New York Strip

by W. J. Costello

  “Drop your gun or she dies,” Dmitry said. “And you die too.”

  One Glock versus two Kalashnikovs.

  Not good.

  Of course I had another Glock in my ankle holster.

  Two Glocks versus two Kalashnikovs?

  Still not good.

  “Drop it now. Or she dies.”

  I frowned.

  In most situations it is a bad idea to drop your gun. It is better to take a shot. Otherwise you will likely die along with the hostage.

  But I had no other options. Not with two Kalashnikovs pointed at me. Taking a shot would have been instant suicide. Not only that but it would have done nothing to save Kelly.

  Dmitry glared.

  “Do it now.”

  I dropped my gun. It splashed and sank.

  “Your other gun too.”

  “What other gun?”

  “Don’t play games with me. I don’t like games. Take out your other gun. Show it to me.”

  How’d he know about my backup gun?

  “Okay. I’m reaching for my other gun now. It’s in an ankle holster.”

  “Do it slowly. No sudden moves.”

  My hand dipped into the freezing water and drew the gun and raised it over my head.

  “Nice gun. Now drop it.”

  The two men handled the Kalashnikovs with professional concentration. No expression on their faces.

  I dropped my gun. It splashed and sank.

  Now I had nothing. No gun. No weapon at all.

  I felt naked. Vulnerable.

  “Now what?” I said.

  “Get into the boat,” Dmitry said.

  “Why?”

  “You’re in no position to argue.”

  Good point.

  They could have killed me. But they didn’t. Why?

  I waded out toward them.

  When I got there I grabbed the side of the boat. I made a pitiful effort to clamber aboard. I made a show of it. As if I needed a helping hand.

  But no hand reached down to help me. Not that I could blame them. They weren’t stupid.

  Dmitry stepped toward me.

  “You’re playing games again. Stop wasting my time. Get in.”

  I pulled myself in.

  A foot tripped me.

  I landed face-first. I landed hard. The impact jarred me.

  My vision blurred. My ears rang.

  Blood started running from my nose. It pooled under my face.

  A knee slammed heavily into the small of my back.

  Hands yanked my arms behind my back.

  Cold metal of handcuffs clicked tightly on my wrists.

  Fingers searched me for weapons. A thorough search. Very professional.

  The knee moved away.

  I shook my head to clear it. It took a moment for me to become coherent again. Then my mind kicked into gear.

  “This is nothing like my pleasure cruise to the Bahamas,” I said. “You folks need to improve your customer service.”

  A foot shoved me over onto my back.

  “Shut up,” the tall man said.

  He stood over me. Feet planted. Face expressionless.

  I lay on the floor of the boat like a clubbed fish. Bloody. Glassy-eyed. Shivering with cold.

  When I turned my head to the left I saw a blurred figure.

  I blinked my eyes hard. The figure started taking shape. I blinked some more. The blurred figure became clear.

  Dmitry stood at the steering wheel. He spun the boat around. Then he twisted the throttle.

  The boat lurched forward. Slicing through rolling swells. Heading out to deeper water.

  My head swayed and bumped with the motion of the boat.

  I turned it to the right and saw two figures.

  One was the imposter. The man who had impersonated Earl the mechanic. The man who had sent Kelly out to the wolves.

  The other figure was a woman. The woman I had seen on the beach. The woman I had followed to the boat.

  Her eyes met mine.

  We stared at each other for a moment.

  Then she took off a wig.

  “You’re not Kelly. Who are you?”

  The three men burst out laughing.

  “Why are you wearing Kelly’s clothes? Where’s Kelly?”

  The woman fluffed her hair.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw a blur of motion.

  A boot hit my head with brutal force.

  My vision swarmed with stars.

  The last thing I heard was a thump.

  Then everything went black.

  CHAPTER 33

  GROGGY. DISORIENTED.

  My head. My aching head.

  It throbbed.

  Throbbed as if it had been struck by a wrecking ball. Or crushed between two charging sumos. Or smashed under the weight of an elephant.

  I coughed.

  That hurt my head even more.

  My mouth felt dry. I wet my lips.

  My head lay on something soft. A pillow?

  The surface under my back felt soft too. A bed?

  I lay there for a while. Trying to fight back the pain. Not only the physical pain but the emotional pain. The humiliation. The anger.

  Breathing. I focused on breathing. One deep breath after another. Thinking each one might be my last. Wishing each one were my last. So the pain would end.

  But it didn’t end.

  I blinked open my eyes. It took an effort to focus them. Everything was blurry.

  I looked at the ceiling.

  A ceiling window. Big. Round.

  Through the big round window in the middle of the ceiling I could see puffy white clouds drifting across a bright blue sky.

  Wait a minute.

  Maybe the clouds weren’t drifting—maybe I was drifting.

  Drifting in a boat. A big boat. A yacht?

  The motion felt boatlike. A rocking motion.

  I tested my arms. Both worked.

  Both legs worked too.

  I sat up stiffly on the bed. Groaning. My body shuddering.

  I still wore the same clothes. Nobody had taken them. Nobody had stripped me naked. Nobody had put me in pajamas.

