The Russian Problem (Darby Stansfield Thriller Book 2)

by John Charles

  “No, I have not.” Typical FBI asshole. “Ghostface started killing back in the town of Novosibirsk. I am from the same town as he. I believe this man killed my father fifteen years ago. From Novosibirsk, Ghostface moved around and improved his skills. The more popular he became as hired help, the more reclusive he became.”

  “Why do they call him Ghostface?” asked the same asshole.

  “Up until now, no one knew what he looked like. It is said the only people who could identify him were his victims. But they were all dead. His face is the last face they see—like a ghost.”

  There was a little chuckling throughout the room. “That’s a little dramatic, isn’t it?” came a voice.

  “Hardly. Ghostface is capable of killing a man in many different ways. He is highly trained with most weaponry and has excelled in the art of hand-to-hand combat. He is as skilled as a mixed martial arts fighter. This is where he is the most dangerous. Do not underestimate his strength, either. If you do, you will end up dead. Don’t underestimate his speed. If you do, you will end up dead. He has remained elusive for many years because of his skill set. Russia, Belarus, Poland, Ukraine, Latvia, Lithuania, Moldova, Kazakhstan, Georgia, Bulgaria, and Turkey all have Viktor on their most-wanted lists. He is responsible for over 200 contract hits. He is extremely dangerous. He is extremely intelligent, most likely with the IQ of a genius. He is also fluent in Russian, English, German, Polish, Turkish, and French. Now I’d like to turn the briefing over to Special Agent Ryan Bennett.” Sokolov quickly made for one of the walls where he could blend back in with the rank and file, glad to have his part over.

  “Hello, I’m Special Agent Bennett. I head up the Violent and Organized Crimes Unit in the Bay Area. So far, we know that Viktor Kazapov, a.k.a. Ghostface, is targeting a man named Darby Stansfield.” Darby’s picture flashed up on the screen. “He testified against Viktor Kazapov in a sex trafficking case in Ukraine. Kazapov was found guilty of all charges. But he escaped in the most impressive fashion ever. There was so much firepower used, I’m told it was like a Michael Bay movie.

  “The word on the street is the Russian Mafiya in Moscow, the organization that Kazapov reports to, reached out to Ghostface to contract a hit against Mr. Stansfield. He turned it down. According to Detective Sokolov, Ghostface has taken a liking to hits that highlight or increase his notoriety. He only pursues high-profile kills. However, Mr. Stansfield is not a high-profile kill. Detective, why don’t you answer this question?”

  Sokolov stepped forward again. “Sure. Why is Mr. Stansfield a target? Well, Ghostface may not be interested, but Viktor Kazapov is. Killing him as Viktor protects the so-called brand of Ghostface. At least, this is what we believe to be the reason for turning down the initial contract and yet still coming after Mr. Stansfield. If he had come as Ghostface, this briefing would not be happening because Mr. Stansfield would already be dead. If your next question is whether Viktor has two personalities—no, not in the psychological sense. It appears as though he treats the Ghostface part of him as an alter ego. Make no mistake; Viktor is every bit as deadly as Ghostface. The skills and knowhow don’t disappear.”

  The picture on the screen switched back to Viktor Kazapov as Bennett moves back to the podium. “Thank you, Detective. Now, all airports and trains leaving San Francisco are on high alert. Check points on the Golden, Oakland, and Bay Bridges, as well as the 101 and the PCH, are also in full force. If Viktor Kazapov is in San Francisco, he’s not getting out unnoticed. We are assuming that Viktor knows where Mr. Stansfield’s residence is. What he may not know is that Mr. Stansfield recently moved. The plan is to place units in each location and also have units outside observing should Kazapov decide to show. Who knows? He could be at one of the homes already as we speak, waiting for him. You know who your group leaders are. Rally up with them and they will brief you on your tactical orders. Good luck, men.”

  As the lights came back on, Bennett hurried to join Sokolov and Frith at the back of the room. “Detective Sokolov, I was thinking you and I and some of our men would head out to Standfield’s new home. Another group will dispatch to Darby’s old apartment. Agent Frith will head up that unit.”

