The Truant Officer (34 page)

Eicher sadly shook his head.

A team of FBI agents approached. “The place is secure,” said the lead agent, his silver hair illuminated by the moonlight.

Becks remained on the offensive, “What are you doing here? I thought they put you out to pasture in Oklahoma.”

LaPoint shook his head. It was like he and Eicher took a head-shaking class at Quantico. “When word got out that you were in New York, Chelsea, they sent me to clean up whatever mess you were going to make. And I must say, you outdid yourself this time.”

“It’s Fitzpatrick to you.”

“Since you want to keep this professional, I think it’s time to head back to Foley so we can depose you.”

Becks cringed. It was standard procedure anytime a federal agent was involved in a fatal shooting, but it could be long and tedious, and sometimes took days. She didn’t have that kind of time. She’d figured out what was going on here, and by their blank looks, she could see that her compadres had yet to solve the puzzle. The bottom line was that Darren was in deep trouble. She needed to think, so she headed toward a place she could better think.

“Where do you think you’re going?” LaPoint’s abrasive voice shot through the night air. She kept limping away. Their choice was to shoot or follow. They chose the latter, probably because they didn’t want to deal with the tedious deposition.

Brighton Beach was right on the Atlantic Ocean, and Becks could feel the salty sea air in her lungs. It was hard to believe they were only a couple of subway stops from skyscraper-lined Manhattan. It was also hard to believe they were in America. The sign on the bar she walked into was written in Cyrillic, so she didn’t know the name of the establishment, but could tell it was a bar by the guttural laughter of inebriation. They might have been speaking Russian, but Becks needed a drink, so they were speaking her language.

“Dos Vedanya?” a strapping brick wall of a bartender asked her, inquiring if she and her party were Russian.

Becks held up her badge. “Federal Marshals, FBI, KGB, it’s all the same. Now hook me up with a stiff White Russian, and I don’t mean that albino at the end of the bar.”

“We don’t serve cops,” the bartender informed.

“They told us the same thing at Sarvy’s—so I shot Alexei Sarvydas.”

She reached for her gun, but realized it had been confiscated, as her badge soon would be. But she had made her point. Word of Alexei’s death had spread throughout Brighton, and probably all the way to Moscow. The now agreeable bartender motioned for a waitress to take them to a table.

Becks didn’t really want to share her theory with Eicher and LaPoint, but since she would probably be on unpaid vacation by the time the clock hit midnight, they might be Darren’s only chance. So she laid out what she believed happened that fateful day at the Zellen estate. Alexei didn’t kill Karl Zellen, in fact, he wasn’t even there. And then she told them who did shoot Karl, and why.

The reaction was expected. “That’s ridiculous,” Eicher said. “It can’t be.”

LaPoint was even less gracious. “Just because you were undercover in high school didn’t mean you had to start smoking pot.”

They weren’t buying what she was selling, but one thing they couldn’t deny was the fact that what happened to Karl was linked directly to the night long ago when Viktor allegedly had his wife and father-in-law murdered.

“I was right about Dava. Has she called in yet, Eicher? Maybe she was taking a nap and missed your five gazillion calls.”

Eicher looked like she’d slapped him across the face, and said nothing.

“And I was right about Darren. He was going to shoot Alexei at the party. So keep betting against me, boys, but remind me to never take you with me to Vegas.”

“So what do you suggest we do?” Eicher finally gave in.

Chapter 82

Before Becks could even pretend that she had a plan, a buzz swept through the bar and the chatter surrounding them intensified. The programming on the mounted televisions had changed from Russian language shows to a voice that was way too familiar to Becks.

The view on the screen was of the back of the Hummer limo that Natalie Gold arrived in at Sarvy’s. The camera angle was coming from a vehicle behind the limo, providing a perspective similar to that of an in-car camera during television coverage of auto racing. On the bottom of the screen was a banner graphic that shouted:
Sarvy’s Shootout!

“This is Jessi Stafford reporting. After escaping Sarvy’s, we are now attempting to chase down the culprit in the tragic shooting, Darren McLaughlin.

