Darby Stansfield Thriller Series (Books 1-3 & Bonus Novella)

by Ty Hutchinson

Mr. Buchko was in the Royal Plaza Suite—the best of the best. I began to feel intimidated during the elevator ride. I knew absolutely nothing about this man, and so far I’d blindly followed every order he gave. It didn’t help that I was sandwiched between five hundred pounds of hired beef. What is it with Russians, the color black, and muscles? And what is it that Mr. Buchko needs me to do that requires so much secrecy?

  The private elevator stopped and the doors opened into an ornate, rectangular foyer, which led to a much larger, more ornate, oval foyer. From there I was escorted into a study with cherry wood, paneled walls, and Victorian décor complete with oversized sitting chairs.

  One of the chairs was already occupied.

  Chapter 29

  Dressed casually in an Adidas workout suit was a fairly mild mannered looking man—the suite broke the color code. He had no muscular physique, no scars on his face, no menacing tattoos. He was clean-shaven. There was nothing about him that suggested power. He sat slouched, crooked in the chair. To the average person, he looked like a nobody. I was soon to learn that this assumption of mine could not be further from the truth.

  “Hello, Darby,” the man said extending his hand. “My name is Valery Buchko.”

  I shook his hand.

  “Please, have a seat. Something to drink? Russian vodka chilled? It is the best.”

  I nodded. Why I wasn’t speaking was just as confusing to me as it must have been to Mr. Buchko. A few seconds later, one of his men placed a cold crystal glass in my hand. I sipped the colorless firewater expecting the worst, but the vodka was smooth and velvety. He must have noticed the surprised look on my face.

  “It’s good, isn’t it? It’s Belarusian vodka, filtered three times through birch wood, very good.”

  I nodded and took another sip. “I’m sorry. Excuse me for not saying anything. I’m still getting used to the idea of being flown out to New York to meet someone I never met before.”

  “I understand.”

  “What is this about? So much secrecy,” I said, gesturing to the men outside in the foyer.

  “It’s for my protection. I am high ranking government official in Ukraine. More precisely, I am the Minister of Finance.”

  It all made sense very quickly. Mysterious men rescuing Natasha. Secret phone calls. No names. Bodyguards. Generous payments. This guy was the shit in Ukraine and I, Darby Stansfield, saved his daughter.

  “My wife and I are grateful for your bravery in Minsk. Not many people would have helped if found in the same situation as you. You are the reason we have Natasha safe at home.”

  “Well, what can I say? I try to do the right thing.” And maybe the right thing is about to turn into cha-ching! I started to internally hum “If I Were a Rich Man” from the musical Fiddler on the Roof. I couldn’t believe I was thinking about money at a time like this, but I was.

  “My daughter speaks highly of you. She says you are a man of integrity.”

  “That’s very kind. She only knew me for a few hours, though.”

  “Are you not what she says you are?”

  “No, I wouldn’t say that…I—Well yes. I guess I am that man.”

  “Very good.”

  I was beginning to wonder where all this pleasant talk was going. Surely this man did not fly me out here just to tell me his daughter thinks I’m a good guy. It seemed like an urgent matter and now we’re making small talk.

  “Mr. Buchko—”

  “Call me Valery.”

  Who calls the Minister of Finance by their first name? “Okay, uh, Valery. Why did you bring me all the way out here?”

  “You are right to be curious. But first let us have dinner, yes?”

  Mr. Buchko stood up and walked past me and into the foyer without saying another word. Well, this was stupid. Why not just spit out what you have to say, Minister? I followed him through yet another foyer and then into the main dining room. It was bigger than my apartment and much nicer. Holding court in the middle was a large wooden table that could easily seat eighteen people. Valery sat at the head and motioned for me to sit beside him.

  “Will it just be us?”

  “Yes, yes. Have you tried the lamb from here?”

  “No I haven’t.”

  “Very good. Very tender. This is main course.”

  As much as I liked lamb, I would much rather have ordered for myself.