  “That sounds like a good plan.”

  “Has your guy made it back to his residence?” Agent Frith asked.

  Sokolov checked his phone for messages. “I hope so.”

  77

  I knocked on the door for the umpteenth time. Still no one answered. I was pissed. I was hoping to get a gun for protection and then lay low until the entire mess blew over. Sadly, that wasn’t going to happen.

  I kicked at the door out of frustration and heard a faint click. The flimsy door looked like it had been jarred open by my foot. I pushed on it a bit. Yes, it had. Should I go in? Is someone home? No, of course not. I put my head against the door again and listened for signs of life. Still nothing but quiet. I wondered if I should go in or not. Why? To search for a gun; that’s why. I stood in the hallway for all of one minute before pushing the door open.

  The darkness was immediate. The drapes were drawn, no sunlight. Sunset wasn’t until around 8:30 p.m. I flipped a switch and an overhead light turned on in the living room.

  Closing the door behind me and locking it, I begin to explore the apartment. It smelled of something sour—like rotten kraut. I stopped after a few steps and listened again for noises in the apartment. Still empty.

  So where would the weapons cache be? Closet? Cabinet? Under a bed? Maybe there’s a rogue gun lying around under some newspapers. Anything was possible.

  In the living room, I noticed a suitcase. Bingo. That’s how they transport weapons. I see it all the time in the movies. I grabbed the suitcase, threw it onto the couch, and unzipped it.

  The weight should have been a dead giveaway. There was nothing in here except clothes. No hardware from what I could tell. However, there was a Lufthansa ticket. I studied it for a moment. Whoever was the owner of this suitcase had only arrived a few days ago from Warsaw, Poland. The name on the luggage tag read Boris Turov. It didn’t ring a bell.

  I searched the side pockets and I found what looked to be a Russian newspaper. Just as I was about to tuck the newspaper back in, the picture on the front page caught my eye. It looked familiar. I looked closer. It was the presidential palace in Minsk; I was sure of it.

  I examined the masthead on the paper. This was a Belarusian newspaper. I unfolded the paper and my knees nearly buckled. On the bottom half of the page was a picture of Viktor Kazapov. It was an article on what I could only presume was his escape. Panic started to tighten in my chest. Who is this Boris? Does he know Viktor? Is this just coincidence? I dug deeper into the side pockets and pulled out a bunch of rubbish. There was an old potato chip bag, a flier, and a folded piece of paper. I unfolded it. This time, my knees did buckle.

  Staring back at me was a photograph of myself.

  78

  Over at Darby’s place, Sokolov and his men positioned themselves around the perimeter. A sniper waited on the roof of the building across the street.

  Sokolov bounded up the steps of the Victorian and knocked on the door. Tavish opened the door and faced four intimidating men. “Detective Sokolov? Uh, Darb’s not here right now—”

  Damn it! Darby should have been here already. “You must come with me. Now. Quickly. It’s a matter of life and death.”

  “What? Where’s Darb? He’s okay, isn’t he?”

  “I can explain later. For now, you must leave. Is there anybody else here?”

  Tav glanced over his shoulder. “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Well, Ralphie’s with me.”

  “Who’s Ralphie?”

  “My pug.”

  Sokolov motioned to the men to search the house. “Hurry. Get your dog.”

  Two minutes later, Sokolov was escorting Tavish and Ralphie out. “Do you have any place you can go for a while?”

  “No, my place was flooded, totally unlivable. That’s why I’m
staying with Darb.”

  “Okay. Come this way. I have a place where you can be safe.” Sokolov walked Tavish a hundred yards up the street to a black van, though it wasn’t just any black van. It was filled with a bunch of high-tech equipment and a couple of suited men.

  “Look, Detective, you’re scaring the shit out of me. Will you tell me what’s going on?”

  Sokolov gave him a quick update on the new situation.

  “Wait, you mean Viktor is even more dangerous than we thought and you know for a fact he wants to kill Darby?” Tavish tightened his grip on Ralphie.

