Chapter 12
Frank walked into the office fumbling with his jacket, putting his keys in a pocket. He rounded the staircase, looked up, and stopped dead in his tracks. The blood drained from his face. Nancy sat in her red chair handcuffed. Pure unrelenting terror filled her dark blue eyes.
Boris stood behind her with a submachine gun pressed to her head. Frank's mind rattled off the gun's stats – a Micro Uzi, shoots 1,200 rounds a minute, and is as quiet as a sewing machine. Nobody will hear a thing when you're gunned down. Great.
And how long had Nancy been sitting there with the barrel pressed against the back of her head?
Boris locked eyes with Frank. Those were the coldest, blackest eyes Frank had ever seen. It was like looking into a bottomless pit. And the most frightening part – there was no soul at the bottom, no humanity at all.
We're dead, Frank thought. This is Boris and he's a cold-blooded killer. He's killed before, he'll kill again, and he will kill us.
Frank's brain scrambled for a solution. How to get the gun? Knock it away? He had to get close enough to even have a chance. He was about ten feet from Nancy and Boris right now. Boris would shoot Nancy before Frank could even finish taking a step.
Boris smiled and ran a rough hand over Nancy's hair. "She pretty. You like? Maybe she girlfriend?" The Russian accent was thick.
Frank found his voice. It was barely a whisper. "What do you want?"
Boris gave an amused chuckle. "Oh, I like you. You get right to business."
Frank exchanged a glance with Nancy. Her eyes held an apology. Frank understood. She was sorry he was in danger, too. He saw the trickle of blood on her forehead. It started at her hairline and made a wavy path down to her left brow.
Primal rage charged through his veins, but he forced it back down. He had to stay focused. He had to get them out of this. He looked at the Micro Uzi again and his heart pounded like a fist trying to punch its way out of his chest. Keep calm he warned himself. Think rationally. You're going to have to make a move, put all that martial arts training to use.
The good news is you've got at least three inches on this guy. You're six-one, he's about five-ten. It looks like he weighs about the same as you, two hundred pounds, maybe a little more. His arms are muscular – show muscles really – this guy lifts some weights, but he's soft around the middle, he doesn't fight. Of course he doesn't have to fight, he's got a gun – a submachine gun for God's sake – he mows people down then calmly walks away.
Frank did the math. With the weapon Boris had the advantage, get rid of the weapon and Frank had the advantage. Frank figured Boris had never really had to fight. He's accustomed to getting by on his weapon and probably his reputation.
Good choice of weapon though. Frank had to hand it to him there.
Boris spoke pulling Frank out of his thoughts. "Take off jacket."
Thank you, Frank wanted to say. He wanted the jacket off. Without it he could move better, faster, and throw a good strong punch.
Frank shrugged off his jacket and, without looking, tossed it behind him on his desk.
"Rise arms," Boris said.
Frank did. Boris saw Frank's Beretta strapped in his hip holster.
"Take out gun," Boris said.
Frank had figured that was coming and knew what was next.
"Drop gun and kick," Boris said. He kept the Uzi pressed firmly against Nancy's head.
Frank dropped the gun and kicked it – hard. It went sliding across the hardwood floor, hit the bottom of the metal staircase with a loud ping, bounced off, and hit the wall behind his desk. It spun like a top for a long moment then stopped.
Nancy eyed the gun with a sinking heart.
Frank worked out his attack plan. Kick the submachine gun with his right foot, throw a punch to Boris' throat with his left hand, throw a palm strike to Boris' nose with his right hand, then finish off with a kick to the groin.
Kick. Punch. Punch. Kick.
You can do it, Frank told himself. You have to do it. This guy has absolutely no intention of letting you and Nancy live. You know that. Once he has what he wants, he will shoot you.
Kick. Punch. Punch. Kick.
Only one problem, Frank had to get close enough to Boris to carry out his plan.
Boris unwittingly offered him the opportunity.
"I want package," Boris said.
Frank took only a second to decide. He pointed at Nancy's desk and said, "It's in the desk." The desk was to his left. Boris and Nancy were to his right and approximately four feet from the desk.
