Tsar: A Thriller (Alex Hawke)

by Ted Bell

  “Fuck you. Shoot me.”

  Stoke mashed his nose hard into the deck and heard a howl of pain.

  “Where you training?”

  “Oh, shit! Out in the Everglades. An abandoned airstrip.”

  “OMON is going to rescue hostages here in Miami? Is that it? Why doesn’t that make any sense to me, Yurin? Unless maybe you’re training to prevent a hostage rescue, know what I’m sayin’?”

  Yurin was silent.

  Stoke removed his foot from the back of the big Russian’s head, stepped over Yurin, and carefully slid back into the helm seat. He didn’t have it all, but it was a good start. It was enough to get Harry Brock’s attention. Harry was headed to Bermuda for a high level powwow with Hawke. Stoke had gotten what he’d come for, good hard intel. Russia was on everybody’s mind now, especially Alex Hawke’s.

  “We’re going back,” Stoke said, steering off the wave crest, taking a diagonal back down the face. “Get up. Slowly. See if you can get back in your seat without getting tossed into the drink, all right? I’m not in a rescue mood right now.”

  The big yellow race boat was pointed sharply downward on the foamy green face of the wave at a forty-five-degree angle.

  “Jesus,” Yurin said, managing to get to his feet by holding on to the bar. He slid back inside his seat, buckled up. Stoke kept the Glock in his hand, in case the guy got courageous. But he was a little green around the gills now, his nose mashed over to one side, the blood and spittle trickling out the sides of his mouth blown backward on both cheeks, not looking too sporty.

  “Your nose is broken, Yurin. You want me to fix it? I can do it back at the dock. What I do, I jam my two little pinkies straight up your nostrils and, pop-pop, voilà, straight as an arrow again. Hurts like a bitch, though, I gotta be brutally honest.”

  Yurin didn’t reply, didn’t even look over.

  It wasn’t easy getting through the narrow end of the funnel with a fiercely following sea, but Stoke managed it, just surfed a big roller all the way through the chute.

  When they were back in the relative calm of the marina, the seriously pissed-off Russian said, “Any reason why we couldn’t have had that conversation in my office?”

  “Just two,” Stoke said, nosing the big Magnum back toward the Miami Yacht Group docks. “Number one reason, I’m a habitual thrill seeker.”

  “Yeah? You Americans haven’t seen anything yet.”

  “That’s a threat?”

  “That’s a promise.”

  “What’s your problem with Americans, Yurin?”

  “You people are a fucking error that needs correcting.”

  “So, I guess you don’t want to hear the second reason.”

  “Yeah, yeah. What?”

  “Me being just a fucking error, like you say, I guess you wouldn’t want to sell me this boat?”

  “What?”

  “I guess you don’t want to sell me the boat, Yurin.”

  “You serious? You actually want to buy it?”

  “Of course I want to buy it.”

  “Jesus. You are serious. I thought Moscow was crazy. Miami is the freaking moon.”

  “Windshield will have to be replaced, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Give me a number,” Stoke said, smiling at the Russian guy for the first time all afternoon.

  35

  SALINA, KANSAS

  Mayor Monie Bailey spooned the last little bit of macaroni and cheese into her four-year-old daughter’s mouth and then used a dishcloth to remove the rest of Stouffer’s finest from her child’s hair, ears, cheeks, and the scruffy terry bib hanging by a thread below her chin.

  “More,” Debbie Bailey demanded, banging on the plastic highchair tray with a wooden horse. “More mac.”

  “All gone!”

  “No! More!”

  “All gone, I said. Night-night time!”

  “No night-night! More!”

  “You ate the whole thing, Debbie. The whole Family Size. You must have worms.”

  “No worms. Yucky!”

  She plucked the child from her chair in the kitchen and carried her upstairs to the room she shared with her older sister, Carrie. The room always made her smile. It was what she’d always wanted as a girl but was never able to have. A pink powder-puff dream, walls, rugs, curtains, duvet covers, even the two dressers and the mirrors above them, all the same pale shade of pink. And the pink lampshades everywhere just made everything glow.