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “Does he know this—that Viktor really is some ghost hitman?”

  “Ghostface is his name. I was supposed to meet Darby here so I could explain it to him. I spoke with him an hour ago. He should have been home by now.”

  “I haven’t heard from him since he ran out to run some errand.”

  Sokolov muttered under his breath in Russian. “I told him not to leave the house except for work or an emergency.”

  “Is he going to try and kill Darb tonight?”

  “It’s very likely that he will strike soon. Viktor doesn’t like to hang around.”

  “How can you guys protect him if this guy is so good?”

  “He good, but he’s human. He thinks it’s impossible for someone like Darby, a nobody, to take him out, but he almost did. He now feels the need to prove to others, mostly himself, that this is not true. He is obsessed now and not thinking straight. We will have men staked outside. A few men and I will be inside the house in case Viktor slips by.”

  Sokolov was describing the units dispatched to Darby’s old apartment when his cell phone rang.

  “Is it Darb?” Tavish asked urgently.

  Sokolov shook his head as he brought the phone to his ear. “Agent Frith, what’s the news? Hmmmm… Are you sure?” He pulled out a pen and paper and began taking notes. “I see. Has she been identified yet? … Nothing? Not even a purse or ID? … Okay, well keep searching. There must be something. Radio in before you come back.”

  “What happened?” Tavish asked.

  “The old apartment has been compromised. The lock on the front door was broken. It appears as though Viktor knows about the old apartment.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “There’s a dead body in there.”

  “But we moved out weeks ago,” Tavish protested.

  “Blond female, late twenties, no ID, no purse, no clothes so far. Found naked on the bed. She was shot in the head.”

  Tavish frowned. “Blond, female… Oh shit!”

  “What?”

  “Darby was dating a blond woman from work, Hillary. It might be her. How or why she went to the old apartment I don’t know.”

  “Has this woman ever been here?”

  “I—I can’t be sure. Maybe. I never said anything to her. But I assume Darb did, but maybe he didn’t.”

  “Well if it was Viktor who entered the apartment, he most likely will figure out that Darby doesn’t live there. It was our hope that he would only know about that address.”

  “Do you think he knows to come here?”

  “Hard to tell. He’s smart. If there was anything left in the apartment to indicate it, then yes, he knows.”

  79

  It was a little after eight when Viktor parked the car a few yards away from Orlov’s apartment. The sun looked like it had another half hour of life before giving in to the night. Viktor had decided to come back here for his Boris disguise before heading over to the address on the paper.

  He sat for a few minutes, studying the apartment building and the neighborhood. It was routine reconnaissance. Seven of the cars were there when he left. Two were new: a red Toyota Prius and a white Smart Car. When he was assured that everything was okay, he exited the car and headed over to the apartment complex.

  Viktor’s window of opportunity was closing in around him. It wouldn’t be long before others would notice that Orlov wasn’t showing up for work. Plus, the body wasn’t going to keep much longer. He either needed to dump it or get out of town.

  After killing Orlov, Viktor had dismembered the body and placed it in trash bags, with lime added to counter the smell. But he knew that was a short fix. A few days ago, he had found an area to dump the body, but hadn’t had the time to dispose of it yet. The nightly cabbage dinners in the complex could only mask it for so long. Soon the sour smell would be overpowering. Soon the neighbors would ask questions.

  Viktor had to assume that Darby was already alerting the local law enforcement about what he saw. This might escalate things. He had to get Darby now. His plan was to hit Darby tonight. Get in and get out—fast. He hadn’t yet decided, though, which way would give him the most pleasure: up close and personal or far away and unexpected. He had to be successful either way for joy. Even though he was ignoring his obligations back in Belarus, he had to do this.

  Like clockwork, Viktor began to run the scenarios if the address proved to be right. He calculated how much time he would have, where law enforcement might be. He had to assume they would be scattered around the area. Darby might not even be there. This hit had all the signs of a zero success rate. What the hell was he thinking? He wasn’t.

