by J. C. Fields
There was silence on the other end of the call. Finally, “How do I know this?”
JR was somewhat surprised at the slight Russian accent he detected. “That’s the trouble with guys like you; you never take responsibility for your actions.”
“You have my money. I want it back.” Kozlov’s voice was low and menacing.
JR smiled. “I want you to leave me alone.”
“The money first, then we will discuss leaving you alone.”
“Plymel, I can find you anywhere. I found you today. I can find you tomorrow. Here’s my offer. You get your money back, you disappear, and you never bother me again. In exchange, I won’t tell the authorities where you are. You come after me again and I’ll burn you.”
Silence was JR’s answer. He continued, “I have a little of the money in a safe deposit box and will give you the accounts and access codes to get the rest.”
“That will do me no good, the US government has frozen all of my money.”
“I’ll release them.”
“How can you do that?”
“Because I’m the one denying your access.”
There was silence on the call. After what seemed like an hour, Kozlov said, “Your proposal has merit. How do I know you aren’t setting a trap?”
“You don’t, but then you could plan to kill me after I give you the money. So we both have a problem with trust, don’t we?”
“Yes.”
“Here is my proposal. I’ll put the cash I have in a computer bag. In addition, the bag will contain a flash drive with the account numbers and access codes for your money. I will then place the bag in an open field in a remote location. Far enough from any structure the FBI might use to hide and wait for you. However, I won’t tell you about this location until I have the money in place. You can then take your time making sure I haven’t set a trap.”
“This is interesting proposal. Let me think about it.”
“Nope, that’s not how this works. You accept it right now or I’ll call the FBI and tell them where you are.”
“You do not know where I am. You just have the number for this phone.”
“False again, Plymel. I know you’re in a No Tell Motel on the northeast side of town about a half a mile from I-44.”
“Impressive. Okay, I agree to your terms. When will we make the exchange? I don’t have a lot of time to wait.”
“Everything is ready. I’ll call you when the money’s in place.” He ended the call and smiled.
Kruger had been listening to the call in a chair next to JR. “Remind me after this is over never to piss you off.”
JR stared at the computer screen for a few minutes. “I have to do this myself Sean. I can’t be responsible for any more deaths.”
“I can’t let you take the law into your own hands, JR.”
“Yes you can. This guy is responsible for the deaths of your partner and three innocent people. That’s not even counting Crigler and his driver. There are too many bodies associated with this man. If my idea fails, you can do what you need to do, but my plan is better.”
Kruger stared at him and was silent for a long time. “Okay, we’ll try it your way. I’ll go to the hospital and check on Sandy. Call me if you need me.”
JR nodded. “If things go sideways, tell Mia I love her.”
Kruger stood and walked to the computer room door. As he was about to leave, he turned around. “Tell her yourself when you get back.” He smiled and left the room.
Leaning back in his chair, JR took a deep breath and said to the empty room, “Yeah, when I get back.”
Chapter 37
Greene County, MO
The land was in a remote part of northwestern Greene County Missouri, halfway between Bois D’Arc and Ash Grove off Missouri Route F. Access was by gravel road and there wasn’t a tree or hill for half a mile in any direction. The only structure visible from where JR stood was an old dilapidated barn a little over eight hundred yards to the north. The Camry was parked and hidden in a grove of Black Walnut trees a mile and a half west. The hike to this spot had taken a little over thirty minutes.
The location had been discovered using Google Earth. Once he had decided to use this location, he was concerned about the age of the satellite photos, but now that he was here, the site was perfect. The long duffel bag he carried was from the cargo section of Sandy Knoll’s SUV, which was still parked at his apartment building. He placed the duffel bag on the ground and slid his backpack off of his shoulders. From the backpack, he extracted a black leather computer bag, which contained twenty-thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills and a flash drive. He placed the bag on the ground.
The next item he pulled from his backpack was a small red flag, left over from the parking-lot crime scene. He stuck it in the ground next to the bag. Satisfied everything was in place, he started hiking toward the barn.
