by John Charles
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? Could 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.
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.
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 wa
y 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.
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 more 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 immediately 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.
Is this where you’ve run off to?
76
Sokolov’s mind was running on high alert. The realization that Ghostface was actually here in San Francisco, within his reach, was mind-blowing. It was even more unbelievable that Ghostface was Viktor Kazapov. What were the odds that the guy he was investigating would turn out to be the man he’d been hunting his whole life? Unimaginable.
Sokolov knew time was of the essence. He had already alerted the local FBI for help in tracking down Viktor Kazapov, a.k.a. Ghostface. They would need the extra manpower considering how dangerous he was. The FBI office set up an emergency briefing at the North Beach Station, where Sokolov was heading.
When he entered the precinct, the buzz in the air was on full throttle. Word had spread quickly that Russia’s most notorious hitman, Ghostface, had been identified as Viktor Kazapov and was here in town. Suddenly this precinct was the most popular spot in the city. Suits and uniforms from various departments were walking through the front door with no end in sight. The hum of quiet conversation between men could be heard throughout the office as they gathered in pairs and threesomes. Everyone was strategizing on how to be a part of the team that would take down the beast and not be regulated to support staff. Some were just content with having a seat or a space against the wall in the briefing room.
Sokolov knew going into the briefing that it would be led by an old friend, James Frith, an agent with the FBI. They had met years ago when Sokolov had actually considered becoming a G-Man. “Pete,” Agent Frith called out.
Sokolov spun around, searching for the familiar voice. “James, good to see you again. It’s been a long time,” he said, extending his hand.
“Sure has, Detective. It’s always the good ones that seem to bring us together.”
“Ah, Ghostface—this is huge.”
“I hear you’re the one that cracked his identity. He’s actually Viktor Kazapov?”
Sokolov nodded. “I had help from a contact of mine.”
“He’s been a sort of hobby of yours, hasn’t he?”
“Yes, for a long time. Walk with me, the briefing room is this way.” Sokolov pointed. “I believe one of his first contracted hits was my father.”
“You never mentioned that before. I’m sorry to hear it.”
“It’s not something I brag about.”
“Well listen, time is against us, so enough of the chitchat. I’d like you to get everyone up to date on this Ghostface character and how he operates. You know him better than anyone here.”
Sokolov felt immense pressure, but relief at the same time. At least he was the one briefing. Often when FBI was brought in, the local police force took a back seat. He knew his old friend had given him the boost. Ghostface was a dangerous man, and Frith didn’t want to lose anyone.
Everyone had gathered in the main conference room. It was a standing room of blue uniforms and suits shuffling back and forth in mumbled conversation. The temperature was a noticeable few degrees higher than other parts of the building.
When Sokolov entered, he didn’t bother to look at any of the men who had gathered for the briefing. He was focused on what he had to say, and public speaking wasn’t exactly his forte. His partner Kyle Kang was a natural at it. It’s too bad he was out of town.
Agent Frith walked to the front of the room.
“If I could get your attention… Thank you. You have all probably figured out by now why you’re here, so I’ll cut to the chase. Hit the
lights.” The room dimmed and a picture of a man appeared on the screen behind Frith. “We have good reason to believe that this man, Viktor Kazapov, a known gangster with the Russian Mafiya, is the elusive hitman Ghostface.”
A murmur spread across the room.
“We also have reason to believe that Kazapov is in San Francisco. That means the world’s most wanted assassin is roaming our streets. We are under the impression that he is here to carry out a contract.” He waited for the murmuring to die down again. “Now let me be very clear. Ghostface has never missed a hit. I don’t know about you guys, but I would like to be part of the group of men that foils his record, not adds to it.”
One of the suits raised his hand. “Who’s the target?”
“The target is a man named Darby Stansfield. He testified against Viktor Kazapov about a month ago. His testimony helped put Viktor and his gang behind bars. That is, until they escaped.”
“Where is Stansfield now?”
“We have been in contact and he is currently heading back to his house per our instructions. It will be our job to secure Stansfield before Kazapov gets to him. I’m going to turn things over to Detective Pete Sokolov. Detective Sokolov has compiled an abundant amount of information on Ghostface and has been following his career for the last fifteen years. He knows more about this guy than the Russian government does. Listen to him. It may save your life. Detective?”
Sokolov made his way up to the front of the room, head down despite the eyes following his every step.
“Hello, I am Detective Pete Sokolov with the North Beach Precinct. It’s true. I have followed Ghostface for fifteen years. There’s a lot about him that I have come to understand. I want to paint for you the most realistic picture of Ghostface possible.”
One of the suits piped up. “When you say ‘follow,’ you mean compiled information, right? You haven’t worked any of the cases, have you?”