The Truant Officer (25 page)

He felt a jab in the ribs. His whole body tightened. He turned sharply, not knowing what to expect.

“So what’s with all the VIP treatment, Run DMC? Are they protecting you from all your groupies?”

“What do you think you’re doing here?”

“Just chillaxin in the NYC.”

After bursting into the cabin, the federal air marshals had immediately removed Becks and sequestered her in her seat. He hadn’t spoken to her since, and had no plans to do so while in New York. “You said you had a test today.”

“C’mon, DMC, I told you that life experience is always better than book-learning. You and I have way more chemistry than some periodic table.”

“You didn’t answer my question—what are you doing here?

“Did you drink too much Hatorade on the flight? I bought a ticket like everyone else. You should thank me—I’m helping to pay your salary. Maybe if you make enough, your wife will drop Mr. Software Heir and come crawling back.”

His skin had thickened. Her daggers now bounced off. “You shouldn’t be here. It could be dangerous.”

“Nothing is more dangerous than chemistry class. Those Bunsen burners are an accident waiting to happen.” She flashed her usual smart-ass smile, before turning serious. “And besides, I’m in this thing as much as you are. I got screwed over just as much.”

Darren strained to remember what it was like to be a teenager. Every relationship was Romeo & Juliet to the nth degree. She’d learn soon enough that the puppy love could never compare to a committed marriage. But he also remembered that it was impossible to argue with a teenager. So he didn’t.

“What do you plan to accomplish by this stunt? I don’t even know what’s going on here.”

The fierceness in her eyes remained. “Just remember that when someone screws me over, I won’t stop until justice is served.”

Darren didn’t doubt that. They headed toward the baggage claim, where he was supposed to meet the FBI agents. He wheeled his travel bag behind him and looked the part of the arriving pilot. And despite the pink streaks in the hair, Becks could pass for a business traveler. Darren couldn’t get over how different she appeared from the extreme teenager he’d met just yesterday.

As instructed, he marched past the rental car counters and out the sliding glass doors that led to the pickup area, congested with hotel transportation vans and honking cabs. Darren could wake from a Rip Van Winkle sleep and immediately know he was in New York—it had a different intensity.

A black SUV pulled curbside, muscling between a couple of gridlocked cabbies. Darren was supposed to head toward it. He kept waiting for the federal agents to remove Becks from his side, but figured that they probably didn’t want to make a scene.

The moment Darren’s foot stepped off the curb, a screech of tires grabbed his attention. A van was hurtling toward the sidewalk as if it had no brakes. People screamed as they scattered, leaving their luggage behind. The van shot up onto the sidewalk right in front of Darren and Becks. It buckled to a stop, cutting them off at the pass.

Out of the vehicle leaped two of the largest creatures Darren had ever seen. The first one was at least three hundred pounds, and that was a conservative estimate. He was holding an Uzi, which looked like a toy gun in his enormous arms.

The second one was not as big, but equally scary. He let out a primal scream and began randomly firing a pistol. When Darren took a closer look, he discerned that the second creature was actually a female.

The bravest of their protectors identified himself as FBI, and demanded that the assailants drop their weapons.

The woman laughed and sliced the agent’s arm with a bullet, causing his weapon to drop to the ground. A satisfied look spread across her face.

The male began spraying machine-gun fire, pelting cars and shattering glass. Darren tackled Becks and tried to cover her. But there was no place to hide from these maniacs. And their FBI protectors were no match for them.

The woman picked up Darren and Becks, one in each arm like they were a light dumbbell workout at the gym. She then shot-putted them into the back of the van, one at a time. The male slammed the door shut.

Darren’s dark room just got darker.

Chapter 57

The male was pacing in the back of the van. Darren wasn’t sure how the creaky floorboards were holding him.

The male had the biggest neck Darren had ever seen. It was like the trunk of an oak tree and it took a forest of a beard to cover it.

Darren was too stunned to speak. But Becks was never at a loss for words, “Who the hell are you, and where are you taking us?”

The male answered, “I’m Oleg Moziaf and this is my wife, Vana.”

