Chasing the Lost

by Bob Mayer

  He plugged a pair of ear buds in the jack and stuck them in his ears before answering. A disadvantage of driving a Jeep with the top down was, it was hard to hear.

  “Yeah?” Chase yelled.

  “It’s Erin.”

  He could barely make out her voice. “What’s up?”

  “I just had a couple of Russians in my place, asking whose dog was shot last night.”

  Chase’s foot tapped the brake and he put on his turn signal, searching for a place to pull off. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. A friend helped me out.”

  Chase pulled off the two-lane road onto a narrow piece of shoulder. “I’ll be right there.”

  “I’m fine,” Erin said. “Did you find out who took the kid?”

  “I was on my way to Savannah to talk to a Russian, as a matter of fact. Did you find out who sent them?”

  “Gator did.”

  “‘Gator?’”

  “A friend. They said a man named Karralkov.” She gave Chase the two men’s names. “One of them had his arm in a sling—I think he’s the one you shot.”

  Chase gripped the phone tighter. “Karralkov’s exactly who I’m going to see. Did they threaten you?”

  “They tried, but Gator took care of them.”

  Chase took a deep breath. “All right. We need to all meet up when I get back. Out at my place.”

  “I thought it wasn’t safe,” Erin said.

  “I don’t think any place is safe, but if you bring your friend Gator, sounds like you should be all right. Plus, I think we’re at an impasse now with the kidnapping. A cease-fire.”

  “I’ll be fine with Gator with me.”

  “Then my house at”—Chase glanced at the dash—“five. And call Dave Riley and tell him about the meeting.” He gave Riley’s cell phone number.

  “The Riley who is over on Dafuskie at the Shack?”

  “Yeah. And Kono.” He relayed a second number.

  “Interesting friends you have, Horace.”

  “You’re one of them, right?”

  “I am. I’ll make the calls. See you then. And Horace?”

  “Yes?”

  “Be careful.” The phone went dead.

  Chase left the Jeep in park and considered the situation. If Karralkov was trying to find out who he was ...

  Chase scrolled through the contact list on his phone.

  It was a depressingly short list. Mostly people he’d served with. His old partner, Porter, back in the Boulder P.D., was about the only one he’d really call a friend.

  He found the number he was looking for listed simply under BLACK, a not-so-subtle reference to the world the man he needed moved in.

  Chase hit autodial, having no idea if the other end would be picked up, if the man was in country, or even alive.

  “Horace Chase.” The voice was dry and humorless, somehow implying that the owner was a man who never laughed.

  “Cardena.” How Cardena knew it was him, when his caller ID came up as private, wasn’t even a question worth asking.

  “Mister Chase. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Cardena asked. “Looking for a job? I have a few specials that could use your unique talents.”

  Chase had met Cardena only twice, the first at Denver International, when Cardena had posed as a DEA agent with information Chase had needed to solve an apparent rape-murder and the killing of a state trooper. The second had been the impetus for Chase to retire: in a van in downtown Boulder, after Chase had killed Vladislav’s CIA handler. Chase had no idea who Cardena really worked for, but it was an organization that was more powerful than the alphabet soups, since it had set up that very killing.

  “I need some information,” Chase said.

  “I gave you information once before,” Cardena said. “It led to the death of a CIA agent.”

  “A death you wanted.”

  “That is true.”

  “And it got rid of Vladislav, something else you wanted.”

  “Whose death are we considering now?”

  “A Russian named Karralkov. Based near Savannah, Georgia.”

  “You have a thing for Russians,” Cardena said. “What is it in regards to?”

  “I think he kidnapped a boy.”

  “Your son?”

  “No.”

  “Related to you?”

  “No.”

  “Then why should you give a shit, Chase? You should know better. Didn’t Colorado teach you anything?”

