Dave Riley started up the 125cc dirt bike he kept parked at Haig Point on Hilton Head. After the meeting at the Shack broke up, he’d piloted his F-470 Zodiac across the Intracoastal and into Broad Creek to the landing underneath the Cross-Island Parkway Bridge.
Hilton Head was twelve miles long by five across at its widest, the northern end. It was shaped like a shoe, the ankle to the northeast, tapering to the toe in the southwest. But where the toes met the front of the ankle, the island was almost split in two by Broad Creek, which came within a mile of actually separating the original northern island from the southern barrier island. The main drag coming in 30 miles from the west off I-95 was Highway 278, which looped around the island. A spur was built as tourism grew: the Cross Island reached over Broad Creek, making a shortcut for the those coming onto the island to more quickly reach the toes and the broad, white, and firm-packed sand of the Atlantic beach, which was what drew a couple of million visitors every summer.
It wasn’t summer, so things were relatively quiet as Riley took the Cross Island to Sea Pines Circle, where tourists routinely caused accidents as Americans found traffic circles as strange as Europeans found Americans.
He drove down Pope, and turned left into a shopping center featuring New York Pizza on the right, and a set of darkened windows on the left. Riley parked the bike and went to the door on the left. He pulled it open. A dim, upscale interior set up as a restaurant beckoned.
The large man wearing a suit did not.
“Leave,” he rumbled in a voice graveled out somewhere in New Jersey, or Joisy as they used to say in the Bronx when Riley was growing up.
“I’d like to talk to Mister Farrelli.”
“Leave.” The man emphasized the point by not just repeating it, but taking a step closer.
Looking past the doorman, Riley could see a man seated at a bar to the left. None of the tables were occupied, which wasn’t unusual in that most restaurants closed for the off-season, except Riley had never seen this one open, even in-season. There was no sign on the outside to indicate what it was.
“Can you at least ask him for an audience?” Riley asked. “I’m Dave Riley, from Dafuskie.”
“How’s the numbers, Riley?” a voice called from the vicinity of the bar. “Let him in.”
The doorman stepped aside, looking disappointed he didn’t get a chance to do a little pummeling.
“The numbers add up,” Riley said as he walked into the bar. Farrelli was on a stool, his long legs stretched out. He had a large nose, almost a beak, and deep-set, hooded eyes.
“Sometimes,” Farrelli said, New Jersey not as apparent in his voice as the doorman’s, “I think of this island and all around it as Deadwood. You ever watch that show?”
“Yeah, I watched it,” Riley said. He halted about six feet away. Farrelli had a glass in front of him, half-full of something red.
“You know, the guy with the idea for that, he vacations here. I’ve talked to him. He originally wanted to do a show about Rome,” Farrelli said. “Roma.” He savored the word. “I never thought of it before talking to this guy, but you ever hear of cops in ancient Rome?”
Riley thought about it, and had to agree. “Nope.”
“That’s cause there weren’t any,” Farrelli said. “They paid the street gangs to enforce law and order. ‘They’ being whoever held the most power: the Emperor, the Senate, whoever held sway. I think it was much more effective than cops. Cut out the middleman. Anyway,” Farrelli continued, “when the smart guy went to HBO, they loved the idea but not the locale, since they had a series already in production called Rome.”
“That must have sucked for the idea guy,” Riley said.
Farrelli waved, indicating a stool two away from him. “Yeah, but he didn’t let it stop him. He took the idea of a place with no real police, and he searched for another locale fitting the bill. And he found Deadwood. A town in an unincorporated territory outside anyone’s jurisdiction. Interesting.” Farrelli paused. “Could have just as easily set that story here. Beaufort County technically has jurisdiction here, but Beaufort is a long way away. And the tax revenue from tourism for the rest of the county makes them keep a light touch on the island. There’s a lot of money on this island, and people with a lot of money want to be left alone.”
Riley sat down. “You know the thing I remember most about Deadwood, Mister Farrelli?”
“What’s that?”
“How over the course of the first season, the protagonist, the hero, Bullock, even though he becomes sheriff, isn’t the hero any more. It’s the bad guy, Swearingen, the saloon keeper, the killer, who becomes the hero.”
The hint of a smile cracked Farrelli’s thin lips. “And why do you think that happened?”
“Because he was the more interesting of the two,” Riley said. “Bullock just had anger and a sense of honor and righteousness. Swearingen had a lot of people loyal to him.”
Farrelli nodded. “Exactly. You big on loyalty, Riley?”