“For those of you just tuning in, we will again play the video for you where the assailant came after Nick Zellen with a gun in an act of revenge. Zellen was thought to be a student named Brett Buckley, who ran off with McLaughlin’s wife.”

The video appeared on the screen of Darren pointing a gun at Jessi. The camera continued to roll, and moments later he would pull the same gun on Alexei Sarvydas and threaten to kill him.

That’s when Becks flew in to save the day. Sort of. After that, everything went dark, as the cameraman ran for his life as screams and gunshots rang out. Becks was glad the film ended there. She had no desire to relive the agony, the gunshot she received was the least of her pain. But that didn’t lessen the discomfort from the sharpest thorn in her side—Jessi Stafford.

“What Darren McLaughlin wasn’t counting on was Buckley’s high school girlfriend, Rebecca Ryan, also showing up looking for revenge. This toxic combination ended in deadly gunfire, and the death of Alexei Sarvydas.”

The view on the screen returned to the car chase. “We are following the suspects of the
Sarvy’s Shooting
, led by an armed and dangerous Darren McLaughlin. I am reporting that two partners in crime, Dava ‘Kelli’ Lazinski of the US Attorney’s Office, and his estranged wife, Lilly McLaughlin, are assisting him. This was confirmed when I gained access to Lilly McLaughlin’s cell phone, which included messages between Lilly and Lazinski. Nick Zellen has provided me information that will fully explain this situation, which I agreed to release only upon his instructions. But as a preview, we are releasing the first photo of Darren McLaughlin and Lazinski together, along with murder victim Ron Treadwell.”

The photo of the three amigos appeared on the screen. It was of Darren and Treadwell, posing with Dava, and appeared to have been taken in a bar. This new development was a speed bump in Becks’ theory and got her sideways looks from Eicher and LaPoint. She wasn’t sure how it fit in, but it didn’t cause her to waver. And it’s not like Eicher could talk, since he believed Dava was an innocent bystander in all this.

“To the best of our knowledge, the other victims inside the vehicle include pop princess Natalie Gold, a war veteran who calls himself Zubov, and Nick Zellen.”

Zubov a victim—really?
The reporter was making Becks crave another gunshot wound—this one to her head—and she couldn’t believe she was reporting that Darren was the criminal mastermind. It seemed to Becks that she was the only one who had figured out who the real villain was.

Becks was forced to give some credit to the reporter—the video was very helpful. She couldn’t take her eyes off the screen as the limo cruised through the New York night.
Where were they headed?

LaPoint answered the question, “They’re going to the airport!”

“That’s suicide,” Eicher declared. “They will be shot on sight.”

But not only did they make it safely onto the airport grounds, they drove right up to the terminal—and crashed through the glass doors like a tank. There was no resistance from security.

Becks couldn’t believe what she was watching, as the news vehicle followed them in through the broken glass, allowing the show to continue. The US policy on hijackings had always been drilled into their heads, sometimes even calling for a plane to be shot out of the sky, sacrificing innocent people to halt the danger to a larger population or interest. Yet they just let a limo of Russian mobsters drive into an international airport with hostages!?

Once inside, the limo slowed to a crawl. The walkways were clear, indicating the airport had been evacuated. Becks couldn’t get over how strange this was. The president of the United States wouldn’t get this type of treatment.

Eicher echoed her sentiments, “I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s like God himself cleared the way.”

“It would take someone more powerful than God,” LaPoint commented, “like Sarvydas.”

“How do they know they don’t have a bomb aboard? This is crazy,” Eicher asserted.

“Maybe they do, and that was their ticket in,” Becks added.

LaPoint shrugged. “It’s Homeland Security’s problem now.”

The limo came to a halt at the Air Israel terminal. Becks figured that like many Russian mobsters who were in trouble, they were going to seek refuge in Israel. The question was—would they be allowed to leave US soil? She couldn’t imagine it, but she also would never have thought they’d get this far.

Darren got out of the vehicle first, still wearing his tux, and holding a gun. He ordered the others out. Dava pretended to be a victim, unaware that she had already been outed by the newscast. Lilly and Nick were next. Zubov limped out using a cane, clearing the way for the grand finale, which was Natalie Gold appearing with her hands raised, still looking like a star in her gold dress.

