The Truant Officer (20 page)

Pavel Kovalenko held a gun at them.

Lilly wasn’t sure who to root for. The killer taking orders from Viktor Sarvydas, or the killer taking orders from his son. Bachynsky appeared to be off the hook, but she and Nick were in trouble either way. Pick your poison.

Zubov surprisingly dropped his gun without a fight.

Kovalenko backed Zubov toward a pool table with a wave of his gun. He then indicated for Nick and Lilly to join him. Standing beside Zubov was as comfortable as laying on a bed of nails.

Still holding his gun on them, Kovalenko walked to Bachynsky and checked on his physical well-being. He was a sniveling mess. Kovalenko showed little sympathy, ordering him to stop or he would shoot him just like “the rest of them,” as if they were already past tense. He complied.

Kovalenko turned to Zubov. “Nobody crosses Viktor Sarvydas and lives to tell about it. Not even the great Zubov.”

Zubov laughed. “You are an excellent actor. You don’t work for Viktor Sarvydas any more than I do, so let’s stop the charade.”

“Charade?”

“Let me spell it out for you, Pavel. You are now working for Parmalov, as part of a coalition to take power from the Sarvydas family. I understand how system works. And with Viktor exiled, and Alexei in jail, you are making the prudent move. I have no hard feelings toward you, but that don’t mean I’m not going to kill you.”

“Do the math, Zubov. I have the gun.”

“You no deny my accusation. Viktor was teaching Alexei a lesson, and now that he has, he sees no need for trial. But he left it up to his son to make final decision, and I’m here to enforce those wishes. My condolences to you and Parmalov, maybe next time your wishes come true.” Zubov laughed again. “Oops, I forgot, there will be no next time.” The more dire his situation, the more confidence he seemed to gain.

Lilly gauged Nick, who looked unsure. But nothing compared to Bachynsky, whose darting eyes said he didn’t know who to trust. Kovalenko was his best shot to get out of here alive, but he seemed to be questioning the trust-level of that relationship.

“Don’t worry, Rob, you did everything asked of you,” Zubov read his confusion. “But I’m still going to kill you.”

Then with lightning precision, Zubov grabbed a pool cue and ripped it across Kovalenko’s face. He followed up the slash with a poke to the eyes, temporarily blinding his adversary. He crashed to the ground and Zubov pounced. He used the stick to keep Kovalenko on the defensive. Zubov then broke the stick on the floor creating a jagged edge.

Lilly knew she had to do something. “Freeze, or I’ll shoot,” she yelled out, but wasn’t sure who to shoot or who to save.

Zubov turned and looked at Lilly, who was holding the gun that Kovalenko had dropped to the floor. He exploded into laughter. “Can you imagine after all my battles, if I would die at the hands of a
woman?
”

Even Kovalenko found that one a little funny. The Russians didn’t lack for chauvinism. Lilly hated guns, a reaction to growing up around violence. But her father had taught her how to use one, and it felt comfortable in her hands.

Zubov’s smirk never left his face as he lunged at her with the jagged pool cue. He missed and she fired. It hit him in the shoulder and blood began to spill through his suit.

He lunged at her again. She was momentarily paralyzed, before remembering something that Nick told her about Zubov back when he was just an imaginary figure of horror. He had both his knees tattooed to tell the world that he wouldn’t kneel to anyone. It triggered her to action. Lilly fired at his knees.

He fell in a heap on the floor, writhing in pain.

There was no time to dwell on what she had just done.
They had to get out of here!
But there was a big problem—Bachynsky had picked up Zubov’s gun and was holding Nick hostage.

“I don’t know what’s going on here, but I’m leaving this place alive,” he yelled out.

“Let him go,” Lilly sternly warned, riding the wave of confidence from her stunning take-down of Zubov.

“Drop the gun!” Bachynsky yelled back at her. “Drop the gun or Nick dies!”

Lilly began to lower her gun.

Nick shouted, “Don’t do it, Lilly! You drop that gun and he kills me.”

Lilly overloaded with doubts. Bachynsky raised his gun to Nick’s temple and repeated, “Put the gun down or he dies.”

“Shoot him, Lilly,” Nick countered.