  Chase assumed those were rhetorical questions, so he didn’t answer. For all he knew, Cardena was sitting in some office buried deep inside whatever covert organization he worked for, tracking this call. If this were the ‘Stan, he could even be vectoring a Predator in on this location as they spoke. They weren’t in the ‘Stan, but Chase had heard rumors the Predators were beginning to fly over the United States, and he had no doubt that would eventually happen.

  Cardena finally spoke again. “Karralkov is a bad man, as I assume you know. Mobbed up, through Kiev, which technically makes him Ukranian, not Russian, but his allegiances predate the breakup. Did some time working in Afghanistan, but was one of the first to get out when the Taliban came to power, which means he’s either really smart, or a coward. I doubt it’s the latter; they tend to die quickly in the Russian mob. You think he kidnapped a kid? What for?”

  “Redirect betting money for the Super Bowl.”

  “How much we talking?”

  “Fifty million or so.”

  “Hmm,” Cardena murmured. “That might be enough to interest Karralkov, but kidnapping is a federal offense, and he’s got a lot of illegal activities going on. He’d want to keep the Feds disinterested in his operation. Where he’s at, the locals really aren’t a threat.”

  “The Feds have no interest in him?”

  “Not the low-level Feds,” Cardena said. “The FBI has a file on him, gathering dust in Columbia. That’s Columbia, South Carolina. That field office is more concerned about the Savannah River Plant, and all the radioactive shit stored there and some other key sites. Counter-terrorism is the main game, and has been since nine-eleven. The Russians are just the new mob. The days of Dillinger and Melvin Purvis are long gone.”

  “And what do the high-level Feds think?” I.E. you, Chase thought.

  “We have no use for Karralkov,” Cardena said. He paused. “As far as I know.”

  “I think you know a lot.”

  “No one knows everything,” Cardena said. “Especially not in this world. Everyone has to work for someone, even me, and even Karralkov. Let me run it up the flagpole. See if it ruffles any feathers, but I doubt it.”

  “Anything I can use as leverage on him?”

  “Give him what he wants. It’s the only leverage. Get your head out of your ass.”

  “And if I go after him?”

  Cardena’s snort of derision was clear over the phone. “Good luck.”

  “Will anyone come looking for some missing Russians?”

  “The Feds aren’t even looking for living Russians down there,” Cardena said. There was a long pause. “As I said, to the best of my knowledge, we have no use for Karralkov or his crew. If I don’t call you back within the hour saying differently, whatever you do, unless you involve innocent civilians or make the front page of the paper or the lead in the local headline news, will be off the books.”

  “That’s good to know,” Chase said. “What about—”

  The phone went dead.

  Chase’s knuckles were white as he gripped the phone tightly. He was sick of people telling him what he could and couldn’t do. His entire life since entering West Point, someone had been telling him what to do, what not to do, what his limits were, while at the same time pushing him beyond his own limits for their own goals.

  With a jerk of the wheel, he pulled back onto the road and headed south, hands trembling on the wheel, thinking of how he had placed Erin in danger. When he turned left onto Speedway Boulevard, the trees disappeared, and he was in
the tidal marshes. As the road curved around back to the south, he could see the twin towers of the Talmadge Bridge that connected South Carolina with Georgia. It was high enough so that oceangoing vessels could pass beneath it. Savannah was the fourth busiest seaport in the United States, and Chase had no doubt that factored into a Russian mobster being in the area.

  There appeared to be nothing on this stretch of road heading toward the bridge, and then, as he got closer, Chase saw a two-story building set off to the right, about a mile before the low bridge onto Hutchinson Island, where the ramp for the Talmadge Bridge started.

  A perfect location to hide in plain sight. Someone on the roof of the building could see anyone approaching on the road in either direction for miles. A wide inlet reaching up from the Savannah River came right behind the building, and a sleek fifty-foot yacht was tied up to a dock. Not bad for a seedy strip club owner.

  Chase pulled into parking lot, the tingling sensation on the back of his neck telling him he was being watched, and by unfriendly eyes. A neon sign read TANTALIZE and a set of wide stairs led to a pair of blackened-out glass doors. There were no other cars in the lot, but he saw two Black SUVs with tinted windows parked around the side.