  As we ate, he chatted on and on about his family. He and his wife, Irina, have been married for twenty-five years. They have two other children, a son named Denis and little girl named Oksana. This was only semi-interesting to me. Thankfully, the food was awesome. I devoured every course and half of the vodka. For dessert we enjoyed a nice selection of sirok—small, chocolate-coated cheesecake bars with a center filling that came in several different flavors. The chef made them as a special request for Mr. Buchko. I tried each one.

  The weather in New York was a balmy seventy-five. So it made perfect sense to retire to the private terrace and enjoy a snifter of brandy after dinner. Who cared about why I was there when there was a terrace and a bottle of brandy on hand. We indulged. But while I was enjoying my time, I was also eager to find out why Mr. Buchko wanted me in New York. “With all due respect Mr. Buchko, I think it’s time you tell me why I’m here.”

  “Yes. But what I tell you must not be told to anyone else. Is this understood?”

  “Sure.”

  “No one, until the time is right. I’m very serious.”

  I could see this, as Mr. Buchko had leaned toward me, his eyes concentrated and focused. Social hour was over.

  “We plan on taking down the gang that kidnapped my daughter and killed this other girl, Tatiana.”

  It was a little shocking to hear him speak of Tatiana that way. As much as I knew in my heart she was dead, she had not been officially pronounced dead to me. I still asked anyway. “She’s dead?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I understand you cared for this woman?”

  I swallowed. “Yes. What about her mistress, the woman who owned the apartment?”

  “She is fine. She was out of town the night of the murder.”

  “I see.”

  “The Ukrainian and Belarusian governments are joining forces and are going after the gang. We have identified these men and are closing in on them. We expect our special forces to take them into custody soon.”

  “That’s good to hear.” But what the hell does that have to do with me?

  “Capturing them is easy. Conviction is hard. The judicial system in Ukraine is broken. It’s very hard to prosecute Mafiya.”

  Mafiya? This just got serious.

  “We need for you to testify against the gang. Your testimony will be looked upon highly for both the kidnapping case and the execution of Tatiana.”

  I had heard all about witnesses that testify against the Mafiya or organized crime. They end up dead. Plus it was sort of an area of conflict for me. My clients were the Mafiya—organized crime. They called me for help with their organizations. I mean, I was the telecommunications consultant to the criminal world. This was a conundrum of gigantic proportions. Shit!

  An hour later I was sitting in my room at the Four Seasons with my dilemma hanging on my neck. I told Mr. Buchko I needed time to think about his proposition, and he gave me three days. He also bumped the payment up to $50,000. Add the $10,000 I got just for coming out here, and this was a tidy profit.

  My cell rang. It was Tav.

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  “My apartment’s flooded. Can I crash at your place?”

  “What happened?”

  “Pipe in the apartment above me broke and it rained on my crib for six hours straight. Everything is soaked. Totally unlivable.” He sounded exhausted.

  “Yeah, make yourself at home. I’m not there though; I’m in New York. Something important came up at the last minute.”

  “New York? Let’s see… New York… Was it a Gambino lead?”

  Tav never will approve of my consulting busines
s and I don’t blame him. But damn, he needs to get over it.

  “No, it has absolutely nothing to do with that believe it or not.” I realized then that I hadn’t had a chance to tell Tav about what went down in the last forty-eight hours. “It’s a long story. I’ll fill you in when I get back tomorrow.”

  “Okay dude. I just hope you don’t tell me you’re back in the middle of a heap of shit.”

  Chapter 30

  San Francisco, California

  The next morning I hopped on the first flight out of JFK. It would put me in SFO a little after eleven local time. I thought of spending the weekend in New York—Mr. Buchko had paid for my room through Sunday—but I had a lot to think about and I wouldn’t get much done in the city. Plus, I needed a sounding board. I needed Tav.

  When I got back to my place, Tav was still sleeping in my bed. I always admired how he could sleep for hours on end. He was very sloth-like in his ways.

  Ralphie, his pet pug, was curled up on the recliner. He opened his eyes and raised his head in an effort to say hi. Much like his owner, Ralphie was lazy. He didn’t move much.