Peripherally he checked on Nancy. Her dark blue eyes held confusion and fear. The package wasn't in the desk. She knew that. He knew that. He knew she had to be wondering what he was up to. He wished he could give her a signal, a message, something. Well, he couldn't. But Nancy's smart, he figured, and she'll roll with the punches however this plays out.
Boris eyed the desk like it was up for sale, like he could tell just by looking at it if it really did have the package. Then his eyes came back to Frank. "Get it," he said.
He's not convinced, Frank thought, but he has to go with it. He doesn't have a choice.
Frank said, "It's in the bottom drawer." He held up his hands and slowly moved toward the desk.
Boris watched him the whole way, his eyes narrowed and suspicious. "Package better be there," he warned his face hardening.
"Oh, it is," Frank said. "Well, unless she moved it." He saw Nancy's eyes widened in terror. But he stayed calm. "This place did get shot up a few nights ago, and you know, we had to move some things around."
"Shut up," Boris growled. A corner of his upper lip lifted in a snarl giving a partial view of his black teeth. "You lie, she dies. Now. Pop. One shot to head."
Frank stopped and held his hands a little higher, his face a mask of sincerity. "No, no. I'm telling the truth. It's there." He had to sell it, make Boris believe him, trust him. Then, catch Boris off guard.
Boris gave a quick jerk of his head indicating Frank should continue on to the desk. Frank did. Now, he was right where he wanted to be. Close to Boris, and that submachine gun, the one thing standing between him and Nancy's safety.
As he leaned over Frank said, "I'm going to get it now." He acted like he was no threat to Boris. He hoped the Russian was buying it.
Boris let out an exasperated snort. He'd had enough. His muscles were cramping. He'd been standing there holding the gun pressed to Nancy's head for a while. That took sustained effort. He rolled his shoulders, cocked his head to one side, then the other working out the kinks.
And that's when Frank attacked.
He came up fast and stepped into a full frontal kick. He kicked the submachine gun with his right foot – straight out and up – like he was kicking a field goal. The impact tore the gun out of Boris' hands, but not before he pulled the trigger. A spray of bullets peppered the far wall and ceiling. Dust and powder rained down.
Nancy had seen Frank's kick coming and had dove out of the chair. She hit the floor hard, her outstretched arms taking the brunt of the fall. The machine gun pin-wheeled through the air and hit the floor a split-second after she did landing with a loud clatter to her left. She inched toward it.
Frank was on part two of his attack plan. He curled the fingers of his left hand and drove his fist into the side of Boris' throat. Frank was right-handed so the blow lacked power. The Russian swayed, but didn't fall.
Frank stepped in with a palm strike to the nose. It was a vicious blow, his right palm driving through cartilage and crushing it. Boris stumbled back, his nose pouring blood. Frank pressed his advantage. He kicked the Russian in the groin, right footed, then stepped back while Boris jackknifed, gasping and groaning, and went down on his hands and knees.
He's down, but not out, Frank thought. I need to finish him off.
Never leave the enemy capable of a counter-attack.
Boris groaned. Blood dripped from his smashed nose and formed a small puddle on the hardwood floor.
"Get up," Frank growled through gritted teeth, his hands fisted, his neck muscles bunched and bulging. He wanted to punch Boris right in the gut, drop him once and for all.
Boris sputtered and spit out a mouth full of blood. Then he chuckled. He chuckled with insane delight.
What was so funny Frank couldn't say.
Nancy sat on the floor beside Frank's desk clutching the Uzi in her handcuffed hands. She was ready to use it if needed. Only one problem, she couldn't aim very well given the handcuffs. That worried her, but it looked like Frank had the upper hand at the moment so she watched and waited.
A wavering, unsteady Boris got to his feet still chuckling. "So, you think you can fight? Huh? Big, tough, American," he spat out the words in a spray of blood and smiled. His rotted teeth were covered in crimson and he looked like what he was – a mad man.