Darren ordered them to place their hands over their heads. Becks couldn’t believe he was doing this for his undeserving wife.

Jessi Stafford got out of her vehicle and foolishly ran toward the hijackers in her oversized heels. Darren fired his gun in her direction, not coming close. Becks almost cheered when she dove to the ground and writhed in fear.

Darren followed his “hostages” toward the gate. Once again he displayed his gun, trying too hard to let people know he was the hijacker. He then marched them onto the airplane. When they were all aboard, he shut the door.

Chapter 83

Darren sat at the controls in the cockpit. But despite thousands of flight hours, this time was different. And not just because he had moved to the left of the control panel into the captain seat. Or because this was an Airbus A380, a double-deck, wide-body, four-engine airliner sometimes referred to as the Superjumbo. The largest plane he’d ever flown was a Boeing 747-400.

This flight was different because a couple of Russian mobsters named Dava and Zubov were holding guns to his head. But he didn’t take their death threats very seriously. They needed him to fly them to safety, just as they needed him to pose as a hijacker. He had been chosen to be the fall guy.

Lilly sat in the first officer seat, handcuffed to Nick. When Darren glanced at her the tornado of emotions swirled again.

“The flight plan is set from New York to Ben Gurion in Tel Aviv. We should get clearance very soon,” Dava instructed.

“I will fly the plane if you release Lilly. I am your only pilot, which makes me your lone hope to get out of here. Viktor Sarvydas will kill us anyway, so I have nothing to lose. You, on the other hand, have everything to lose.”

Zubov raised his walking cane and slashed it across Lilly’s knees. She cried out in pain.

Nick rose to confront Zubov, but Dava’s gun settled him back into his seat. Anger flowed through Darren’s veins like jet fuel, but he knew that another hotheaded reaction would only cause Lilly more pain.

Zubov turned to Lilly. “We’re still not even for shooting my knees. Every time I feel pain I want to share it with you.”

Lilly shot a deadly assassin?
It hammered home the point that Darren really didn’t know this woman at all.

“This is crazy,” Darren stated. “The US doesn’t negotiate with hijackers. They will blow the plane up before they let us leave.”

“Not with Natalie Gold on board,” Dava countered.

Darren agreed she was a game-changer, but not to the point that they would just let them fly away without repercussions. At the very least, they would storm the plane.

“You were in Air Force. You’ve trained your whole life for this moment,” Zubov said.

“I flew cargo planes, not suicide missions.”

Zubov’s cane came at him so fast that Darren didn’t even see it. His ear began ringing like someone was blowing a whistle inches from it. Darren reached to touch it and it felt like it had doubled in size. Blood filled his hand.

“Stop talking,” Zubov said coldly.

“Leave him alone,” Lilly shrieked. “He has nothing to do with this.”

“He has everything to do with this now,” Dava responded angrily.

Zubov actually played peacemaker, wedging himself between the two women. “I think these two lovebirds have a lot to talk about. Let’s leave them alone.”

Dava nodded her approval.

Zubov shrugged. “What can I say, I’m a romantic.”

He unlatched Nick from his handcuffs and led him out of the cabin. Dava informed Darren that she would return when they got clearance for takeoff.

It was just the two of them. They sat in dead silence. He stared straight ahead at the dark runway. It was filled with emergency vehicles, fire trucks, and camouflaged military trucks. Hijacked airplanes always seemed to attract a lot of attention.

Finally Lilly broke the silence, “I hate when you do this.”

“Do what?”

“The passive-aggressive thing where you want to scream at me, but you bottle it all up and give me the silent treatment.”

“I think you’ve given up the right to tell me what to do.”

“Just let me have it!” she shouted at him. “I betrayed you—I betrayed our marriage! Yell at me—hit me—do something!”

Darren had nothing to say. To be either passive or aggressive would require him to be alive, and she had ripped the life from him. He wasn’t angry—he was lifeless. He stared back out at the runway. It was as if he was looking toward a hopeless future.

Lilly finally accepted that the patient was dying, so she stopped CPR and just tried to comfort him in his final moments. She found a First Aid kit that contained an icepack. She softly applied the ice to his ear. “You’ll be better off without me,” she said.