“Yes.”
“What about honor?”
“It’s external,” Riley said. “Can get you killed.”
Farrelli got up and went around the bar. “Some vino?”
“I’m just a beer guy.”
Farrelli laughed. “Black Irish father and Puerto Rican mother, right? What a mix that is: don’t know whether to get drunk or cut you. Beer it is.” He reached into a cooler and extracted a bottle of Harp beer. “Here’s for the Irish half of you.” He hit the bottle expertly on the opener screwed into the backside of the bar, then slid the bottle in front of Riley. “I’m assuming you do without a glass?”
“I do.” Riley picked up the bottle and took a drag.
“You run a nickels-and-dimes business over there on Dafuskie,” Farrelli said, and his Jersey showed on the island name: Dafooskie. He topped off his own glass of wine.
“I’m content.”
“Most people aren’t.” Farrelli came back around the bar and reclaimed his stool. “Your uncle, Xavier, was a stand-up guy. Honorable and loyal.”
“He was.”
Farrelli looked Riley in the eyes. “It’s why I’ve never taken the ferry over there for business. Played a couple rounds now and then.”
“I appreciate that,” Riley said.
“If you’re content and appreciative, why are you here?”
“A kid got kidnapped in Spanish Wells last night,” Riley said. “There was some shooting. I’m trying to help a friend find the kid.” As he said it, Riley wondered when Horace Chase had become his friend. The word felt awkward coming off his tongue and he knew it wasn’t true. Yet. Chase would have to earn that term.
Farrelli picked up the same thing. “A friend? A kid getting kidnapped? Call the cops. The Feds.”
“As you just noted,” Riley said, “we’re kind of in the wild west here. Or ancient Rome. Take your pick. And my friend went to the cops. They said he could do better taking care of it on his own.”
Farrelli laughed. “Nice. You mean the Beaufort Sheriff.” He pronounced it boofoot. “You know, you could hook your business up with mine. Make a lot more. I could direct some high rollers to you. They’d think you were easy. That would make them bet stupid.”
“High rollers tend to be pains in the ass,” Riley said.
“True. And you aren’t easy, are you?”
“You asking me out for a date?” Riley asked, and Farrelli gave an honest laugh.
“Your uncle had a sense of humor, too. Nothing seemed to get to him.”
“Cancer did,” Riley said.
“Death gets to all of us, sooner or later,” Farrelli said.
“This place ever really serve food?” Riley indicated the tables, complete with white tablecloths and cutlery.
“Got a great chef in-season,” Farrelli replied.
“Yeah, but no sign, who are the customers?”
“We don’t advertise,” Farrelli said, “but I’ve got enough private customers to more than pay for the chef.”
“You got reach,” Riley summarized.
“Stop by in-season,” Farrelli said. “As my guest.”
“I appreciate that.” Riley took another pull on the beer. “So. Anything on a kidnapping?”
“Who is the kid?”
“Cole Briggs. His father helps run some off-shore gambling site called SAS. The kidnappers want the Super Bowl action diverted.”
“And how much will that be?”
“A lot.”
Farrelli laughed again. “Your ‘a lot’ and my ‘a lot’ probably vary considerably.”
The front door opened and two men walked in. Suits, aviator sunglasses, muscles bulging from steroids. They joined the doorman, whispering with him and nodding toward the bar several times in the discussion.
“It’s way past my ‘a lot,’” Riley said. “Probably even bigger than your ‘a lot.’”
Farrelli tapped the edge of his wine glass with his pinkie rung. “I know of SAS. Nice scam. I believe Congress will make online gambling legal in the States soon, so they can tax it, otherwise it might be a place to, hmm, let’s say investigate further. But I can wait for Congress to do the job for me. Already got a couple kids, what do ya call ‘em, geeks, working on some mock-ups of an online site for me.”
“I’m not a threat,” Riley said, gesturing with the bottle of Harp toward the extra muscle.
“Oh, I disagree,” Farrelli said. “Your Uncle Xavier was a potential threat. I respected him. And I knew he wouldn’t be worth going after. As I’ve known you haven’t been worth going after. Profit and loss statements, and all that. I think your P&L would be in the red.”
It was Riley’s turn to laugh. “You sure you’re from Jersey?”
“You ask what exit, I will have them kill you.” Farrelli sounded serious.
“Do you know SAS was taken off-line during the conference championship games?” Riley asked.
“Yes.”
“The Russians do it?”