Darren wasn’t sure which one was the chip and which one was the salsa, but he did know that Vana was the driver. And it felt like she was doing about 100 mph through the city streets.

“I don’t know who you think we are, but you got the wrong people,” Becks shouted.

He flipped Darren over like a pancake and removed his wallet. He looked at his license and said in a thick accent, “Nope—Darren McLaughlin—he’s the right guy.”

Darren felt a shiver down his spine—not only was he their focal point, but they were willing to risk a shootout with federal agents to capture him!

“What do you want with us?’ Becks asked again, this time in a more civilized tone.

“That depends—who are you?”

“My name is Rebecca Ryan. I am a high school student from Arizona. And I’m late for my chemistry test.”

“Do you get good grades in school?”

“All A’s.”

“Then you probably figure out we have no need for you. So I’m going to kill you.”

Darren was struck by the excitement in his voice when he talked of killing her. He was sickened that he might be responsible for this innocent girl’s death.

“Oh no you don’t, Oleg,” Vana’s husky voice echoed to the back of the van.

Darren felt relief for a moment, but then she uttered, “We kill together, or we don’t kill at all.”

“You know I’ve never killed without you since we’ve been married, Vana. I wait for you, of course.”

She shook her large head. “Our orders are no killing.”

“But the girl is an extra.”

“I said no, Oleg!” she shouted.

He first looked disappointed, but then found a compromise plan. “I promise not to kill her. But she talks too much, so I will cut her tongue out!”

Becks began inching toward the back door. Diving out onto a busy street at high speed seemed like her best option.

Darren had to do something—and fast. “Let her go. She has nothing to do with this! This is about me—you got me, so leave her be.”

“Only God can save her now, and even God’s scared of the Moziafs,” Oleg replied with a laugh.

Becks had moved as far back against the door as she could. When the van swerved sharply, almost tipping, Darren made his move. He tried to tackle Oleg like he was back playing high school football. But it was like hitting a brick wall, and he tossed him to the ground without a reaction. All he could do is watch as the behemoth headed for Becks.

“No!” Darren shouted out.

Becks had run out of wiggle room. “You two are crazy mofos!” she yelled out.

Oleg seemed to take it as a compliment. He moved closer, his hand clenched around a knife handle. Darren expected to see fear in Becks’ eyes, but what he saw was fight.

“You better kill me, because if you leave me alive, I will hunt you down and make you wish you were dead!”

The threat didn’t deter him, but then Vana shouted out, “I like her sassy mouth—don’t touch her tongue. We’ll let the Rabbi decide what to do with her.”

Oleg looked disappointed, but Darren got the idea he didn’t cross his wife.

Moments later, they skidded to a stop. Oleg forcefully picked Darren and Becks up by the collars, kicked open the back doors, and dragged them out into the gray afternoon.

“Time to go see the Rabbi,” he announced.

Chapter 58

They would meet the Rabbi in a sparkling oasis built within a rundown urban area. To Darren, it looked more like a nightclub than a synagogue.

Oleg carried Darren and Becks under a striped awning that declared the place as Sarvy’s. Before entering, they were frisked by two barrel-chested bouncer types. One let his hands roam underneath Becks’ skirt with a grin “Just looking for a gun. People have been known to hide them there.”

“If you ever put your hand there again the only thing I’m going to hide is my foot in your ass,” Becks fired back.

The bouncer kept grinning, seemingly not taking her seriously.

The Moziafs physically ushered them inside. “Welcome to Sarvy’s,” Oleg announced.

Walking into the cavernous room was like walking into a domed football stadium. And it wasn’t just impressive in its size. The place oozed money, from the art deco columns to the chrome and parquet fixtures. But it also appeared to be in the middle of a reconstruction project. Beefy men in sharp suits supervised. Tables were being set up, hammers pounded, and drills bored into walls. Carts filled with Smirnoff bottles whizzed past them. Microphone sound checks deafened.

“This place is totally off-the-chain. What is it?” Becks asked.

“You not know Sarvy’s?” Oleg asked, sounding dumbfounded.

“Only the hottest nightclub in the world,” Vana added as if she was Paris Hilton.