  I looked around the room.

  A bedroom. Wood paneling. Bedside tables. Comfortable chairs. Decorative lamps. Hardwood floor. Oriental rug. Floor-to-ceiling windows.

  Definitely a yacht. An expensive yacht. The luxury yacht of a very wealthy individual.

  Through the floor-to-ceiling windows I could see nothing but glittering water and blue sky. No land in sight.

  Lake Ontario is one of the biggest lakes in the world. Two hundred miles long. Fifty miles wide. Its shoreline stretches more than seven hundred miles.

  The fog had cleared. The wind had stopped. The sun had come out.

  I wondered what day it was. What time it was.

  How long had I been unconscious? Days? Hours?

  The cabin had no clock and I had no watch. I never wear a watch. I use my phone to tell time.

  I reached for my phone. Gone. The Russians must have taken it. No surprise. Taking phones from captives is standard operating procedure for captors.

  My splitting headache felt like the kind you get when you eat ice cream too fast. They call it brain freeze. I tried to ignore it. But the pain was too great.

  I swung my legs stiffly off the bed.

  The cabin spun. Like a carnival ride.

  My stomach lurched.

  The cabin door appeared to be a thousand miles away. Across mountains and seas. A rugged journey.

  My mind prepared for the long journey. Mapping out the route. Planning stops along the way.

  To inspire myself I thought of famous travelers. Marco Polo. Christopher Columbus. Lewis and Clark.

  I stood up from the bed.

  A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step.

  I took that step.

  Then another.

  And other.

  By the time I got to the cabin door I had grown a
ZZ Top beard. (Not really. But it felt that way.)

  My hand gripped the doorknob.

  Locked.

  It took an enormous effort to bang on the door.

  “Somebody come open this door. Or I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow it down.”

  The threat went unheeded.

  I decided not to follow through on it. My lungs weren’t up to it.

  The cabin had a bathroom. A nice bathroom. Glass shower. Fancy toilet. Expensive fixtures. More floor-to-ceiling windows. Oval bathtub. Round sink.

  I stood at the sink and splashed my face with water. Then I dried my hands and face on a white towel and dropped the towel into a little wicker basket.

  The mirror told me I looked like hell.

  “I feel like hell,” I told the mirror.

  The medicine cabinet behind the mirror contained no medicine. But it did contain some other useful items.

  I reached in and took out a razor and shaving cream. I wet my face again. Then my head. I put shaving cream on both. I ran the razor under the water.

  Minutes later I studied myself in the mirror. My shaved head gleamed. My shaved face glowed.

  I started feeling better. Not good—just better.

  When I exited the bathroom I saw a tray of food on one of the bedside tables. It hadn’t been there before. Somebody had brought it and left.

  I checked the cabin door again.

  Still locked.

  CHAPTER 34

  POISONED FOOD?

  Probably not.

  If they wanted me dead, they could have killed me already.

  The tray of food looked like the kind you get when you order room service at a five-star hotel. Silver lids over dishes. Linen napkins. Heavy silverware.

  But no sharp knife. They weren’t stupid.

  I picked up a silver lid. A cloud of steam escaped. The smell of buckwheat wafted up.

  Pancakes. A big stack.

  I picked up another silver lid and saw bacon and sausages and scrambled eggs.

  I set down both lids and looked at the other items on the tray.

  Bagels. Butter. Coffee. Coffee creamers. Cream cheese. Cups. Jelly. Mixed fruit. Muffins. Orange juice. Pepper. Plates. Salt. Saucers. Sugar. Syrup.

  Breakfast food.

  Breakfast means morning.

  Was it earlier this morning when they knocked me out?

  Probably not. It was foggy then. Now it’s sunny.

  Fog doesn’t clear that fast. Especially thick fog.

  That means today’s a different day. A different morning. I must have been unconscious for at least twenty-four hours. At least.

  No wonder I feel so hungry.

  I started with the coffee. Then I worked through the mixed fruit. Then the scrambled eggs. The bacon. The sausages. By then I had no room left for pancakes.

  When I had finished I looked around the cabin while I patted my lips with a linen napkin.

  The metal frame of the bed could shatter the floor-to-ceiling windows. Not easily. But it could be done.

  That move would put me out on the deck of the yacht. But what would I do then? Where would I go from there?

  Into the freezing water?

  Bad idea.

  Maybe I could kill everybody aboard. Kill them with my fork.

  Fork versus Kalashnikovs.

  Good luck with that.

  Maybe I could start a fire. Burn the yacht. Sink it.

  And end up in the freezing water.

  Scratch that plan.

  I was dreaming up another unlikely escape plan when the cabin door swung open.

  I stood up from the bed.

  The tall man entered.

  Then the woman.

  The door slammed shut.

  The man stood in front of the door. Feet planted. Hands folded in front of him. No expression on his face.

  Mr. Personality.

  The woman sat down in a chair.

  She studied me.

  I waited.

  She crossed her legs. Then crossed them the other way. As if she were Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct.

  That made the wait more bearable.

  “How was your breakfast?” she said finally.

  “Not bad. For prison food.”

  She smiled.

