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THE BUS ARRIVED IN Grand Forks after night had fallen. Grand Forks may have been no big shakes in anyone else’s book, but to Laynie it was the last stop before her destination. She had to remind herself not to smile as she purchased a few snacks and one innocuous souvenir inside the station—making some discreet inquiries while paying.
She checked into a two-star motel a block down from the station but found it hard to sleep after napping on the bus. She was up early, preparing for the final leg of her journey.
In much the same way as when she had she fled Moncton, Laynie tied her hair into a ponytail and tucked it under a baseball cap, a new one with a picture of South Dakota’s Mount Rushmore on it, then tugged on jeans and layered a warm flannel shirt over a T-shirt.
She dug in her suitcase and pulled out her old backpack. She slid her laptop into the backpack first. Not much room remained. She’d keep what was most essential and leave the rest behind. Then she emptied her purse, choosing to keep her wallet, passport, phone, and the CD-ROM case. What else? Her eyes fell on the Bradshaws’ travel Bible.
Yeah, you, she admitted.
She added her hairbrush and whatever clothes would fit into the backpack. The leftovers, including her purse, she crammed into a trash sack.
When she was ready, she donned her warm jacket and gloves, zipped her gun into a coat pocket, hoisted the backpack onto her back, and grabbed the trash sack and her empty suitcase. A bitter wind hit her as she left her room. Behind the motel, she tossed the trash sack into the garbage but left the suitcase leaning up against the dumpster.
It’s a nice case. Someone will spot it and snatch it up. It’ll be gone within the hour.
With only her backpack to carry, Laynie hiked the half mile to a truck stop the helpful young man on the bus station’s cash register had told her about. She was glad to get inside the truck stop’s restaurant, out of the freezing wind.
Before an hour was up, she’d eaten a hearty breakfast, grabbed a coffee to go, and snagged a ride with an amiable trucker heading south, destination Kansas City.
“SO, YOU’VE CROSSED over into the States, Elaine,” Vyper mused, “but the heart of the American badlands cannot be your destination, can it? So, tell me, where will you go next? Where are you headed?”
She slowly unwrapped a stick of Black Jack but did not fold it into her mouth. She was uneasy. Zakhar had not called in two days to harangue her. He had gone quiet—and his silence sent alarms blaring in Vyper’s head.
When a toddler stops making noise, one must be quick to search out the mischief he’s created.
She hacked into Zakhar’s phone provider and found a series of texts and a short list of calls. The contents of the texts were concerning enough, but when she back-traced the numbers to New York City, the short hairs on the back of her shaved neck stood up and shivered.
Zakhar had reached out to a soldier in the russkaya mafiya, also known as the Russian Bratva—the Russian Brotherhood. The texts between Zakhar and the mob soldier were friendly and familiar. From Zakhar’s references, Vyper realized they were most likely former comrades in arms from their Soviet Army days.
When she drilled down into the friend’s phone records, her alarm grew. She suspected that this friend of Zakhar’s was a soldier in the Odessa Mafia, the most powerful Russian organized crime mob operating in the States. They were headquartered in Brighton Beach, a borough of Brooklyn in and around Coney Island. However, the Odessa Mafia did not consider themselves “Russian.” They were fiercely Ukrainian, financed and run by the richest oligarchs living in the Ukraine, heavy into arms smuggling, drugs, and human trafficking. They were known for their ferocious code of loyalty and their merciless pursuit of those who broke that code.
She traced the soldier’s calls and texts, landing on a text that confirmed her worries. Zakhar had asked for and been granted assistance from a mafiya brigadier—a mob captain who reported to the local Pakhan or Boss.
Zakhar, you scum! You haven’t called to harass me because you have hired Odessa Mafia hackers to locate Elaine Granger’s whereabouts!
Vyper bristled over the unexpected twist. She knew the best Odessa Mafia’s hacker by his reputation and by his handle. Syla. His name translated from Ukrainian meant “The Power.”
The kid was good, world-class good. But “The Power” good?
Vyper slowly put the stick of gum in her mouth. Nah. Not as powerful as Vyper venom. But if Zakhar gave Syla the Granger woman’s information, then Syla has already hacked her phone provider and is aware of Granger’s recent activities. He will have informed Zakhar of Granger’s entry into the States.
Her dislike for Zakhar intensified.
She had only misdirected Zakhar because he had become a pain in her backside, but her misdirection had created a bigger problem. It had caused Zakhar to team with perverts worse than himself.
Vyper was not afraid to admit that she profited from illegal hacks, but even criminals had their standards. In her book, men who trafficked women and children were the scum of the earth, the lowest of the low—and her perusal of Zakhar’s laptop had placed him firmly in the camp of the perverts and sadists so abhorrent to her.
And if she detested Zakhar, she despised Syla. In the employ of the Odessa mob, Syla developed and promulgated porn—even “kiddie” porn, a horrible evil. And Syla and his crew sold women and children on the web.
Zakhar and Syla were two of the same filthy ilk—and now they were working together?
