The Russian Problem (Darby Stansfield Thriller Book 2)

by John Charles

  The temperature outside on the rooftop hovered around fifteen degrees Fahrenheit, but Ghostface didn’t seem to notice it. The wind was absent and the stars above shown brightly; conditions for the perfect kill were perfect.

  With his heartbeat already slowed and his breathing to match, the hitman focused on the job at hand. Sooner or later, the two Silent Ones would cross paths and then, bam.

  That moment came five minutes and twenty-three seconds later. The 20mm cannon round ripped through the air, zeroing in on its target. The hitman’s eye was still secure against the scope, waiting, watching for the splat that was next up in the equation. Ghostface loved this moment, when things were completely out of his control and all of his training was put to the test. He had sent forth his message. Would it reach its destination? Of course it would.

  The two Elders stood side by side, unaware that the show was about to end. Finito.

  They were discussing what to have for dinner. Not business, not the assassination of the Tea Maker, not even whether they would be targeted next. They were arguing over dinner—such a mundane conversation to be having seconds before being assassinated. It almost appeared as though they were not worthy.

  “We had fish last night. I want pork.”

  “We always have pork.”

  “Tell me the last time we—”

  The impact of the bullet mimicked a grenade exploding… if it were inside a person’s body. One of the bodyguards meandered a bit too close and became a bonus. The other two bodyguards stood motionless for a second or two, trying to comprehend what happened. One second, three men were standing before them. A second later, a pile of bodies lay on the ground and dinner was still up in the air.

  The bodyguard survived, if only to see that his arm was taken completely off near the shoulder. The other two men did nothing to help as they watched the flow of life spurt out of his stump. But that didn’t matter. He would be dead in thirty seconds.

  Instantaneous explosion is what it looked like to the surviving bodyguards—a sensational kill out of nowhere is what it would look like to the media. This is what Ghostface wanted. The news will deliver the tale, the unbelievable account of what happened that night.

  The real story, however, was meant for the Oldest. Ghostface wanted him to realize, to understand, that it didn’t matter where he was; he could strike up close or from a far.

  The Oldest would have to accept that he was next. If he wanted to live, he had better start looking for a hiding spot—if there was one.

  97

  San Francisco, California

  Natasha’s flight arrived at an irritating 8:05 a.m. but I was there, as promised, picking her up. I admit it; I was happy to see her again. We’ll always have a bond that two people develop when their lives are threatened.

  By the time we got back to The Vic, it was near nine and she couldn’t wait to start exploring the city. I almost forgot how energetic she could be.

  “So your room is right this way. You’re next to Tav and Ralphie. Together you can hold down the fort.”

  “Great,” she enthused. “Where are they?”

  “Tav got roped into helping clean out the attic at his mother’s place, so he won’t be able to join us today. You’ll meet him, don’t worry.”

  “I can’t wait to meet Ralphie. He so cute.”

  “Are you tired? Want to rest for a bit?”

  “No, I can’t wait to see Golden Bridge of San Francisco.”

  “It’s called the Golden Gate Bridge.”

  “Oh?”

  So we jumped back into the car and off to the Golden Gate Bridge we drove.

  My car crept along the golden landmark, trying to give Natasha as many opportunities as possible to photograph the bay. When we got to the other side, we parked at a lookout and enjoyed the wonderful view of Alcatraz and the city skyline. This was postcard central. I must have taken at least thirty pictures of Natasha, at her request. It was going to be one of those days, but I didn’t mind.

  The famous crooked road was a hit. Natasha forced me to drive down Lombard Street twice, but not before getting out and taking another zillion pictures. It was so funny watching her reaction. I couldn’t tell what was louder: the squeals coming from the brakes of the cars or the one coming from Natasha. She was having a blast. I was having a blast.

  From there we hit up Fisherman’s Wharf. I got Natasha her first bowl of clam chowder in a sourdough bread bowl. More pictures.

  “How do you like San Francisco so far?”