  “I made your breakfast myself.”

  “You could get a job in a prison cafeteria.”

  “You think?”

  Two more teeth showed in her sarcastic smile.

  I sat down on the bed again.

  “Where’s Kelly?”

  The woman shrugged.

  “Who?”

  “You know who. You know damn well who. You pretended to be her. You wore her coat. Her sweater. Her boots. You wore a wig to look even more like her. You did all that just to lure me down to the water so he . . .”

  I jerked my head toward the man.

  “. . . and the other two goons could scoop me up like a fish and beat me senseless and haul me out to my prison here on this pleasure craft. Well your little trick worked. You lured me out to the speedboat. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you. It was easy. You followed me like a little puppy.”

  The man stood motionless. I had called him a goon. If that offended him, he gave no sign.

  The woman saw me looking at him.

  “His name is Gleb. Not Goon.”

  “Gleb. Goon. They sound the same to me. Now where’s Kelly?”

  A pause.

  “She is safe.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “She sent you an email. Yes?”

  “I’m sure you’re the one who sent it for her.”

  “That is not true. She sent it herself.”

  “No doubt at gunpoint.”

  “You should be happy she’s still alive.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Inna.”

  “Why am I here?”

  “To meet my father.”

  CHAPTER 35

  INNA. GLEB. DMITRY.

  I felt as if I were James Bond in From Russia, with Love.

  Except I wasn’t feeling the love.

  “Get up,” Inna told me. “It’s time to meet my father.”

  “But I haven’t even proposed to you yet.”

  “The day is still young.”

  Gleb motioned for me to get moving.

  I stood up from the bed.

  Inna exited the cabin.

  I followed.

  Gleb fell in behind me. He followed several paces back while we made our way down a small hallway. He made no attempt to intimidate me. That wouldn’t have worked anyway.

  Nice hallway. Marble floor. Walnut-paneled walls. Track lighting. Oil paintings of seascapes.

  We walked past several doors.

  I looked for Kelly but saw her nowhere.

  When we got to a set of spiraling stairs Inna stopped and half turned and looked back at me.

  “I will follow you up.”

  “Ladies first.”

  That only made sense. After all she was a fit woman in a tight skirt and high heels.

  We went up the stairs. At the top we turned left and went down another hallway. It looked no less expensive than the previous hallway.

  Inna stopped in front of a door. She opened it. She stood holding it open. She motioned for me to enter the cabin.

  I did.

  The man behind the big mahogany desk stopped writing. He set down his pen. He sat motionless for a moment. Then he tapped his knuckles on the desk. His jet eyes blazed when he looked up at me.

  I didn’t salute.

  He brought to mind images of financial tycoons and corporate CEOs. Hair slicked back. Black suit. White shirt. Red tie.

  Family photos hung on the wall behind him. Photos of him. Photos of Inna. Photos of him and Inna together. Many photos of them together. At least a dozen.

  The man loved his daughter.

  He wore no wedding ring.

  Gleb lumbered over and stood beside the d
esk.

  Inna shut the door behind her. She walked to a leather chair in front of the desk. She sat down and crossed her legs.

  “Sit,” she told me and patted the leather chair beside hers.

  I sank into it.

  Gleb eyed me.

  I jerked my thumb toward him.

  “Larry’s present and accounted for. Where’s Moe and Curly?”

  The man behind the desk grinned like a wolf.

  “You are referring to Dmitry and Yury. Yes?”

  Yury. The name of the imposter. The man who had impersonated Earl the mechanic.

  “Yury,” I said. “I thought his name was Earl.”

  “He is a good actor. Yes?”

  “With no Russian accent. The rest of you sound like Putin.”

  “He studied in America.”

  “Good for him.”

  “Dmitry and Yury are busy now. You will see them later. You miss them already?”

  “I’m making plans for our reunion.”

  “I am sure they will be as happy to see you as you are to see them.”

  “No doubt.”

  “I am Boris.”

  “Nice yacht, Bore—can I call you Bore?”

  “No.”

  “I must say, Bore, you sure live in style.”

  “That is because . . .”

  “Where the hell’s Kelly?”

  “Patience, Mr. Lane.”

  “You know my name.”

  “But of course.”

  He rattled open a desk drawer and took out a file. He shut the drawer and held up the file. He raised his eyebrows.

  I stood up from my chair and stepped forward and took the file. I sat down again. I opened the file and fingered through the contents.

  “How’d you get this file?”

  “That is right, Mr. Lane. I know all about you.”

  “This isn’t public information. Only the U.S. Marshals Service has access to it. How’d you get it?”

  “Apparently you are a very good manhunter. One of the best. It is a shame you retired so young. But I suppose twenty-five years of service is long enough.”

  “How’d you get your hands on this confidential information?”

  “I have sources.”

  “What sources?”

  “I am a former GRU operative.”

  “Russian intelligence.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why’s a former GRU operative interested in me?”

  “You visited my clubs. Yes?”

  “You mean strip clubs?”

  “Yes. The Boobie Trap. Starbutts. You visited both places. You asked a lot of questions about Kelly. You stuck your nose where it does not belong.”