"Keys to the handcuffs," Frank said, an icy edge to his voice, a fist up and ready. "Now."
"Screw you," Boris yelled. He was hunched and breathing hard. He wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.
Frank rolled his shoulders, lifted his chin, and said, "Last chance. Keys."
"You no hear so good." Boris wiped more blood off his mouth. "Screw you."
Frank couldn't believe it. After the beating this guy took he should be down and hurting, not looking like he was ready for more.
But Boris was still very much in this fight.
Then Frank got a good look at the Russian's eyes and it all came together in one horrifying second. His pupils were as tiny as pinheads. He had all the tell-tale signs – pockmarked face with recent scabs and rotten teeth. Boris was a meth user, maybe an addict. Meth made him twice as dangerous. Meth filled people with rage and gave them superhuman strength.
Frank chided himself. He should have finished Boris off when he was down.
Never leave the enemy capable of a counter-attack.
With a slight sway the left-handed Boris stepped back on his left foot and pulled back his left arm. Frank saw the fist coming and dodged the blow. Boris came right back at him with a big roundhouse punch. Frank ducked and the fist sailed over his head.
Boris kept swinging – wild, random, out of control punches. Punch after punch. There was plenty of power in those punches and pure visceral rage. Frank danced on the balls of his feet dodging and ducking the blows, stepping and weaving – left – right – and back. Frank was conserving energy. Boris was expending it.
But Frank knew he had to bring the Russian to his knees again.
He thought about the first rule of hand-to-hand combat. Avoid the hard body parts and concentrate on the soft, pain sensitive areas. Frank picked his target accordingly and got ready. He dodged another blow then twisted from the waist into a low sidearm punch aimed at the center of Boris' chest. The blow was hard, and fast, and right on target. It plowed into Boris' solar plexus, the soft fleshy area below the pectorals and above the abdominals, knocking the air out of his lungs. Shock and pain registered on the Russian's face. He lost all bodily coordination and fell on his knees sagging forward gasping for breath and reeling in pain.
But he wasn't completely down.
Never leave the enemy capable of a counter-attack.
Boris was dazed and wobbly and his nose a bloody mess. Frank had to finish him off this time. He planted his feet and delivered a hard kick to the face. It wasn't a let me knock him out kick. It was a savage, teeth shattering, jaw breaking kick. Boris' head snapped to the side then whipped back around and he slumped on the floor like he was melting into it.
Frank hovered over him watching for movement. Blood poured from Boris' nose and mouth. He twitched, involuntary twitches, his body's response to the massive trauma it had just suffered. Frank drew back a fist.
"Frank," Nancy yelled, her voice stopping him cold. "He's down. He's out."
Frank stepped back.
"Yeah. Yeah. I know," he mumbled his hand still fisted.
He forced his fingers to uncurl. Relax, calm down, he told himself. Boris is down for good. Frank took a long, slow breath and counted to ten. He felt his shoulders come down. He also felt Nancy's eyes on him. She had watched him take down Boris in a brutal manner. How did she feel about that?
He turned to her.
She held up her handcuffed wrists. "The keys."
"Yeah, got it." He noticed she was tied at the thighs, too. He dug through Boris' top pockets, came up with the keys and headed over to Nancy. He unlocked the cuffs and helped her untie the rope around her thighs. He put a hand under her elbow and helped her up. She rubbed her red wrists.
Frank searched her face. The fear and terror were gone, but she was pale. "You okay?"
Nancy nodded, started to tear up, fought it, then threw her arms around Frank's neck. She hugged him tight needing to feel him next to her – feel his warmth and strength – feel secure. She felt his strong arms circle her back and pull her close. His body was hot from the fight with Boris.
He held her, kissed the top of her head, and said, "You sure you're okay?"
She clung to him for another moment then broke away, swatted at a threatening tear and said, "Yeah, I'm fine. Really. Just a bit of a headache."
He didn't push, her detective mask had fallen in place and the color was coming back to her face. "Let me take a look at that wound." With two fingers, Frank gently brushed aside strands of strawberry blonde hair and examined the swelling on her forehead. "How'd it happen?"