  “I love it. It’s sooo cute and small and charming. Thanks for letting me come visit.”

  “No problem. It’s fun having you here.”

  Natasha let out a yawn.

  “Looks like someone’s getting tired.”

  “No, I don’t want to go back yet.”

  “Tell you what. It’s a beautiful day. We’ll go to the Golden Gate Park. We can relax there, sunbathe, maybe even catch some ZZZs. Sound good?”

  “Yes, I love taking naps in parks.”

  It was a perfect day, too. When we got to the park, the sun was out and the birds were singing. People were rollerblading, biking, barbecuing, playing volleyball, reuniting with family, and soon…sleeping.

  Sundays are no-car days in the park, so we had to hoof it in, but that was okay. What I like best about this park is no matter how many people visit, you can always find your own piece away from the masses.

  We found a spot on a slope. It was perfect. We had a view of the park below. There was another family nearby picnicking. As soon as I laid the blanket down on the grass, Natasha went down for the count. With the sun acting like a comforter on a crisp day, any normal person would succumb to sleepy time.

  Natasha woke me about an hour and a half later. She seemed to have caught her second wind. So had I. The family next to us was still there, except it was their turn to visit with the sandman.

  We were both hungry, so I suggested Russian food and received a lip-smacking approval. Forty-five minutes later we were sitting in a booth at the Russian Tsar. Natasha was tearing into tasty grilled meats and I was enjoying my staple, beef stroganov. It was the perfect Sunday fade.

  “Mmm,” Natasha said in between bites. “It’s good, but not better than our cook.”

  I remembered the grilled meats we were served, and I couldn’t argue. “Tomorrow, I have to head into the office for a little bit, but I’ll probably be home by lunch. We can do something then.”

  “Okay, Ralphie will keep me company.”

  “Good idea.”

  Black coffee was all I could manage after that meal. Natasha still had room for a hefty piece of Napoleon. Before she arrived, I thought she would be a handful, but it was quite the opposite. She was no trouble at all.

  98

  Even evil people wake up on the happy side of the bed.

  Viktor had just finished his second cup of coffee and was ready to face Monday. He had only one thing on his to-do list today: kidnap Natasha Buchko.

  As luck would have it, Viktor had been out running an errand the night before when he happened to look over at the car next to him at the intersection and nearly shat himself.

  Sitting in the passenger seat was the blond girl that got away from him in Minsk. He couldn’t believe what his eyes were showing him. Surely this could not be, but it was. Seeing Darby in the driver’s seat only confirmed his discovery.

  There they were, two best friends, laughing and talking without a worry in the world. Viktor followed them long enough to confirm that they were heading back to Darby’s new house. He was convinced the revenge gods were looking out for him.

  Viktor could have taken both of them out that night, but that wasn’t what he wanted. Darby needed to suffer, and taking the girl would accomplish just that.

  A little before nine in the morning, Viktor maneuvered the brown Honda into a spot not far from Darby’s address. He was positive Darby and the tall one would both head into work and leave the girl home alone. This was Ame
rica. Everyone here loved to work.

  After Darby and Tav left, Viktor waited for another fifteen minutes to be sure no one came back for a forgotten item. He knew getting through the front door would be quick and easy. Viktor had never met a lock that could stop him.

  He also decided to leave Boris Turov at home today and venture out as the notorious Viktor Kazapov. Ever since the showdown with the pathetic San Francisco Police Department, Viktor never left the apartment without his disguise. He worried a little about the police; they were a parasite he didn’t want to incite and then have to deal with. However, today was an exception. He wanted to be recognized. It was important that she know who was visiting.

  Cracking the front door open a bit, Viktor listened for signs of life and heard none. Pushing the door wider, he slipped inside and locked it behind him. There were seven carpeted steps leading up from the foyer; someone could still be in the living room and not know he was there. He listened again. Still nothing. The girl could still be sleeping. Viktor noticed a leash hanging on a hook by the door—a dog, but where was it? Viktor pulled his gun out of his jacket and slowly made his way up the steps.