JR wasn’t sure how long it had been abandoned, and he was a little concerned about its structural integrity. As he approached, his concern was justified. The building leaned slightly and the wood exposed to the sunlight felt brittle to the touch. Carefully, he opened a side door and entered. The barn smelled of rotting hay and mildew. Sunlight poured into the structure through gaps between the side planks. Looking up, he found what he needed: a loft ten feet off the barn floor. On the opposite side of the structure were wooden stair steps leading to the loft. He quickly walked across the barn and set the duffel on the floor. Carefully placing his weight on the bottom stair, he was rewarded with it snapping in two. Trying the next step, it also cracked and buckled downward.
Taking a deep breath, he frowned and looked around the interior of the barn.
On the opposite side, to the left of the door he had entered from, was a wooden ladder hanging on the wall. Returning to the other side of the barn, he slipped the backpack off. He took the ladder off the hooks and stood it up against the lip of the loft. It was at least fifteen feet long and extended beyond the edge of the loft. Placing his foot on the first rung, he gradually applied pressure. It held and felt solid. Smiling briefly, he carefully repeated the process on each of the remaining rungs. The ladder was strong and held his weight with no problems. Not wanting to test his luck, he retrieved the duffel bag and only carried it as he made the ascent to the loft.
Once in place in the barn’s loft, he called Alexei Kozlov. It was answered on the second ring.
“Where is the bag?”
JR read off the directions, telling Kozlov which farm road to turn on and how far the bag was from the road. Then he said, “You can drive up to it. There will be a small red flag to mark the spot.”
“No tricks, hacker. I’ll be checking the area out before I retrieve the bag.”
“Do what you want to do. The bag is there waiting for you.”
JR ended the call and glanced at the time on his phone. Four hours of daylight left. Kozlov would not be able to find the bag in the dark, so he concluded everything would be over before nightfall. JR smiled and opened the duffel bag.
***
After the first call from Diminski, Kozlov left the motel room. He wasn’t sure how he had been found, but he wasn’t going to take any chances. Sitting in a Bob Evans diner three hours later, he received the information on the bag’s location. He knew he was running out of time driving the nurse’s white Ford, so once he had the bag he would drive to Kansas City. Once there, he would decide where to go.
The instructions Diminski gave were exact and led him to a remote piece of land. He drove around for another fifteen minutes until he was confident no one was staking out the site. Smiling, he turned the little Ford onto a gravel road that led to the field. The red flag was visible about a hundred feet from the entrance to the field, and he accelerated the Ford toward it.
Ten feet from the black bag, he parked the car. He carefully opened the car door and stood. The only sound he could hear was the ticking of the car’s hot engine. He smiled again and walked toward the bag.
***<
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Diminski had not shot a rifle at this distance for more than ten years. But once he was behind the scope on the M110 SASS semiautomatic sniper rifle, all of his training flooded back. He watched from the barn’s loft as the white Ford pulled up to the red flag and stopped a few yards from the bag. Kozlov exited the car and surveyed the area before he walked toward the bag. At this distance, a headshot would be difficult, but the man’s chest was possible.
Peering through the scope, he made slight adjustments to his aim based on the heat shimmers from the field and the slight breeze he could see from the red flag. As Kozlov walked, JR tried to relax, hoping his training would take over. As he prepared for the shot, he took a breath, released it slowly, and squeezed the trigger of the rifle. It broke and the rifle jumped back with the recoil. He sighted again and watched the bullet strike the ground two feet to Kozlov’s left. Before the man could react, JR adjusted his aim and squeezed the trigger again. This bullet struck Kozlov just above the heart and the body slumped to the ground. It remained still as JR peered through the scope.
Diminski didn’t take the time to admire his work; instead, he dissembled the rifle and placed it back inside the long duffel bag. He climbed down the rickety ladder, picked up his backpack, and slung it on to his shoulder. Exiting the barn, he jogged toward the white Ford.