  “Hey, Ralphie. How you doing?” I gave him a good scratching behind the ears before heading to the bedroom. Tav was still deep in Sleepland when I pulled the drapes open and said in a booming voice, “Let there be light.”

  Tav lay there, ignoring my God complex. So I yanked the covers off the bed, sending him into a fit.

  “Damn, Darb,” he groaned. “What’s the rush?”

  “Up and at ’em, Tav. We’ve got things to do today.”

  “Nothing needs to be done. It’s Saturday.”

  “We’re finding a new place for me. Apartment hunting.” I had been thinking of moving for the last two months and now that I had some crisp, clean cashola burning a hole in my pocket, I really had no excuse. Plus, I saw a really cool Victorian on Craigslist a few weeks ago. It was amazing: completely refurbished, four bedrooms, three baths, two levels. Plus it had a terrace out back and a hot tub. If that wasn’t a HAM magnet, then I don’t know what is. A quick search on Craigslist showed that it was still on the market.

  “Why don’t you shower, I’ll get some coffee going, and then we can check out this sweet bachelor pad. You can stay with me until you figure out what you’re doing.”

  That was the trigger. Tav jumped out of bed and headed for the shower. “I’m taking that offer,” he said before closing the door.

  Thirty minutes later we were sipping coffee and walking up Fillmore Street. It was a beautiful day—no fog, crisp air, and sun shining bright. The neighborhood was up, dogs were being walked, and sidewalk cafés were brimming with hungry customers.

  Unfortunately I was about to become the dark cloud over us as I told Tav what happened to Tatiana, and how I had a front row seat to her murder. Then there was the mysterious caller and meeting with Mr. Buchko—not to mention the lucrative proposition to testify against the Russian Mafiya.

  Tav took a couple of minutes to process it all. It’s not like I had told him Ralphie left a land mine in the kitchen, so I could understand the silence. I just gave him the mother of all updates.

  Finally he cleared his throat. “First off, I want to say I’m really sorry to hear about Tatiana. I can’t imagine what watching that was like.”

  “You don’t want to know. I wish I hadn’t. Now I have to live with that memory being the last one I have of her.”

  “You know, Darb, you probably experienced more drama in the last three days than the average person does in a lifetime. It’s as if you’re living a life of a secret agent.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “No, really. You know it’s true.”

  “Your point,” I said, even though I knew where he was going with the thought.

  “I can’t help but think whether all of this, directly or indirectly, isn’t a result of your consultancy. Would you still have ended up in the same predicament?”

  “I keep trying to point this out to you, Tav. This girl Natasha, Tatiana’s death, the Russian Mafiya in Minsk—it has nothing to do with my business. It’s not connected at all. I didn’t go to Minsk for work. It’s pure coincidence.”

  “Yeah, but you never would have stumbled across that flier for the tour had you not been in business with the Russian mob. End of story.”

  Sonofabitch. He had me on that one.

  “Okay, but I also would not have discovered the wonderful world of beef stroganov, Russki style.”

  Tav tilted his head back and drained the last of his coffee, ignoring my last comment. “So what does Mr. Buchko want from you?” he asked.

  “He wants me to testify against the gang.”

  “Yeah, but what exactly does that entail? Having a lawyer take a deposition? Do you have to go there? Will you testify in front of the gang?”

  “All good questions. I’m assuming I would have to go there. I don’t know how their court system works, so I can’t answer your last question.”

  “You gonna do it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s a chance to avenge Tatiana’s death,” Tav said.

  “The entire premise of Get Organized, my consultancy—it all relies on doing business with the criminal world. And if I testify against a criminal, what does that say about me?” And my consultancy.

  “It says you did the right thing. That sicko killed your girl.”

  I cared about Tatiana. And then it dawned on me. “That’s it, Tav. That low life crossed me, so I’ll deal with him. This is business. If I crossed one of my clients without good reason, they would deal with me, right? He killed my girl without good reason. This is tit for tat. Well, in my book anyways. Problem solved.”