  No sign of the animal in the living room or the kitchen. Viktor walked down the hallway, past a bathroom. At the end were two doors, one open and one closed. The room with an open door was empty and Viktor could easily see that it belonged to the tall guy. Viktor turned and faced the closed door.

  I found you.

  Viktor pressed his ear against the door and listened. He could hear the faint sound of someone snoring. The door was unlocked and opened easily.

  The bed was a mess of sheets and a comforter. Viktor could feel the excitement in him rise. He couldn’t wait to have her again. She was the best of the group from what he remembered.

  Thick carpeting muffled his movements to the bed, but Viktor was surprised at what he found. Natasha was not there. Snoring up a storm was an obese, asthmatic dog. Where’s the girl? Viktor was positive she hadn’t left with the other two.

  There were suitcases lined up against the wall, so this had to be her room. Did she go upstairs? Just as Viktor turned to head out, he heard a toilet flush. A bathroom...

  There were two closed doors in the room. One had to be the bathroom; the other was most likely the closet. Viktor had no time to think of a brilliant plan, for the door to the right of him was already opening. All Viktor could do was wait with a smile.

  99

  Wiping the sleep from her eyes, Natasha realized she had a few more hours of dreamland in her and couldn’t wait to crawl back into bed. The longer she sat there peeing, the more irritated she got, and the more irritated she got, the more awake she became. She pulled on the toilet paper in anticipation and waited a few more seconds. Finally she stopped short of setting the world record and flushed the toilet.

  Natasha kept her eyes partly closed to help get back to dreamland. She opened the bathroom door and stumbled forward, feeling for the bed with her hands. She slipped right in next to Ralphie. The dog didn’t move.

  Natasha lay there, stretching a bit, enjoying her little pre-sleep routine. She pulled the cover up to the bottom of her chin, rolled over on her side facing away from the bathroom. Both of her hands were tucked under her chest as if she were praying. Any second now she would be asleep. Everything was perfect, the comfort of the pillow, the warmth under the covers, the gentle stroking of her hair…

  Natasha jerked awake and turned over. She went rigid with fear as shivers ran through her body. The tiny hairs on her arm stood up sounding the alarm. She couldn’t believe who she was looking at. Surely this was a dream and she would wake up any minute. Tears began to pool in her eyes. She was so scared, so sorry about the trouble she had caused. This was payback.

  Viktor’s smile widened, revealing his jack-o’-lantern grin.

  “Everything will be okay,” he lied soothingly. “Don’t worry.” He grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her to within inches of his face.

  She yelped from the pain, waking up Ralphie.

  “I’m going to take good care of you.”

  She could smell the evil on his breath. It was dank and stale. In between his crooked teeth were dark stains, wretched and disgusting.

  Ralphie shook the sleep from his body and barked at the stranger who held Natasha.

  “What’s the matter? You want some attention,” Viktor said as he scratched the pug’s ears, instantly calming him. Soon the dog was near Viktor, moaning in ecstasy as his belly was rubbed.

  To see this sickened Natasha. How dare he play with Ralphie? She felt violated. If only Ralphie knew how evil of a man Viktor was, he would bite the hand that stroked him.

  Viktor pulled Natasha from the bed. All she had on was a sheer tank top with spaghetti straps and a rose-colored thong that had slipped over to the side, exposing her genitals. She tried to cover herself, but Viktor smacked her hand away and allowed his finger to linger against her golden pubic hair and then slip between her pink lips. He looked her over from head to toe, his eyes smacking their lips as he brought his finger up to his nose and breathed in deeply. He was enjoying this.

  Viktor dragged Natasha out of the room and to the dining room table. He pulled his laptop out of his bag and launched the Skype video. He was a giddy little boy and couldn’t contain himself. He forced Natasha to sit on his lap and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her up against him.

  She could feel him growing hard against her. It was disgusting and she began to dry heave at the thought.

