Chasing the Lost (9 page)

Riley nodded his head to the door. “New York Pizza? How much cash do you clean through there every night in-season?”

“Uh-huh,” was Farrelli’s only response to that.

“And why not New Jersey Pizza?”

“No one eats New Jersey pizza,” Farrelli said.

“That’s true.” Riley went to the door. He paused before leaving, then looked over his shoulder. “Thanks.”

“For?”

“Looking into it,” Riley said. “But also for letting my Uncle alone. He died in pain, but not threatened.”

* * * * *

Horace Chase had his sweater on, with a windbreaker on top, as the wind whistled through his Jeep. Chase could put the top up, but he preferred the chill wind on his face, a futile attempt to cool off his anger. He was on South Okatie Highway, heading south toward Savannah, skirting the tidal flats that extended miles in from the Atlantic.

Chase was not fond of Russians. He’d battled them in Afghanistan, and he’d almost been killed by one in Boulder, Colorado during his last assignment working for the government. If they were the ones who’d grabbed Cody, this was going to be an uphill battle to get the boy back.

History books said the Soviet Army withdrew in defeat from Afghanistan in 1989 after ten years of bitter fighting. Officially, they did. Unofficially, they left a criminal presence in country that flourished, working the opium trade, at least until the Taliban took over the country in 1996 and imposed sanctions. At first the drug was suppressed, but like any government, the Taliban needed money, so they took over the opium fields, eventually controlling well over ninety percent and imposing high taxes. The displaced Russian criminals were among the biggest rooting section when the Americans invaded in 2001 to take down the Taliban, and they picked up where they had left off.

An exiled Russian drug dealer had been put into the CIA Witness Protection Program and relocated to Boulder. After many bodies, including that of a baby, Chase had finally tracked Vladislav high into the Rocky Mountains, and the result had been bloody. The Russian mindset was paranoia layered with crazy, mixed with ruthlessness. A country that had absorbed Tsars, Napoleon, Hitler, Stalin, and more invasions than one could count, produced a certain type of criminal. One that adapted to their environment, and then literally carved out their place in it. They didn’t assimilate, they infested.

Chase’s cell phone buzzed.

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.”