Lilly couldn’t lose Nick—not now. She showed her gun to indicate that she was going to slowly lower it to the ground.

As she lowered the gun, she made eye contact with Nick. “I trust you, Lilly,” he said.

“I told you never to do that,” she replied back.

Bachynsky should have taken the same advice. He momentarily let down his guard.

Just before laying the gun on the cold linoleum, Lilly quickly raised it and fired. Now she was the plan changer.

Chapter 44

After ridding himself of Becks—dropping the teenager from hell back at her school—Darren returned home. He planned on a quiet evening of wallowing in self-pity, hoping to wake tomorrow to find that this whole thing was just a cruel nightmare.

But like a masochist, he couldn’t resist turning on the television. And as was true to his luck, he was just in time to hear Jessi Stafford reporting that Lilly and Brett Buckley had been spotted at a Las Vegas wedding chapel.

He angrily shut the TV off, and sat in silence. At just before nine, Treadwell dropped by. He came straight from the airport, returning on the route they were supposed to have piloted together.

He first complained that Darren’s emergency exit had caused a chain reaction in the scheduling that resulted in him having to fly back to New York tomorrow, and throwing a wet blanket on a night of club-hopping he had planned.

Darren filled him in on the details as best he knew them. Starting with Lilly’s abduction and taking him up to his trip to South Chandler High.

“Then what are you doing here?” Treadwell asked, sounding baffled.

“What am I supposed to do—drag her back here like I’m her dad, and send her to her room?”

“You need to track Lilly down so you can tell her that you’re sorry.”

“I should apologize to
her?
”

“It’s your fault. She gave you like five years to grow a pair, how long did you expect her to wait?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Come to think of it, you also owe me one.”

“You?”

“I could have taken Lilly home that night, but I sacrificed my own pleasure for my friend. And how do you repay me—by screwing the whole thing up.”

“You must be kidding me. You and Lilly?”

“I don’t have looks, wealth, or even one of those senses of humor that women are always claiming they want. Yet I’m always flying first class with the ladies. You wanna know why?”

“We’re talking about marriage, not picking up some girl in a bar.”

“It all comes down to the same thing—what women really want is a man. And not the modern day sissified types like yourself, who are masquerading as men. They want a cave man. So if I were you, I’d be on the next flight to Vegas. I’d track her down, club her over the head and drag her back home. Show her who the man is. That punk high school boy wouldn’t know what hit him!”

Treadwell made himself a sandwich like this was a normal night, and watched the Diamondbacks game to its conclusion. When he eventually left, the words began to soak in for Darren. While most of it was the typical over-the-top Treadwell, he did make one point that was indisputable—he had to get to Lilly as soon as possible.

Darren had his keys in his hand ready to head to the airport when a knock on the front door stopped him. He checked his watch—it was quarter to eleven. Who could be here at this hour?

Chapter 45

In stumbled Becks, carrying a twelve pack of Corona.

“What are you doing here?” Darren asked with chagrin.

“I hate drinking alone,” she said, and plopped down at his kitchen table like it was a bar stool. She was wearing the same pair of shorts and flip-flops from earlier, but had on a different T-shirt, this one read:
I Caught Senioritis From Your Boyfriend
.

“How did you get beer, you’re not twenty-one?”

Her words slurred, “When you think about it, it’s kinda ironic that teenagers can’t drink. We’re the ones who need a drink the most...since we have to deal with you adults!”

“Do your parents know you’re out drinking?”

She snorted a laugh. “My parents are so clueless they should be in the FBI. It takes more than a depressed and humiliated daughter to keep them from their important lives.” She patted the seat beside her. “Now get over here and drink with me.”

“You will not drink in my house—you’re underage!”

She chugged the remainder of the bottle and tossed it toward an imaginary garbage can, shattering glass across the kitchen floor. “Maybe you should save that lecture for your wife.”

“Did you drive here? I can’t even begin to tell you how dangerous that is, or how a DUI could affect your admission to BC.”

“What can I say, I’m just a crunk. No wonder my boyfriend ran off with his teacher. Can you blame him?”

“I don’t have time for this—I gotta get to Lilly.”