  Viktor only laughed at her.

  The program dialed and the user on the other end answered.

  Viktor smiled and ordered Natasha to smile and say hello. When she didn’t say anything, he shook her hard, once. Natasha managed a quiet hello.

  He licked the teenager’s neck slow and deliberately and then ended the connection.

  He dragged her back to the bedroom. “Put some clothes on,” he said as he pushed her toward a dresser.

  Natasha stood near the dresser, hunched over and trying to hide her semi-nudity. She was more afraid of this man than ever.

  Keep it together. Don’t show weakness. That was easier to think than to do. Her hands shook as she slipped on a pair of jeans. As she continued to dress, Natasha sensed a calming in her nerves. In her head, she could hear her father and brother’s voices. They were giving her all sorts of advice should she ever find herself in a situation like this again. Luckily, she remembered everything they said.

  By the time she put on a hooded top and slipped her sneakers on, she already wore an iron coat of confidence. Natasha turned and faced her captor without fear.

  “Now what?” she asked.

  100

  Reports from Moscow began flooding Sokolov’s inbox in the early morning. By the time he woke at six, there were over fifty e-mails connected with the recent killings. With each e-mail he read, it seemed as though three more rang the bell of arrival.

  The assassination the night before of two high-ranking men in the Mafiya fast became news. The reports stated that both men were killed by a sniper’s bullet in the company of witnesses. Albeit they were bodyguards, but still witnesses. There was no mistaking the connection to the first kill. Someone was eliminating the heads of the Russian Mafiya. This was big—more so because it wasn’t another criminal organization, but an elusive hitman whom many believed didn’t exist. Sokolov knew all too well that he was real; he had briefly had him in his reach.

  All eyes were now on the fourth. Was he next? The Oldest was well known in Moscow, and most government circles in Russia, for the power he wielded over his organization. Bringing him down could send the highly organized Vory into a free-for-all. There were already reports of some members going rogue.

  The Russian government and their neighboring countries were more concerned about the potential for chaos in the criminal world than they were for the safety of the Oldest, though they knew the two were connected and could not be separated. It was essential th
at he stay alive at all costs until Ghostface was brought down. The sun had yet to crack the horizon when the Russian Military Police stormed the home of the Oldest and whisked him away into protective custody.

  Sokolov spent the next three hours meticulously reading every single e-mail to bring himself up to speed. Initially, he worried that Ghostface would get to the Oldest, that law enforcement in Moscow was no match for the hitman. Taking the Oldest into protective custody was a smart move.

  Sokolov thought about how close he had come to catching him and then how he disappeared like his nickname. How close had he truly been? Was it all an illusion? Was Ghostface really uncatchable?

  It was almost ten when Sokolov finished with the last e-mail. He was mentally drained from the information overload. He got dressed in a navy blue suit and headed out the door. He had just made a mental note to text Darby when his cell phone rang.

  “Detective Sokolov? He’s here. Viktor is here,” Darby said in a panic.

  “Darby? Is that you? What are you talking about?”

  “The Ghostface guy… He’s here. I saw him.”

  Sokolov thought back to the three hours’ worth of intel that pinned Viktor in Moscow, not San Francisco. “Are you sure about this?”

  “Yes, and he’s in my house!”

  “What?”

  “He’s in my house. He just called from there via Skype and he has taken Natasha hostage. I’m not kidding. You have to get over there, please!”

  Sokolov drove down Geary Avenue a little over the speed limit. He was still confused by Darby’s call. How could Viktor be in two places at once? It’s impossible. The seriousness in Darby’s voice is what gave Sokolov reason to check it out.

  A cacophony of metal on metal jarred Sokolov out of his thoughts. He lost his grip on the steering wheel and his head slammed into the driver-side window. For a split second, he lost consciousness. When he realized he was awake, Sokolov looked around and knew he had been in a car accident. The brown car had come out of nowhere and T-boned Sokolov on the passenger side.