  “I’m not sure I understand you completely but I’m guessing somehow in your head you rationalized all of this.”

  “What’s equally good is Mr. Buchko is paying me $50,000 to do it.”

  “Fifty grand? Just for testifying? Seems like plenty of reason to me.”

  “Tav, I’m thinking long term about my business. That’s just a one-time payment. I need to make sure I have growth and a sustainable client base. If I stop, all the money I have will be gone in less than a year. And then what?”

  “You go legit?”

  I shook my head. Sometimes I felt like talking to Tav about this was pointless. He just refused to look at this with an open mind.

  I was grateful for a break when we arrived at the Victorian. “Here it is,” I said, pointing. “The new pad. Let’s see if it lives up to its pictures.”

  The minute I set foot inside, I was in awe. The old Victorian was everything I hoped it would be right from the start. Hardwood floors, funky-sized rooms, long hallways, totally modernized kitchen with marble counters and stainless steel appliances. The bathrooms were decked out with a separate shower and tub and marble floors, plus faucets that looked like art. But the best was the deck out back. It had an awesome view with a hot tub to boot. Tav couldn’t shut up about signing the lease and turning this Victorian into our own player mansion.

  The only hiccup was I had to take on the lease immediately. This meant I would be paying rent for two places for one month. Big deal. I signed away and we immediately started to move the essentials in so we could start living there.

  It was completely furnished so I didn’t need anything but my clothes from my old place. Even the entertainment system here blew mine away. It was a no-brainer to have all my old stuff hauled away by a junker at the end of the month.

  In the meantime, Tav, Ralphie and I moved in to what we dubbed “The Vic.” This actually worked out well for Tav because his landlord was being difficult and didn’t want to pay for any relocation expenses. It would take at least a month and a half to repair the damage to his place. That was fine by us because The Vic was the mother of all pads.

  Chapter 31

  Odessa, Ukraine

  Two days after moving into The Vic, I found myself on a Lufthansa flight en route to Odessa, Ukraine, the pearl of t
he Black Sea. When I visited Mr. Buchko in New York, he told me he would have the proceedings in this tiny resort town in hopes that a different location would ensure a proper and fair trial. Kiev, the capital city, was wrought with corruption, and even government officials could not guarantee a trial where the judge wasn’t on the take. Mr. Buchko grew up in Odessa and felt like he had the best shot of putting the gang away on his own turf.

  A few days earlier, the mystery voice had called me on my cell to let me know the gang was in custody and that I should arrange travel immediately. The anonymous orders that came over the phone irritated me. But then I would think of Tatiana and realize I had to do this—that I wanted to do this. I imagined her family needed closure—I knew I did. I tried to think about what her parents must have been going though. They’re hurting as well.

  I remembered telling the caller that I hadn’t heard anything about this in the news. Sex trafficking is a big deal, but according to Mr. Gravelly Voice, it was all part of the plan—the less media attention, the better. Coincidentally, this also worked in my favor. I didn’t need anyone at Teleco knowing I was a witness in a sex trafficking trial in Ukraine.

  I wasn’t sure what help I would be on the kidnapping and trafficking charges for Natasha’s case, but for Tatiana’s murder, it was a slam dunk. On the night Tatiana was murdered, I recorded our video chat on Skype for memories. As difficult as it was to keep the footage of her thoughtless murder, I wanted those men to suffer in a hideous Gulag for life.

  The airplane touched down at Odessa International Airport a little after one. While small, it buzzed with travelers even during the off-season. Visitors were both coming and going—a big change from what I experienced in Minsk. During the warmer months, I imagined this place was a madhouse while Russians from all over descended on the popular seaport to enjoy a little R&R from their daily lives.

  After I exited my plane and cleared passport control, I immediately saw an imposing man in a black suit; I assumed he was there for me. Same as it was in New York, a driver was supposed to meet me at the airport. Igor wasn’t my driver this time around. This driver was Misha. Same MO, though: “I drive; you shut up.”