Farrelli shrugged. “Most likely. I offered SAS protection. They did not accept it. I would say the facts have now proven that was foolish on their part.”
“Which opens up the possibility that you staged the kidnapping to prove how vulnerable they are.”
Farrelli’s face tightened in anger.
Riley held up his hands. “All right. Not you. But could you protect them from an Internet takedown? From the Russians?”
“I have a reputation that they might not want to mess with. And, as I said, I have some Internet guys working for me. They tell me it was the Russians who hijacked the site. SAS should have taken me up on my offer of help. Walter Briggs, the man who is part of SAS, is not the most threatening persona.”
“‘Part of SAS?’” Riley asked. “What’s the other part?”
Farrelli shook his head. “I don’t know. Briggs is a computer guy, but not the type who could get an operation like that running and keep it running. He’s got to have a partner with brains and balls.”
“No idea who? His wife thinks it’s someone down in Antigua.”
“That would be logical. Think this is the wild west, the islands are crazy. Everything goes to the highest bidder there.”
“And it doesn’t here? Aren’t we in Deadwood?”
Farrelli laughed.
“What about Peter Rollins?” Riley asked.
“What about him?”
“I heard he’s into SAS for a million,” Riley said.
Farrelli smiled. “He’s into me for a dime since I played golf with him the other day. He’d bet on whether the grass was green. A fucking degenerate gambler.” He sat silent for a little while, then shook his head. “I don’t think Rollins has the balls to try something like kidnapping.”
“Desperate men do desperate things,” Riley said.
Farrelli nodded. “It’s why I try not to make men desperate.”
“I’m sure it keeps you up at night,” Riley said, and Farrelli laughed.
“Yes. That was a bit of bullshit. But Rollins? He’s got financial trouble beyond owing SAS. He’s been butting heads with the Quad.”
“I’ve heard of them, but who are they, exactly?” Riley said.
“You’ve probably seen all of ‘em,” Farrelli said, “either on the golf course out there, or drinking in the Shack. Citadel grads. Sort of like the Outfit, except they act fancier because they all went to the same school there in Charleston. They run most of South Carolina, especially Charleston. A lot of old families.
“Except the Quad carved up Savannah, leaving Charleston to their classmates with better pedigrees South of Broad. Pecking orders to everything.” Farrelli shook his head, obviously honestly befuddled. “I mean, it ain’t like we boast about who got off on Ellis Island first up in Jersey. But these snoots down here, act like their ancestors got rowed over by God, especially in Charleston. It’s a pretty town, but the snobbishness, is that a word?” He paused for confirmation from Riley.
“I think it is in Charleston.”
Farrelli continued. “It’s overwhelming. Like we shouldn’t even be able to breathe their air. Savannah ain’t as bad, but Karralkov is muscling in down there. While their business interests seem different, they tangentially—is that a word?”
“Yes, sir,” Riley said.
“Their businesses tangentially intersect,” Farrelli said. “Thus, there is bound to be more and more friction as time goes by.”
“Between the Quad and Karralkov,” Riley said. “How does Rollins play into this?”
“He overreached before the economy went south. Ended up holding the bag on a lot of property that’s worth a lot less than what he paid. The Quad is trying to buy him out of a number of places, at a big loss for him. I wouldn’t be surprised if Karralkov is doing the same, except using front companies. Rollins is caught in the middle.”
“You know Savannah was founded using convicts?” Riley asked, processing that information.
“I suppose that’s why they ain’t as snooty,” Farrelli agreed.
“Any other thoughts on who might be going after SAS and kidnapped the kid?”
Farrelli stared at Riley. “I believe it is dishonorable to attack someone’s family. There must be some rules.”
“So the kid,” Riley pressed. “Anything?”
“No.” Farrelli slid off his stool, indicating the meeting was over. “But given it was a child, I’ll ask around. Shouldn’t mess with people’s families.”
Riley stuck his hand out. “I appreciate the conversation.”
Farrelli stared at the hand like it was a snake for a moment, then took it. His grip was firm and warm. “How’d you know to find me in here?”
Riley nodded his head to the door. “New York Pizza? How much cash do you clean through there every night in-season?”
“Uh-huh,” was Farrelli’s only response to that.
“And why not New Jersey Pizza?”
“No one eats New Jersey pizza,” Farrelli said.
“That’s true.” Riley went to the door. He paused before leaving, then looked over his shoulder. “Thanks.”
“For?”
“Looking into it,” Riley said. “But also for letting my Uncle alone. He died in pain, but not threatened.”