Hmm. I doubt that Zakhar’s boss knows that Zakhar has hired the Odessa Mob. I wonder how he would feel about that?
She backtracked to Zakhar’s phone and pinged its location. He was on the move, had crossed back into Canada, headed west.
I assume he is driving rather than flying to avoid the intense scrutiny at security checkpoints and the ongoing air travel delays in the wake of the attacks.
It would take Zakhar long days of driving to catch up to his prey.
Tapping an unopened pack of gum on the desk beside her keyboard, she considered the situation and its ramifications, tossed around one or two creative solutions.
Vyper tore open the pack with practiced ease, pulled out a piece, and unwrapped it one-handed. She folded the stick of gum into her mouth and bit down. With a last look at her map, she cleared it of pins, then dropped two, only two, one a few hours west of Ottawa, the other on Grand Forks. How long would it take Zakhar to catch up to Elaine Granger?
Well, Elaine, my dear, it looks like Zakhar is on to you now, and I have a contract to fulfill, after all, so I shouldn’t interfere in Zakhar’s business.
She thought a minute more.
Or perhaps I should.
THE TRUCKER STOPPED for lunch at the south end of Sioux City. After she had eaten, Laynie took a walk to stretch her legs. The Missouri River wasn’t far from the truck stop. It formed the boundary separating Iowa from Nebraska, and she had caught glimpses of the river from the highway as it followed the river’s course through the city.
I’m so close, she thought, mere hours from Kari’s little farm.
The notion chafed her, because she wasn’t going to Kari’s farm. She couldn’t.
Instead, she stared out to the southwest, trying to imagine the vast acres of low, undulating hills Kari had described—the land Kari and Søren lived on—and the old, broken-down house Kari had told her about, an actual “little house on the prairie.” Kari had taken pains to preserve the home their shared great-grandmother Rose Thoresen and her husband had lived in.
“More than a hundred and thirty years ago,” Laynie whispered to herself. “I have ancestors who were the first to farm the land not far from here . . . and blood relations who live there still.”
Shaking her head, Laynie returned to the truck stop. She rode with the friendly trucker until they reached the outskirts of Omaha and the junction of I-29 and I-80. The trucker was continuing south to Kansas City, but Laynie was not. Her destination was to the west.
He drove his rig onto the road’s shoulder—something he wasn’t supposed to do—not far from the interchange where the two highways intersected and let Laynie out of his cab.
“You hike on up that slope and follow the highway off to the right. When you clear the interchange traffic, you should be able to catch another ride.”
“Thank you, Roy. You’ve been kind to me.”
“And you’ve been good company, Beverly. I wish you well.”
Laynie waved, shouldered her backpack, and set off, keeping well clear of the roadbed and speeding traffic on her left. On her right were fields and some industrial buildings. She kept walking, not anxious for a ride, because up ahead, after she joined I-80, the highway crossed over the river. She was going to see it up close after all.
She walked onto the bridge, which had a wide shoulder and, for a long time, she stared out onto the river. It was like most any river, nothing special, but as she left the railing to continue across, she looked up and ahead saw the sign over the roadway.
NEBRASKA . . . the good life
Laynie started walking. Maybe a good life did await her. Someday.
It was already coming up on four in the afternoon. She wanted to find another motel before dark, but she wasn’t seeing anything ahead except more highway bypassing the town. She faced the oncoming traffic and held out her thumb. After ten fruitless minutes, a car pulled over. Two teens sat in the front seat. The passenger rolled down his window and leaned out.
“You want a ride?”
“Yes, please. Where are you headed?”
“Just into town.”
Laynie got in and they sped off.
She watched the young men, a year or two out of high school, as they tried to study her in the rearview mirror without being obvious. She figured she knew what was running around in their heads. Excited, testosterone-driven pipe dreams. Bold but stupid.
“Could you drop me near a motel?”
They glanced at each other.
“Sure,” the driver said.
Laynie sighed. “I hope you aren’t nurturing any big ideas about the three of us, gentlemen. I’m probably as old as your moms are.”
A lot less exuberant than they’d been when they picked her up, the boys let Laynie out at an intersection with hotels on all four corners. They mumbled their goodbyes and drove off.
Laynie made for the closest motel.
One more leg. Tomorrow she’d be there.
BEFORE SHE LEFT WORK for the day, Vyper checked Zakhar’s phone a last time. He had driven nearly nonstop over the past twenty hours and had just checked into a Winnipeg hotel.
She giggled to herself. Goodness, you must be beat! My poor little Zakhar.
He would have to sleep for hours to recover. While he did, Vyper planted a “cron job” in Elaine Granger’s phone provider’s system, a piece of code that would run at the time she specified, three o’clock the next morning. When it did, Syla would catch it and roust Zakhar from his bed.
“That should get you up and moving before you’re fully rested and keep you busy for a while.”
Tossing some crumpled gum wrappers in the trash, she logged off her terminals and left work, debating with herself where to pick up dinner.