  Carrie, who’d turned nine last week, was propped up against her fluffy pink pillows, reading. She’d received a hardcover illustrated Black Beauty for her birthday, but that remained uncracked, jammed in among all the shelves of well-thumbed graphic novels and paperbacks in the pink bookcase beneath the window.

  “Hi, Mom,” Carrie said, her eyes never leaving the page.

  “Street Girl,” Monie said, eying the book’s lurid cover. “Interesting. What’s that one about?”

  “Hookers. Well, not really hookers. See, their moms are all hookers, and their kids all sort of grow up in the life, you know? You know, they, like, copy the behavior of the parents, or parent in this case, since there don’t seem to be a whole lot of dads in this book. Just gangsta pimps, mostly. But this one girl, Amanda, she’s, like, the hero, and—”

  “Heroine.”

  “Right, heroine, and she’s determined to break out of the vicious cycle and make something of herself, you know, beyond just shooting smack and hooking.”

  “Isn’t that great?” Monie said, tucking Debbie in, pulling the duvet cover up under her chin. It was supposed to get really cold tonight, dip down into the teens. “A girl with spunk, huh? If you like girls like that, you should try Nancy Drew, girl detective. Talk about spunky.”

  “She’s cool. I like her.”

  “Nancy Drew? You do?”

  “Noooo-a, Amanda, silly. Now, shush, Mom, I’m at a really good part. Amanda’s about to get caught with her mom’s crack pipe in her purse at school. She didn’t put it there, of course. Her mom’s scag boyfriend, Notorious Ludacris, did it.”

  “Sorry, Charlie. Lights out. Tomorrow’s a school day, remember?”

  “Okay, okay, Mom. Just lemme finish this chapter, okay?”

  “Now. Light’s out.”

  “My God! We are, like, so strict in this household, it’s just pathetic!” She closed the book and put it on the nightstand.

  “Go to sleep. Sweet dreams, you two.”

  “More kissing!” Debbie cried.

  “Kiss-kiss, now go to sleep.”

  Monie flicked a wall switch by the door that turned all the lights off. “Night-night, Mommy,” Debbie said.

  “Night, Mom,” Carrie said. “Love you.”

  “I love you, too, sweetie. Both you guys.”

  She pulled their door closed and walked a few feet down the hall to her husband’s study. George was at his desk, staring at his computer screen. EBay Motors, most likely. George spent every evening he wasn’t playing fantasy football or watching the Golf Channel on that damn eBay, chasing his dream car. She walked over and stood behind him.

  Yep, eBay.

  “How’s it going, hon?” she asked.

  “Aw, hell. You know that dirt-cheap ’58 Vette I was bidding on? The maroon one? White interior?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Some butthead aced me out at the last second. I mean, the very last second. One second before the time expires, he slips in there at five hundred over my final bid. Damn it!”

  “Aw. Did you have a good day at the office?”

  George turned around in his swivel chair and smiled up at her. “Isn’t that an oxymoron?”

  “Probably.”

  “Kids asleep?”

  “One down, one to go.”

  “One X-Men flashlight shining under the blanket?”

  “Yep. That’d be my guess, five minutes after lights out. She should be clicking it on right about now. She’s started a new book.”

  “
Black Beauty?”

  “Dream on, clueless dreamer. She’s reading Street Girl. By the beloved author of Ho Town.”

  “Sounds bad.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Hey. You want to fool around?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “I don’t know. The way you’re standing with your one hip cocked out. Usually a reliable indicator. How’s the mayor business?”

  “Endless meeting with the Civic Association. Annual report from the Public Relations Committee. You know my definition of a committee?”

  “A group that keeps minutes and wastes hours.”

  “Correct. Well, guess what the chairman of that committee told me at the end of his annual report? At the end of his endless two-hour PowerPoint presentation?”

  “No clue.”

  “He said that after an exhaustive study, it was the unanimous recommendation of the PR Committee that the town of Salina not toot its own horn.”