* * * * *
Horace Chase had his sweater on, with a windbreaker on top, as the wind whistled through his Jeep. Chase could put the top up, but he preferred the chill wind on his face, a futile attempt to cool off his anger. He was on South Okatie Highway, heading south toward Savannah, skirting the tidal flats that extended miles in from the Atlantic.
Chase was not fond of Russians. He’d battled them in Afghanistan, and he’d almost been killed by one in Boulder, Colorado during his last assignment working for the government. If they were the ones who’d grabbed Cody, this was going to be an uphill battle to get the boy back.
History books said the Soviet Army withdrew in defeat from Afghanistan in 1989 after ten years of bitter fighting. Officially, they did. Unofficially, they left a criminal presence in country that flourished, working the opium trade, at least until the Taliban took over the country in 1996 and imposed sanctions. At first the drug was suppressed, but like any government, the Taliban needed money, so they took over the opium fields, eventually controlling well over ninety percent and imposing high taxes. The displaced Russian criminals were among the biggest rooting section when the Americans invaded in 2001 to take down the Taliban, and they picked up where they had left off.
An exiled Russian drug dealer had been put into the CIA Witness Protection Program and relocated to Boulder. After many bodies, including that of a baby, Chase had finally tracked Vladislav high into the Rocky Mountains, and the result had been bloody. The Russian mindset was paranoia layered with crazy, mixed with ruthlessness. A country that had absorbed Tsars, Napoleon, Hitler, Stalin, and more invasions than one could count, produced a certain type of criminal. One that adapted to their environment, and then literally carved out their place in it. They didn’t assimilate, they infested.
Chase’s cell phone buzzed.
He plugged a pair of ear buds in the jack and stuck them in his ears before answering. A disadvantage of driving a Jeep with the top down was, it was hard to hear.
“Yeah?” Chase yelled.
“It’s Erin.”
He could barely make out her voice. “What’s up?”
“I just had a couple of Russians in my place, asking whose dog was shot last night.”
Chase’s foot tapped the brake and he put on his turn signal, searching for a place to pull off. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah. A friend helped me out.”
Chase pulled off the two-lane road onto a narrow piece of shoulder. “I’ll be right there.”
“I’m fine,” Erin said. “Did you find out who took the kid?”
“I was on my way to Savannah to talk to a Russian, as a matter of fact. Did you find out who sent them?”
“Gator did.”
“‘Gator?’”
“A friend. They said a man named Karralkov.” She gave Chase the two men’s names. “One of them had his arm in a sling—I think he’s the one you shot.”
Chase gripped the phone tighter. “Karralkov’s exactly who I’m going to see. Did they threaten you?”
“They tried, but Gator took care of them.”
Chase took a deep breath. “All right. We need to all meet up when I get back. Out at my place.”
“I thought it wasn’t safe,” Erin said.
“I don’t think any place is safe, but if you bring your friend Gator, sounds like you should be all right. Plus, I think we’re at an impasse now with the kidnapping. A cease-fire.”
“I’ll be fine with Gator with me.”
“Then my house at”—Chase glanced at the dash—“five. And call Dave Riley and tell him about the meeting.” He gave Riley’s cell phone number.
“The Riley who is over on Dafuskie at the Shack?”
“Yeah. And Kono.” He relayed a second number.
“Interesting friends you have, Horace.”
“You’re one of them, right?”
“I am. I’ll make the calls. See you then. And Horace?”
“Yes?”
“Be careful.” The phone went dead.
Chase left the Jeep in park and considered the situation. If Karralkov was trying to find out who he was ...
Chase scrolled through the contact list on his phone.
It was a depressingly short list. Mostly people he’d served with. His old partner, Porter, back in the Boulder P.D., was about the only one he’d really call a friend.
He found the number he was looking for listed simply under BLACK, a not-so-subtle reference to the world the man he needed moved in.
Chase hit autodial, having no idea if the other end would be picked up, if the man was in country, or even alive.
“Horace Chase.” The voice was dry and humorless, somehow implying that the owner was a man who never laughed.
“Cardena.” How Cardena knew it was him, when his caller ID came up as private, wasn’t even a question worth asking.
“Mister Chase. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Cardena asked. “Looking for a job? I have a few specials that could use your unique talents.”
