except for the aging, though she still had signs of beauty from her youth. She was Jewish, born and raised in the Bronx. If there was one thing that stood out about her, she was talkative—non-stop from the moment you entered her house or met her. She could talk about anything, this woman. She had opinions and loved to air them. Probably why she divorced Tav’s dad, Albert Woo. He was a quiet man by nature, a Buddhist. Tav and I still debate how the two ended up married.

  When Tav was eight, they went through a nasty divorced filled with spite that spawned a lifetime of hatred for each other. He split his time between his two parents while growing up. They both saw shared custody as an opportunity to dump on the other’s religion. Tav was taught to embrace and hate Buddhism and Judaism at the same time. This probably explains why he often mimics other people: He has no idea who he is. Remarkably, unlike his parents, Tavish stood at the height of six feet, three inches.

  Tav’s five-foot one-inch Jewish mother hated his five-foot two-inch Buddhist father. Bastard is what she would often refer to him as. The feeling was mutual with Mr. Bastard. To him, she was the Hairy Bitch.

  Six months before they divorced, she reduced her wardrobe to a tiny, two-piece bikini that hung low on her hips. She had a healthy thatch down below and it was clearly on display along the sides of her white bikini bottom. I couldn’t help but stare at her crotch whenever I came over.

  She walked around the house, the yard, the beach, the 7-Eleven, the PTA meetings—pretty much any place that let her get away with it—in this bikini. She loved it when Albert had friends over or she ran into one of his co-workers around town. Humiliation was her weapon of choice.

  I gave Tav his soda and we both sat in silent slurping until we heard the chow bell holler.

  “Tavish! Darby! Lunch is ready.”

  Tav’s mom loved cooking for us. The amount of mothering that went on was ridiculous. We tried to let her know it wasn’t necessary but eventually we gave in. It made her happy. Why fight it?

  “So, what now?” Tav asked. He wasn’t going to let this conversation end.

  “What do you mean, ‘What now’,” I asked.

  “What happens? Does everything go back to normal? I mean this Viktor guy got away. He’s still out there.”

  “I know.”

  “So long as you’re in this business, you’ll invite this into your life and those around you.”

  “Invite what?”

  “You know… Elements of the underworld, crime, thieves, killers…”

  “I need time to think. We’ll talk more, later. Okay?” I offered Tav my arm to pull him up from the beanbag he had been sitting in. “Come on. Your mom is waiting on us.”

  Chapter 90

  Moscow, Russia

  The steaming kettle on the stove alerted the apartment that its job was finished. The Tea Maker put down the newspaper. The article on the front page was about a Russian gangster raising hell in San Francisco.

  The Tea Maker switched the stove off. He opened the box
of loose-leaf tea and put a pinch into each teacup. The rest of the Elders would be here soon, any minute. A knock on the front door pulled his attention away from the tea.

  The Tea Maker held the door open and welcomed the Oldest. The Youngest and the Unreasonable One followed behind him into the familiar apartment. Their meeting was arranged at the last minute because of some unexpected business that had come to the attention of the Elders. They each removed their heavy wool coats and their fur hats before making their way to the tiny table in the kitchen.

  Sipping tea and munching on cookies, the Oldest spoke first. “How big is this problem?”

  “Big…lots of attention in America,” the Tea Maker said. “American law enforcement is putting pressure on Russian government.” The Tea Maker pushed the newspaper across the table so the Oldest could see the article. He scanned the paper and nodded in agreement.

  “We must lay low, cut back on the operations,” suggested the Youngest.

  The Oldest nodded and raised the slightly trembling teacup to his lips. “How long?” he asked the Tea Maker.

  “Hard to say. A few months.”

  The Oldest drained the last of his tea and signaled the Tea Maker for more.

  “Where is he now?”

  “All signs say he has left America. Viktor will go to Belarus. This we know. He has many friends in this country.”

  “And his operations?”

  “They are still down. We have seen no effort to recover the business.”

  The Oldest frowned and pushed his teacup away. He leaned back and folded his bony hands together. “Enough is enough, yes?”

  The other Elders all nodded in agreement.

  “You are aware they will protect him—his friends,” the Tea Maker said.

  The Unreasonable One picked up his teacup. “Then they too will share the same fate.” He then downed the last of his tea.

  The Oldest gathered his coat and hat, readying himself for the icy enemy whirling outside. He turned to the others with one last request: “Keep it quiet.”