Becks hit her palm to her forehead. “You must be kidding! Are you planning on joining them on their honeymoon?”

She sat glued to the chair, sipping on another beer, and not giving any sign that she was going to be moving any time soon.

“So you haven’t told me why you are really here,” he said.

She stood and stumbled toward him. She wrapped her arms around his neck like they were slow dancing. “There is nothing better than revenge sex.”

It took Darren a moment to figure out she was talking about him. “I’m married,” he replied in an embarrassed high-pitch. He lightly pushed her away and she almost fell over.

Becks fumbled through her purse until she found her cell phone. She pretended to take a call. “The gander just called and said if it’s good with the goose then she’s cool with it.”

She reached in her purse again and pulled out her wallet, removing her driver’s license. “And for your information, I turned eighteen last month—so I’m no longer jailbait. So let’s go hook your line, sailor!”

She tried to hand him the license, but he rebuffed her. “I’m calling your parents.”

Becks shrugged. “Whatever floats your boat. Tell them I’m going to a party and if I had a curfew I’d be breaking it.”

Darren took out the phone directory, but found twenty-four Ryans listed in Chandler alone. Becks wasn’t about to offer a hint. He grew frustrated and snapped, “How can you go to a party on a school night?”

She laughed like he just told the funniest joke ever. “Were you born this boring, or is there something in the water out here in Suburbia? Now please point me in the direction of the changing room so I can get ready for the party.”

“The only place you’re going is home, and I’m driving you.”

“Ooh, I’m scared—please have mercy on me, Mr. Truant Officer.”

“Let’s go.”

“Fine, then I’ll change right here,” she announced. Before Darren could stop her, she had begun a striptease that included slurred singing and tipsy dancing. She lifted her shirt over her head, exposing a lacy bra and tight abs. Darren looked away.

He grabbed her by the arm, still looking away, and directed her into the master bedroom. “You can change in here,” he stated tersely.

“I thought you’d see it my way,” she replied with a beer-buzzed grin and hopped on his bed.

Darren shut the door. “Just hurry it up, I don’t have all night.”

“You’re missing out,” she shouted.

Darren had no intention of letting her go to any party. He grabbed her keys off the table. He would drive her home and explain to her parents why their teenage daughter was drinking at his house while his wife was away. On second thought, he would just drop her at the door and drive off. He would then head to Sky Harbor and catch the next flight to Las Vegas to deal with the nuclear fallout of his marriage.

A minute turned into ten. He was just about to check on her—fearing she might have passed out from the alcohol—when a loud crash sent him into action. Darren dashed into the room to find Becks sitting in the walk-in closet, surrounded by fallen boxes.

“What are you doing?” he asked angrily, viewing the items the nosy teenager had taken down from their perch on the shelf.

Sporting a wide grin, she held up his dust-covered high school yearbook. “You weren’t born boring—I knew it!”

The picture she held up was of Darren McLaughlin the all-state wide receiver they nicknamed Run DMC after the popular rap group, which coincided with the initials of his name. And run is what he did really well on the field. But he no longer recognized that person.

“And how rock star were you? Look at your long hair!” Becks gushed, turning to a picture of Darren’s band, The Flying Aces, performing at the homecoming dance. He and a couple of friends started the band in his garage, hoping to be the next Aerosmith to come out of Boston.

Becks began sifting through a box of ancient pictures. She held up a photo of Lilly and Darren kissing at a sidewalk café.

Looking at the picture seemed to slightly sober her. “It’s your honeymoon, isn’t it?”

He nodded, his heart bouncing in his throat.

“I know honeymoons aren’t the best subject right now, but where is this? It’s beautiful.”

“The French Riviera.”

“Impressive—not a bad deal for a poor girl from a Mexican ghetto.”

Darren was offended by the insinuation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“All I’m saying is that your wife seems to have a trend of trading up. From daughter of illegal-alien drug-dealer to marrying a pilot and having her first honeymoon on the French Riviera, and now upgrading to the heir to the Buckley software company? What’s next, Lilly Rockefeller-Gates?”

Darren angrily pulled her to her feet, refusing to dignify that with an answer. “Let’s go,” he commanded.

“But I haven’t even changed yet.”