Chase had met Cardena only twice, the first at Denver International, when Cardena had posed as a DEA agent with information Chase had needed to solve an apparent rape-murder and the killing of a state trooper. The second had been the impetus for Chase to retire: in a van in downtown Boulder, after Chase had killed Vladislav’s CIA handler. Chase had no idea who Cardena really worked for, but it was an organization that was more powerful than the alphabet soups, since it had set up that very killing.
“I need some information,” Chase said.
“I gave you information once before,” Cardena said. “It led to the death of a CIA agent.”
“A death you wanted.”
“That is true.”
“And it got rid of Vladislav, something else you wanted.”
“Whose death are we considering now?”
“A Russian named Karralkov. Based near Savannah, Georgia.”
“You have a thing for Russians,” Cardena said. “What is it in regards to?”
“I think he kidnapped a boy.”
“Your son?”
“No.”
“Related to you?”
“No.”
“Then why should you give a shit, Chase? You should know better. Didn’t Colorado teach you anything?”
Chase assumed those were rhetorical questions, so he didn’t answer. For all he knew, Cardena was sitting in some office buried deep inside whatever covert organization he worked for, tracking this call. If this were the ‘Stan, he could even be vectoring a Predator in on this location as they spoke. They weren’t in the ‘Stan, but Chase had heard rumors the Predators were beginning to fly over the United States, and he had no doubt that would eventually happen.
Cardena finally spoke again. “Karralkov is a bad man, as I assume you know. Mobbed up, through Kiev, which technically makes him Ukranian, not Russian, but his allegiances predate the breakup. Did some time working in Afghanistan, but was one of the first to get out when the Taliban came to power, which means he’s either really smart, or a coward. I doubt it’s the latter; they tend to die quickly in the Russian mob. You think he kidnapped a kid? What for?”
“Redirect betting money for the Super Bowl.”
“How much we talking?”
“Fifty million or so.”
“Hmm,” Cardena murmured. “That might be enough to interest Karralkov, but kidnapping is a federal offense, and he’s got a lot of illegal activities going on. He’d want to keep the Feds disinterested in his operation. Where he’s at, the locals really aren’t a threat.”
“The Feds have no interest in him?”
“Not the low-level Feds,” Cardena said. “The FBI has a file on him, gathering dust in Columbia. That’s Columbia, South Carolina. That field office is more concerned about the Savannah River Plant, and all the radioactive shit stored there and some other key sites. Counter-terrorism is the main game, and has been since nine-eleven. The Russians are just the new mob. The days of Dillinger and Melvin Purvis are long gone.”
“And what do the high-level Feds think?” I.E. you, Chase thought.
“We have no use for Karralkov,” Cardena said. He paused. “As far as I know.”
“I think you know a lot.”
“No one knows everything,” Cardena said. “Especially not in this world. Everyone has to work for someone, even me, and even Karralkov. Let me run it up the flagpole. See if it ruffles any feathers, but I doubt it.”
“Anything I can use as leverage on him?”
“Give him what he wants. It’s the only leverage. Get your head out of your ass.”
“And if I go after him?”
Cardena’s snort of derision was clear over the phone. “Good luck.”
“Will anyone come looking for some missing Russians?”
“The Feds aren’t even looking for living Russians down there,” Cardena said. There was a long pause. “As I said, to the best of my knowledge, we have no use for Karralkov or his crew. If I don’t call you back within the hour saying differently, whatever you do, unless you involve innocent civilians or make the front page of the paper or the lead in the local headline news, will be off the books.”
“That’s good to know,” Chase said. “What about—”
The phone went dead.
Chase’s knuckles were white as he gripped the phone tightly. He was sick of people telling him what he could and couldn’t do. His entire life since entering West Point, someone had been telling him what to do, what not to do, what his limits were, while at the same time pushing him beyond his own limits for their own goals.
With a jerk of the wheel, he pulled back onto the road and headed south, hands trembling on the wheel, thinking of how he had placed Erin in danger. When he turned left onto Speedway Boulevard, the trees disappeared, and he was in the tidal marshes. As the road curved around back to the south, he could see the twin towers of the Talmadge Bridge that connected South Carolina with Georgia. It was high enough so that oceangoing vessels could pass beneath it. Savannah was the fourth busiest seaport in the United States, and Chase had no doubt that factored into a Russian mobster being in the area.
There appeared to be nothing on this stretch of road heading toward the bridge, and then, as he got closer, Chase saw a two-story building set off to the right, about a mile before the low bridge onto Hutchinson Island, where the ramp for the Talmadge Bridge started.