  Chase sat in his Jeep after turning the engine off. He remembered the SILVER SATYR, the club Sylvie danced in. He wondered if she still did. He wondered if he should have stayed in Boulder longer, tried harder to get her back into his life. He wondered why he was wondering, when he was about to face another fucking Russian.

  Chase locked his gun in the steel box between the seats, but that only reminded him of the last time he’d made love to Sylvie, while she was bent over the sound bar, high on a mountainside overlooking Boulder. Of course, Chase had driven there to see if a killer could see a murder site, not for a romantic liaison; another thread that helped unravel that relationship.

  Chase shook his head, focusing. He got out. On his way across the lot, he noted the name of the boat, inscribed on the stern: SHASHKA. The homeport was listed as Savannah. Chase walked up to the doors. As he reached for them, both swung open. Shadowy figures were on either side, holding them apart, and closing them as soon as he stepped inside. Chase paused to let his eyes adjust, but the two doormen didn’t give him that luxury. They grabbed him, one hand on his elbows, one on his arms, and lifted him off the ground, carrying him quite easily.

  Chase didn’t fight it.

  It wasn’t time for fighting.

  Yet.

  They pushed him through a pair of swinging doors, up a flight of stairs, and into a room with a large marble table filling the center, surrounded by a dozen chairs draped in velvet. They dumped Chase into one of the chairs, still without saying a word, then stood there, one on either side.

  Chase took the opportunity before the ‘big meet,’ which was obviously being staged, to check out the room. There was a small, very sophisticated camera tucked in each corner. He assumed that the talent danced on the table to the exclusive clientele that made it upstairs to this room.

  He was not expecting a lap dance. And he tried not to think what depravities occurred on the marble surface in front of him.

  A door on the far side of the room opened and a tall, thin man walked in. His face was pinched, almost skull-like, and his eyes bulged ever so slightly. He sat down across the table from Chase and studied him, as if he could see through skin and bone into the core.

  “You have Colorado license plates,” the man said, his Russian accent honed by an English finishing school, which made it sound almost distinguished. “You put a pistol in the lock box in your Jeep.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “You are Horace Chase. Formerly of the Boulder Police Department. Formerly of the United States Army. And soon to be formerly of this world, if you continue down the path you seem to be on.”

  “You have the advantage on me,” Chase said.

  “I do.”

  “I assume you are Ivar Karralkov.”

  “You can assume all you want,” Karralkov said. He began tapping a finger against his lips. “Did you run into a man named Vladislav while you were in Boulder? People are looking for him. Friends. They are quite concerned.”

  “Friends of his, or friends of yours?” Riley asked.

  “Both.”

  “I ran into him.”

  “And?”

  “He was killed by a retired Special Forces officer named Rivers.”

  The finger stopped tapping. “I appreciate that. You answered without hesitation. And you gave me bad news. Few people dare give me bad news.”

  “Rivers is dead also,” Chase said. “He was killed by Vladislav’s CIA handler.”

  “And the handler?”

  “I killed him.”

  “So you are the last man standing from the incident?”

  “I am.”

  “I have to assume someone with more power wanted the CIA handler dead,” Karralkov said, “or else you would not be this last man standing. Why are you here, Mister Chase?”

  “A young boy, named Cole Briggs, was kidnapped last night on Hilton Head.”

  “Was does that have to do with me?”

  “I received information that implicated you in the kidnapping.”

  “And you come here, leaving your gun in the car, and accuse me of kidnapping? Are you stupid, brave, or simply ignorant?”

  “My friends know where I am,” Chase said. “If I’m not back on Hilton Head by five, they’ll come here looking for me. They won’t leave their guns in their cars.”

  “You threaten me in my own place?”

  “No. I state facts.”

  Karralkov sighed. “I did not kidnap this boy. You can leave now.”

  “Why did you send Ivan Oronsky and his partner to check on my dog and try to find me?”