  George laughed. “The PR Committee guy said that?”

  “Yep.”

  “Isn’t the very definition of PR tooting your own horn?”

  “I thought so.”

  “So, what did you do?”

  “I disbanded his committee on the spot.”

  “One less committee for mankind.”

  “You can search every park in every town in America, and you will never, ever see a statue of a committee.”

  “That’s my girl. Disband ’em all. Don’t leave a single one standing.”

  “Turn that thing off and come to bed,” Monie said, running her fingers through George’s soft but thinning brown hair.

  In the bathroom, pulling a shorty see-through black negligee over her head, she remembered the phone call while she was taking the mac and cheese out of the nuker.

  “Honey,” she said, cracking the door an inch or two.

  “Yeah?”

  “Did I forget our anniversary or something?”

  “Nope, that’s next week. Why?”

  “I got a call from some bakery. Said they were delivering the surprise and wanted to make sure someone was home.”

  “The bakery? Not me.”

  “That’s weird. I thought maybe you were springing some big news or something. That promotion I keep hearing about.”

  “I’m springing something big, all right. Come out here and have a look.”

  “George! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!”

  At that moment, the front doorbell rang.

  “Who the hell could that be? It’s almost nine o’clock,” George said, pulling her to him, pressing his erection against her belly.

  The little nightie that could, Monie thought, smiling up at him. “Probably the bakery.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I said I hadn’t ordered anything. Of course, I wasn’t completely sure you hadn’t.”

  “I’ll go get rid of them,” George said.

  “Not with that thing sticking out, you won’t. I’ll put a robe on. As for you, mister, go directly to bed. And hold that thought.”

  George went to the window and peeked under the shade at the driveway below. “Bakery, all right. Big white truck.”

  She grabbed her blue terry robe from the hook on the bathroom door, slipped it on, and padded down the stairs barefoot, knotting the sash around her waist.

  “Hello,” said the very fat bakery man when she opened the front door. He was all in white, even his shoes. You could barely see his face because of the huge white box in his hands, tied with a bright pink ribbon.

  “Hey. I think you guys made a mistake,” Monie said. “We didn’t order anything.”

  “This is the Bailey household, correct? You’re Mayor Monie Bailey?” he asked, peering at her over the top of the box.

  “It is. I am.”

  “Well, then, ma’am, this is the right place.”

  “But, like I said on the phone, we didn’t order anything.”

  She felt uncomfortable and realized the guy was staring at her breasts. Not openly, but she’d caught him looking. She was suddenly aware of how cold she was and looked down. Well, no wonder. Her sash had come undone somehow, and her robe had fallen open. The little black see-through wasn’t covering up much cleavage. Her “strategic assets,” as George called them. She quickly pulled the robe together at the throat and managed to tie the sash with one hand.

  “That doesn’t mean someone somewhere doesn’t want you to have a very special surprise, does it, now?”

  “N-no, but we—look, it’s nine o’clock, and we’re plumb tuckered out, so could you just—”

  “Could I just come in and set this beauty down? It weighs a ton. And it’s definitely for you.”

  “Well, I—okay, what is it?”

  “A cake. A gorgeous chocolate cake with coconut icing.”

  “And who ordered it for us?”

  “Name’s in the envelope inside the box. You have relatives in Topeka?”

  “Only my mom. Oh, Mom, that’s it, her old-timer’s kicking in again. She’s starting to get dates mixed up lately. And next week is our anniversary, so I bet—come on in. Sorry to keep you standing out there in freezing cold. Put it in the kitchen, if you don’t mind. Right through there.”

  “Sure thing, lady,” the fat man said, moving past her toward the kitchen.

  “Through the swinging door,” Monie called out, turning on a couple of living-room lights and following him toward the kitchen. She paused at the foot of the stairs and called up to George.

  “It’s okay, honey. I’ve got it. It’s a surprise from Mom. One week early.”

  “Okay,” came the muffled reply from upstairs, and then she was through the dining room and pushing open the swinging door into the kitchen.