“And this is where we’re supposed to meet this Rabbi dude, or will he be too busy DJ’ing?” Becks continued with the sassy tongue that Vana seemed to like.

“He upstairs,” Oleg responded mechanically.

“We apologize for noise, but they preparing for Natalie Gold video premiere party tonight,” Vana informed.

Darren remembered her as the Israeli pop star that Treadwell’s kids were fans of. It was also very evident that he was out of his element, so he let Becks lead the dialogue.

“Natalie Gold—that’s fly. And the Rabbi still had time to give his blessing to lil’ ole us.”

“More like circumcise you,” Oleg replied with a laugh.

As they moved toward a marble staircase, Vana pointed out that Viktor Sarvydas, the owner, had shelled out over four million dollars for the party, including half a million on the bathroom alone. They made it clear that he would do whatever it takes to get what he wanted. And right now it appeared what he wanted was Darren.

Oleg pushed them up the staircase and into a windowless, but otherwise exquisite office.

The Rabbi did not have a long Hasidic beard or wear the traditional garb of an Orthodox. He was a trim man, dressed in a simple sweater with khakis. If Darren had to guess, he would say he was in his early sixties. His face was littered with red splotches on his otherwise pale skin.

He rose from behind his desk and greeted them as if they were foreign dignitaries. Unlike the Moziafs, his English was polished, with only a slight accent.

He turned to Becks, appearing curious by her presence. “And who would you be, young lady?”

She said nothing, stubbornly pressing her lips together.

“I’m talking to you,” the Rabbi raised his voice.

Becks looked at the Moziafs, who stood behind the desk with their enormous arms crossed across their heaving chests. “My B, I guess your cats got my tongue.”

“Cats can be quite dangerous when you don’t give them what they want.”

“The name is Ryan. Rebecca Ryan. Who wants to know?”

The name seemed to trigger his memory. “Ah, the girlfriend.”

The Rabbi sat back down behind his desk. With a nod, the Moziafs prepared chairs for the guests, before returning to their station.

“My name is Steve Parmalov,” the Rabbi said in a calm tone, “and I’m the deputy lieutenant of Sarvy Music and the many other assorted businesses of Viktor Sarvydas.”

It was like he expected the name Sarvydas to send them into cartwheels.

“The music mogul dude?” Becks asked with surprise.

Darren had heard of Sarvy Music, of course, but the name didn’t ring a bell until Becks’ last statement. Now he remembered the flamboyant Sarvydas, who was most famous for cultivating the career of pop star Maria DeMaio and marrying her when she was only nineteen. What this had to do with Lilly, Darren had no idea.

Parmalov smiled thinly. “He’s a music mogul like I’m a rabbi, and the Moziafs are butchers.” He chuckled to himself. “Well, actually the Moziafs are very much butchers.”

They found humor in their boss’s words.

Becks remained feisty. “So did you bring us here to see your standup act?”

Parmalov turned his beady eyes toward Darren. “No, you’re here because Mr. Sarvydas is very interested in finding your wife, Mr. McLaughlin. He has business with her travel companion.”

Becks looked like she was putting something together in her mind. “I’ve been following his story on the news. He fled the country after his son was arrested on murder charges. His son killed his business partner, or something like that.”

“The trial starts next week,” Parmalov replied.

“I don’t understand what that has to do with us,” Darren said again.

Parmalov leaned back in his chair, and ran his hand through his thinning hair. “Viktor doesn’t like the way things are going and would like to sit down with Nick Zellen and have a heart-to-heart about the direction of the trial. But unfortunately, your wife has gotten in the way.”

“Who is Nick Zellen?” Becks asked.

Chapter 59

Parmalov began to answer, before stopping in mid-sentence. He gauged their blank looks and a smile crept from his thin lips. “You don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?” Darren asked.

“That the name of your wife’s boyfriend is Nick Zellen, not Brett Buckley.”

Their looks turned puzzled. “What are you talking about?

“Nick Zellen was in the Witness Protection Program. He claims to have witnessed Alexei Sarvydas murder his father, and plans to testify against him in the trial. Viktor thinks that Nick might be mistaken in what he saw, so he plans on speaking with him.”