When he arrived, Kozlov was lying on the ground, his hand over a spot on his chest that was bleeding profusely. He looked up at JR. “I continue to underestimate you, hacker.”
“Your mistake.”
Kozlov stared at JR for a few more moments, opened his mouth to say something, but only exhaled. His eyes remained open, but his chest did not rise.
Without emotion, JR looked down at the now dead man. This surprised him, all during the planning stage, he had worried about his emotions. He was afraid he would feel something, something to trip him up. A moment of regret or fear would make him hesitate. Now that it was over, he felt nothing. No remorse, no jubilation, no relief, nothing. In the back of his mind, he wondered what having no emotions about killing a person meant. He shook his head to clear the thought.
Walking back to the white Ford, he opened the back door and placed the duffel bag on the back seat. He took the backpack and placed it on the ground next to the rear wheel close to the car’s bumper. After opening the trunk, he returned to the body. He then dragged Kozlov back to the car and with difficulty lifted him into the trunk. Before closing the lid, he searched the pockets of the jacket the man was wearing. He found a passport, driver’s license, and a credit card in the name of Alexei Kozlov. These items were placed in the backpack. He removed a similar-looking passport from the backpack and placed it in the pocket of Kozlov’s jacket. Satisfied, he closed the trunk lid and put the backpack on the back seat next to the duffel bag. The last thing to do was retrieve the red flag and computer bag, which he threw into the back seat as he got behind the steering wheel and started the car.
The trip to his gray Camry took five minutes. He transferred the duffel bag, backpack, computer bag, and red flag to the trunk of the Camry. Returning to the Focus, he activated the GPS function on his phone and entered a destination.
An hour later, he was in Bolivar, Missouri, purchasing two sixty-pound sandbag tubes at a farm supply store. His next stop was a Walmart a half-mile to the north. There, he purchased a set of black sheets, a boonie hat, a large plaid shirt, sunglasses, a cigarette lighter, and two bicycle locking chains. With his purchases in the back seat, he left the parking lot and drove to the north side of Bolivar. At the intersection with Highway Thirty-Two, he turned west.
Just past the town of Fair Play, a Polk County sheriff’s car passed him heading east. The sun was just starting to set as he watched the sheriff’s car do a K-turn in the rearview mirror. It accelerated to catch up, slowed, and followed the white Focus.
Diminski kept his speed steady at fifty-five miles an hour and took a deep breath. He had hoped to complete this part of his plan without incident, but if the deputy stopped him, it would be over. Resisting arrest or running was not an option at this point. Seconds ticked by as he continued to glance at the sheriff’s car in the rearview mirror. He could see the deputy speaking into his microphone, calling in the license plate number. Soon the flashing lights and siren would be turned on. JR kept his speed at fifty-five, glancing at the rearview mirror every five seconds.
A minute later, he saw a turn-off up ahead. Switching on the right blinker, he touched the brakes to slow the car. As he made the turn, he watched in the rear-view mirror. The sheriff’s car passed the turn-off and continue on west.
Not realizing he had been holding his breath, he blew it out and shook his head slowly. Apparently, Kozlov had switched the license plates at some point. The memory of doing the same thing at Lehigh Valley International eight months ago made him smile.
Returning to the highway, he continued west to the intersection of State Road 245 and turned left. A half-mile later, he turned left again onto a narrow asphalt road. Several miles later, he found the gravel lane he needed and turned right. Slowing, he navigated the loose gravel pathway that eventual degraded to a rutted dirt trail which meandered through the woods next to Stockton Lake. Once again, he had used Google Earth to find the location. Now he was here in person, it was suitable for his needs. There was a full moon and the trees still had leaves, but they were starting to turn toward the fiery reds, gold, and yellows of autumn. In a few weeks the leaves would have fallen, making this part of his task more dangerous. He slowly drove the last one hundred yards on the trail with the car’s headlights off. If anyone was watching on the other side of the lake, they wouldn’t remember seeing headlights where there shouldn’t be any. The full moon provided plenty of light for his next action. As soon as the car exited the canopy of trees, he was only thirty feet from the bluff.