The skin was split about half an inch and a thin line of blood flowed from the split. It made a wavy path to her left eyebrow, flowed along the brow and down her cheek.
Nancy blushed remembering how easily Boris had overtaken her. "He was already in the office when I returned. Hidden behind the wall next to the staircase." She pointed at Boris' hiding spot. "He caught me by surprise when I headed upstairs. Tripped me, and once I was down, hit me with the gun. I was out for a while. I'm not sure how long."
"You're going to have a nice goose egg Nan, but in my non-professional opinion, you don't need stitches. You could have a concussion though, since you were unconscious for a while you. We should probably get you checked at a hospital."
Nancy shook her head and hugged herself. "No hospital. I'm fine – really."
Frank went to his desk. His jacket lay crumpled on the top. He dug through one of the pockets and withdrew a penlight. He switched it on and stepped up to Nancy. She drew back.
"Just a quick check," he said.
She squinted in the harsh beam he shone over her eyes.
Frank held up an index finger. "Follow my finger." He moved the finger up and down, left and right.
Nancy followed the movement with her eyes.
Frank turned off the penlight. "I think you're okay. Your pupils reacted normally to the light and you tracked my finger with no problem."
"Like I said. I'm fine." Nancy took a deep breath. "But he's not." She nodded with her chin at Boris' lifeless body. "We need to call 911."
"Not yet." Frank retrieved his gun from the floor, returned it to his hip holster then headed for Boris. "I want to finish checking his pockets, see what we find."
Frank went down on one knee next to Boris. He felt in Boris' pockets, found the lock pick tools, pulled them out and held them up. "Now we know how he got in." He laid the tools on the floor then dug through the pockets some more and found the cell phone. He held it up. "Now this, this is valuable."
He opened the phone and scrolled through the menus. Nancy knelt beside him, their shoulders touching. She leaned her head close to his as they viewed the small screen. Frank brought up the address list.
Nancy said, "We should copy down the names and numbers."
"No need," Frank said. "We're keeping the phone."
"Huh? We can't do that. It's evidence. We have to turn it over to the police."
Frank snapped the phone shut. "Well, we're not going to. We're working a case and the phone is vital to our investigation."
Nancy frowned at Frank, a wrinkle forming between her eyes. "Are you crazy?"
Frank smiled. "Only slightly." He leaned over and kissed her on the lips.
Nancy appreciated the kiss, but the phone was another story. She pushed herself off the floor. "I'm not sure about this – keeping the phone."
Frank got to his feet. "Don't worry about it. We can always turn the phone in later, say we found it outside behind a bush or something."
Nancy thought that over and let out resigned puff of breath. "Okay." She glanced at Boris again and felt a chill. She wanted him gone. "But we really need to call an ambulance and the police." She hugged herself and rubbed her arms trying to warm up.
Frank picked up on Nancy's discomfort. He looked at Boris. A steady stream of blood flowed from the lumpy mass that used to be his nose. "You're right. I'll make the calls."
"Thanks, I'm going to wash my face, find a band-aid, and get some ibuprofen." Nancy trudged toward the downstairs bathroom, Joe's bathroom. She took the long way around her desk, staying as far away from Boris as possible.
Frank made the calls.
A few minutes later Nancy emerged from the bathroom with a clean face and a band-aid taped to her forehead. She had two ibuprofen tablets in her hand. She headed upstairs to finally get that glass of water. When she came downstairs Frank was leaning against his desk perusing Boris' phone.
Frank looked up. "Who do you suppose X is?"
"Just X?"
"Just X."
"Someone important. Someone who doesn't want his real name used or known," Nancy said.
"I agree. And he's the only one with just an initial. Everybody else has a name .. Ivan, Wade, Luka."
"Hey. Wait. Ivan, Wade, Luke?" Nancy leaned in for a closer view of the screen.
"Luka," Frank corrected and tilted the phone so Nancy could see.