  “I do not know an Ivan Oronsky.”

  “They threatened a friend of mine,” Chase said. “They shot at me. They shot my dog.” Chase wasn’t quite sure which pissed him off the most. He started to lean forward, but a hand on each shoulder clamped down like vices and slammed him back.

  Karralkov waved a hand dismissively. “I did not kidnap this boy. I did not send men after a dog or you. This is your last chance to leave here unhurt.”

  “You’re full of shit,” Chase said. “You shut down SAS’s computers two weeks ago.”

  “Now you will be hurt,” Karralkov said.

  Chapter Six

  Riley was early for the five p.m. meeting at Chase’s house. He could feel his old persona seeping back; on-time in the Army had always meant being at least fifteen minutes early. Riley smiled as he pulled his motorcycle into Chase’s driveway, both at the thought and seeing the tree crashed onto the roof. It was in the vein of what he’d expect from an ex-Spec Ops guy inheriting a house on Hilton Head. Sort of the way he’d inherited a half-assed bookie business on Dafuskie. You might be invited to a different life, but you were never going to be completely part of it.

  Riley got to the end of the drive and stopped the bike. Through the stands of bamboo and palmetto, he noted a Mercedes parked in the drive next door. It had a personalized license plate: ROLLINS, which Riley thought was just plain dumb. Nothing like making yourself conspicuous. He still hadn’t grasped that in the civilian world, many people became successful by becoming conspicuous, whereas in the black ops world, it often meant making yourself dead.

  Riley walked across the yard, scrambling over the downed tree and through a break in the bamboo. He was about ten feet from the door when it swung open and the muzzle of a revolver appeared, following by Rollins holding it. It was what Riley privately called a ‘penis adjustment’ gun, in that he speculated the size of the gun was inversely proportional to the owner’s sense of virility. People just didn’t understand that while the type of gun was important, equally important was the quality of bullet, and much more important, the quality of the person who held the gun.

  “Get the fuck off my land.”

  Riley raised his hand
s. “Just wanted to chat, Mister Rollins.”

  “I know who you are,” Rollins said.

  “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Riley asked, actually curious to hear the answer.

  “What are you doing here? Go back to Dafuskie.”

  “Just wanted to chat.”

  “Get off my land.”

  “I hear you owe SAS a lot of money,” Riley said.

  Rollins squinted, and the gun barrel dropped slightly. “What the fuck?” Rollins nodded his head toward Chase’s house. “You with him?”

  “Could you put the gun away?”

  Rollins looked past Riley, down his own driveway, and Riley realized he was afraid of something more than trespassers.

  “Did you hear gunfire last night?” Riley asked.

  “Kids on the beach with fireworks,” Rollins said, less than convincingly.

  “Right,” Riley said. “You know Walter Briggs, right?”

  “Why is this any of your business?” The gun was now pointing at the ground.

  Riley knew one thing, at least. As Farrelli had pointed out, Rollins didn’t have the balls to run a kidnapping. But something was wrong with him. The hair on the back of Riley’s neck tingled and he tuned in to that, a feeling he hadn’t had in a long time.

  Ambush.

  “A friend asked for my help,” Riley said, just filling the air with words while he tried to focus on where the feeling was coming from. Not Rollins, but close. “You look like you might need some help. Heard the Quad is also pressuring, trying to get you to sell off some of your property at a loss.”

  “Where did you hear all this?” The gun was now hanging limp in his hand.

  “It’s Hilton Head,” Riley said. “People talk. I listen.” There was an open window above the garage, and Riley caught a flicker of movement in the darkness behind the window. Someone was up there. Someone armed. Someone stupid, who didn’t know overwatch needed to stay far enough into the shadows to never be noticed.

  Rollins nodded glumly. “Everybody is in everybody else’s business. What’s my business to you?”

  “You know Karralkov?”

  Rollins spit onto his own front stoop; dumb, but showing some fire coming back into him. “Fucking Russians.”