JR turned the engine off and sat in the quiet. The only sound were waves from the lake slapping at the side of the bluff. There were a few lights across the lake, but they were stationary. After several minutes of sitting there, he opened the car door. Taking one of the black sheets, he carefully spread it out flat next to the bluff’s edge. He then placed the long tubes of sand adjacent to the sheet. JR struggled to lift the body of Kozlov out of the trunk. Once it was on the ground, he dragged the body over and placed it on top of the sheet. After the body was wrapped, he rolled the long sandbags next to it, one on each side. He then took one of the bike chains and wrapped it around the bundle, securing the bags to the legs of the body. He used the second chain to secure the bags to Kozlov’s shoulders.
Satisfied with his labor, he pushed the bundle closer to the bluff where the water was fifteen feet below the edge. Through his research, JR had discovered the water depth in this part of the lake was over fifty feet. Deep enough for his needs. Without hesitation, he shoved the bundle farther until body and sandbags toppled over the edge into the water below. Breathing hard from his effort, he stood and listened. The splash was relatively inaudible, considering the quiet night on the lake.
JR stood at the edge and watched the bundle slowly submerge as moonlight reflected off the surface of the lake. Thirty seconds after Kozlov disappeared, JR turned back to the white Ford and drove it back through the woods to the highway.
He drove east toward Bolivar and stopped at a convenience store at the intersection of Highway 13 and 32. Using Kozlov’s credit card, he filled the car with gas.
Two hours after the body had slipped below the surface of Stockton Lake, JR had the white Focus parked in a dry creek bed. After removing the license plates and placing them in the trunk of the Camry, he checked to make sure he had left nothing in the car and then closed the door. He ripped the remaining black sheet into strips and threw the unused parts into the trunk of the Focus and closed the lid. Opening the gas cap, he pushed the end of the long strip of fabric into the tank.
As soon as he felt the cloth outside grow moist with gas, he stopped pushing. The long wick soaked up more gas
as JR stretched the cloth away from the car. He lit the end of the makeshift wick with the lighter and walked away. As flame raced along the long strip of fabric toward the Focus, JR got into his Camry, started the engine, and drove away from the dry creek bed. He heard a loud whomph as the Focus’s gas tank erupted in flame. As he drove the Camry onto the two-lane farm road running next to the dry creek bed, he saw flames engulf the Ford in his rearview mirror.
Chapter 38
Springfield, MO
The next thing JR knew, his cell phone was chirping. Checking the ID and time with one eye open, he laid the phone back down and let the call go to voicemail. He put his head back on the pillow and fell into a dreamless sleep until his consciousness was stirred by a pounding on his apartment door. He glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand: 10:42 a.m. He threw the covers back and shuffled to the front door and put his forehead against it. “Yeah, who is it?”
“Kruger.”
JR unbolted the deadbolt and opened the door. Kruger stood there with his arms crossed, breathing heavily. He said in a loud tone, “Where the hell have you been?”
“Sleeping. Why?”
“You have a girlfriend recovering from a traumatic experience and she’s worried sick about you.”
As Kruger spoke, JR shuffled toward the kitchen in a zombielike state and started making coffee. “I got home late. Sue me.”
Kruger leaned against the doorframe of the kitchen. “Did he pick up the package?”
JR stared at the Keurig as he watched it warm up. The blue light started flashing as he put a coffee pod in the receptacle, closed the lid, and pressed the large-cup button. He shook his head. “No.”
“What do you mean he didn’t pick up the package?”
JR turned toward Kruger. “Very simple. He did not pick up the package.”
“He didn’t show up?”
JR shrugged. “I didn’t say that. I said, he didn’t pick up the package.”