  He’d put the box down on the butcher-block center island and was leaning back against the counter by the sink. He had a big smile on his face and, what the hell, a gun? It was black and stubby in his chubby white hand.

  It was pointed straight at her heart.

  “Oh, my God.”

  “My name’s Happy. I’ll be your worst nightmare this evening.”

  “Sweet Jesus, what is this all about?” Her heart was suddenly pounding against her ribs, threatening to splinter them. She flashed on Debbie and Carrie upstairs in their beds and knew she had to stay calm somehow, suppress the sudden terror and panic threatening to overwhelm her sanity, and somehow get through this alive, get this maniac out of her home.

  He smiled.

  “Not good, is it? Ruin your day, something like this.”

  “Omigod, omigod, omigod. Who—who are you? What do you w-want?”

  “Well, that depends. I only came here to make a delivery. But sometimes life throws you a bone. Bone. Get it?”

  “What the hell do you want? Huh? Tell me! It’s yours! Money? Jewels? Just take what you want and leave, okay? Please. Just, just leave.”

  “First I want to see exactly what you got on under that robe. Then we’ll get to the other stuff I want.”

  “Oh, Jesus, oh, sweet Jesus. My God, a stalker. You’re a stalker? You’ve been following me? That it?”

  “Just a week.”

  “A week? Why? Why me?”

  “The robe, honey. Now.”

  “My husband’s upstairs. If I scream, he’ll—”

  “He’ll what? Come running down here to find a guy with a gun more than happy to put his brains on the wall? C’mon, mayor. Take the robe off, and we’ll see how this plays out. Maybe everybody gets out of this alive, you play nice. Otherwise, maybe not.”

  Her entire body was suddenly shaking uncontrollably. Terror. Anger. The freezing cold. All of the above.

  “Look, if it’s money you want, we’ve got plenty. There’s a safe. I’ll show you. Hidden behind a mirror in the linen closet. There’s twenty thousand in there. Cash. And all my jewelry. Take it all, and get the hell out of here. I’ll even give you an hour headstart before I call the cops.”

  He pulled back his
sleeve and showed her the chunky gold Rolex with the diamonds encrusting the dial. He’d bought it at the Blue Diamond King on West Forty-seventh with his first paycheck since the new job. “I’m up to my ass in jewelry right now. What I want is for you to lose that robe. Do it. I got a gun in my hand and a rap sheet two miles long, cupcake. One more dead broad in my life just ain’t all that significant, believe me.”

  “Oh, God…can’t we—”

  “Do it, lady!”

  36

  With trembling hands, she loosened the terry sash. Then she shrugged out of the robe and let it fall to the floor, puddling around her bare feet. She’d turned the heat off downstairs. It was already freezing in the kitchen. She could feel goose bumps all over. She saw the wooden knife block sitting on the counter. Eight brand-new German knives from Kitchenworks.com. Knife against gun? Paper against scissors, but better than nothing.

  “Nice,” he said, staring at the nipples hard against her sheer black nightgown, her breasts like cantaloupes encased in silk. “You know how much I could get for you in Saudi? Dubai? Whoa!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m not really a baker, as you may have guessed. I’m an old-fashioned iceman. Professional-grade button man, born and bred on the streets of Brooklyn, New York. But I do a little flesh peddling now, sell women on the side. Damn good business, too, Ukrainian girls, mostly. Beautiful. But not as pretty as you. Some sheik of Araby would pay top dollar for those tits.”

  “Look. Whatever you want from me, just do it, okay? Do it. Then leave. I won’t scream. I won’t make a sound.” She was trying to picture getting him preoccupied, then grabbing one of the big butcher knives out of the block.

  “I don’t mind a little screaming now and then, tell you the truth, mayor.”

  “Mayor? Why’d you call me that?”

  “I like to bone up on my targets, you know, do my research. Part of the fun.”

  She looked behind her at the swinging door. It had a small porthole window she’d had installed back in the day when they could afford a cook. She knew she’d never get through that door alive.

  “Please. Hurry up and get this over with. My husband could come down any second.”