"Luke, Luka, whatever. Becca Rosen mentioned those same names today when Detective Cutter and I interviewed her. According to her, Kurt was involved with some major drug dealers. Becca's meeting Cutter tomorrow morning at the station to go through mug shots. Cutter said he'd let me know if she IDs anyone."
Frank grunted and shut the phone. "He'll let you know? Yeah, right. Did he have any information on Boris, like maybe an address?"
"No." Nancy sensed Frank's frustration with Cutter. "But he did tell me the bullet that killed Kurt Swanson was a 9mm."
Frank sighed. "The most common caliber in the world. Heck, that Micro Uzi uses 9mm rounds." He gestured at the submachine lying on the floor beside his desk.
"I know. But at least now the police have a weapon to test." Nancy paused, eyed Frank suspiciously. "We are giving them the gun, aren't we?"
He smiled briefly. "Yes. It's probably the gun he used to shoot up our office on Thursday night. And look, he managed to do that again." Frank pointed at the ceiling and the wall behind his desk.
Nancy leaned on the desk next to Frank. "We'll have to add this damage to the insurance claim."
Ivan sat in the stolen sedan wondering if he should call Boris. He dismissed the idea almost immediately. If he was wrong then he would be in big trouble with Boris. Not something he wanted.
But still, where was the man? It had been fifty minutes since Ivan left Boris in the alley. Plenty of time to get in, search, and get out. Even to grab the girl. It didn't take that long to knock her out, tie her up, and make a call.
Ivan decided to drive around the block again. His eighth trip. By now he knew every stoplight, every street name, and every dip and crack in the pavement. And he hated each and every one of them.
He completed the eighth trip and still, no word from Boris. Ivan parked down the street from the alley's entrance and contemplated his next move. The only change Ivan had noticed in all his trips around the block was the office light. The first few times he'd passed the office door it had been dark. Somewhere around the fifth trip he noticed the light was on.
Ivan was a good foot soldier. He was capable, always followed orders, and never asked questions. But now he was presented with a situation that forced him to ask questions. Had Boris turned on the light or had someone from the office turned on the light? If someone from the office had turned it on, then maybe Boris was still hiding inside, waiting for a chance to strike – or escape.
Ivan checked the clock on the car's dashboard. It had been one hour since he'd left Boris. Ivan stared at his cell phone lying on the passenger's seat. He wished it would buzz. It didn't. What should he do?
He decided to go around the block again. His ninth trip. He put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb. He merged into the slow moving traffic. The car's fuel gauge read one fourth of a tank. If this kept up he would need more gas. He drove slow and peered down the alley. He spotted a beat-up truck parked outside what he thought was the fifth door.
Ivan wondered how long it had been there.
More questions. Not good for a man who didn't like questions.
Frank slid Boris' phone into his pants pocket and pulled out his own. "I need to call Yuri," he told Nancy. He scrolled down his screen and punched in a number.
Nancy stared at Boris. He twitched – an arm, then a leg. She grimaced. His head rolled to the side and he moaned. She wished the ambulance would hurry up and get there.
Yuri answered on the first ring. "Yuri."
Frank said, "Good news, I found Boris."
There was cautious excitement in Yuri's voice. "Where?"
"He's lying on my office floor bleeding."
"Is he alive?" Yuri asked.
"Yes. An ambulance is on the way. I think he's in for an extended hospital stay. That'll give us, and the police, plenty of time to question him."
"What about Tasha?" Yuri said.
Frank paused and took a breath. "I may know where she is."
"I'm on my way."
The phone connection went dead.
Frank turned to Nancy and said, "Yuri's on his way.
Nancy frowned. "You know where Tasha is?"
"Maybe." Frank stressed the word. "The house Boris is renting looks like a good candidate. It's in an older neighborhood on a good sized lot with plenty of trees. Plus, it has a basement."
"We have to check it out." Nancy's eyes lit up.
"We will." Frank put his phone in his pocket. "We'll go tonight. But first, we need to assemble the team. Yuri's on his way, so we just need Joe."
The wail of an ambulance cut off further conversation.