  Viktor pressed the button on the elevator and waited, still consumed with planning. The elevator door opened and before he could enter, a man on his cell phone bumped into him as he exited in a hurry, mumbling something that sounded like a Russian name. In this neighborhood, Viktor barely noticed him. He pressed the button for the fourth floor and settled in for the slow ride up.

  Something seemed off about the man on the phone, he thought as the elevator creaked and groaned. He mentioned a Russian name, sounded American. Soon Viktor found himself replaying the scene in his head. The doors to the elevator open. I look up. A man on his phone walks straight into me. He’s in a rush. He glances at me for a second as he passes by. He mouths the word, “Sorry.” What is it about this man that seems strange? Viktor thought. Was it because he was inquiring about a Russian? Was it because he seemed secretive? Was it because… He didn’t recognize him at first, but he did now. Darby Stansfield!

  The elevator stopped and the doors opened to an empty fourth floor. Viktor sprinted to the apartment. Everything seemed to be in place. He checked his suitcase. It had been opened. On the couch, spread out, was his newspaper. Viktor searched the pockets of the suitcase. The picture of Darby was missing.

  80

  My phone started ringing again. It was Detective Sokolov.

  “Darby, it’s Detective Sokolov. Where are you?”

  “I’m just getting into my car and I’m heading home right now.”

  “You should have been home long ago.”

  “Look, Detective, would you please just tell me what’s going on?”

  “Viktor Kazapov is in San Francisco. It’s been confirmed. He is here for you.”

  “I knew it. Everyone said not to worry. ‘He can’t get to you,’” I mocked in a sing-songy voice. “Bullshit.”

  “There’s something else. We discovered Viktor Kazapov has another identity. He is Ghostface, a Russian hitman who has eluded law enforcement around the world for almost 20 years. We suspect even his own gang had no idea. Darby, you are in grave danger.”

  “Why are you telling me this? It’s not helping,” I said as I put the car in gear.

  “You should fully understand the situation.”

  Sheesh. Not only is this guy some badass gangster, he moonlights on the side as an invisible hitman. I’m always the screwed, never the screwer. I sat there staring out the window of my car feeling as if I had no control over what was happening. It was as if everything was all left to fate. It was obvious right then that my Russian friends were of no help. My only hope was Sokolov. And now he just popped my balloon.

  “Are you there? Darby?”

  “Yes, I’m still here.”

  “You need to co
me back to your place so we can put you into protective custody.”

  “I’m in my car, driving. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” I didn’t dare mention the apartment or what I saw in there. I didn’t think breaking and entering to get a gun would go over well.

  The more I thought about it, the more the picture started to come together. The empty apartment, the suitcase, my picture, the name on the luggage tags––that’s where Viktor was staying. Crap! I broke into the hiding place of the psycho who is trying to kill me. What the hell, Ivan? Why would you send me there? How much more unlucky can I be? Strike that. I don’t want to know.

  Boris Turov had to be the fake name that Viktor used to get into the country. But why would he be in Orlov’s apartment? That’s what confused me the most. Ivan had personally sent me there to get a gun. Was Orlov planning against the gang? Was Orlov helping Viktor? If so, Ivan may not have known about this. Or did he? The bigger question, of course, was where the hell was Orlov?

  Anyway, I was glad to get out of that apartment and away from the sour smell of boiled cabbage. Disgusting.

  81

  In a matter of minutes, Viktor was back outside. He looked up and down the street. Seeing no one, he recalled the mental check he made earlier of the cars parked outside. The white Smart Car was missing. This was the second time the American had slipped by him. Viktor’s anger took the reins as all reason went out the window. He was going to kill Darby tonight.

  It didn’t take long for the mad assassin to catch up with the Smart Car. He took a chance that Darby would head toward Geary Boulevard, the main road in and out of the Inner Richmond area.

  The vehicle had just turned left onto Geary. Viktor unfortunately caught the red light. He kept an eye on the Smart Car for as long as he could. Every second the light remained red seemed like an eternity. Viktor was losing it. He cursed the slowness of the light. He pummeled the steering wheel with both hands. The drivers in the other cars around him carefully avoided making eye contact with the devil.