A perfect location to hide in plain sight. Someone on the roof of the building could see anyone approaching on the road in either direction for miles. A wide inlet reaching up from the Savannah River came right behind the building, and a sleek fifty-foot yacht was tied up to a dock. Not bad for a seedy strip club owner.
Chase pulled into parking lot, the tingling sensation on the back of his neck telling him he was being watched, and by unfriendly eyes. A neon sign read TANTALIZE and a set of wide stairs led to a pair of blackened-out glass doors. There were no other cars in the lot, but he saw two Black SUVs with tinted windows parked around the side.
Chase sat in his Jeep after turning the engine off. He remembered the SILVER SATYR, the club Sylvie danced in. He wondered if she still did. He wondered if he should have stayed in Boulder longer, tried harder to get her back into his life. He wondered why he was wondering, when he was about to face another fucking Russian.
Chase locked his gun in the steel box between the seats, but that only reminded him of the last time he’d made love to Sylvie, while she was bent over the sound bar, high on a mountainside overlooking Boulder. Of course, Chase had driven there to see if a killer could see a murder site, not for a romantic liaison; another thread that helped unravel that relationship.
Chase shook his head, focusing. He got out. On his way across the lot, he noted the name of the boat, inscribed on the stern: SHASHKA. The homeport was listed as Savannah. Chase walked up to the doors. As he reached for them, both swung open. Shadowy figures were on either side, holding them apart, and closing them as soon as he stepped inside. Chase paused to let his eyes adjust, but the two doormen didn’t give him that luxury. They grabbed him, one hand on his elbows, one on his arms, and lifted him off the ground, carrying him quite easily.
Chase didn’t fight it.
It wasn’t time for fighting.
Yet.
They pushed him through a pair of swinging doors, up a flight of stairs, and into a room with a large marble table filling the center, surrounded by a dozen chairs draped in velvet. They dumped Chase into one of the chairs, still without saying a word, then stood there, one on either side.
Chase took the opportunity before the ‘big meet,’ which was obviously being staged, to check out the room. There was a small, very sophisticated camera tucked in each corner. He assumed that the talent danced on the table to the exclusive clientele that made it upstairs to this room.
He was not expecting a lap dance. And he tried not to think what depravities occurred on the marble surface in front of him.
A door on the far side of the room opened and a tall, thin man walked in. His face was pinched, almost skull-like, and his eyes bulged ever so slightly. He sat down across the table from Chase and studied him, as if he could see through skin and bone into the core.
“You have Colorado license plates,” the man said, his Russian accent honed by an English finishing school, which made it sound almost distinguished. “You put a pistol in the lock box in your Jeep.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “You are Horace Chase. Formerly of the Boulder Police Department. Formerly of the United States Army. And soon to be formerly of this world, if you continue down the path you seem to be on.”
“You have the advantage on me,” Chase said.
“I do.”
“I assume you are Ivar Karralkov.”
“You can assume all you want,” Karralkov said. He began tapping a finger against his lips. “Did you run into a man named Vladislav while you were in Boulder? People are looking for him. Friends. They are quite concerned.”
“Friends of his, or friends of yours?” Riley asked.
“Both.”
“I ran into him.”
“And?”
“He was killed by a retired Special Forces officer named Rivers.”
The finger stopped tapping. “I appreciate that. You answered without hesitation. And you gave me bad news. Few people dare give me bad news.”
“Rivers is dead also,” Chase said. “He was killed by Vladislav’s CIA handler.”
“And the handler?”
“I killed him.”
“So you are the last man standing from the incident?”
“I am.”
“I have to assume someone with more power wanted the CIA handler dead,” Karralkov said, “or else you would not be this last man standing. Why are you here, Mister Chase?”
“A young boy, named Cole Briggs, was kidnapped last night on Hilton Head.”
“Was does that have to do with me?”
“I received information that implicated you in the kidnapping.”
“And you come here, leaving your gun in the car, and accuse me of kidnapping? Are you stupid, brave, or simply ignorant?”
“My friends know where I am,” Chase said. “If I’m not back on Hilton Head by five, they’ll come here looking for me. They won’t leave their guns in their cars.”
“You threaten me in my own place?”
“No. I state facts.”
Karralkov sighed. “I did not kidnap this boy. You can leave now.”
“Why did you send Ivan Oronsky and his partner to check on my dog and try to find me?”
“I do not know an Ivan Oronsky.”
“They threatened a friend of mine,” Chase said. “They shot at me. They shot my dog.” Chase wasn’t quite sure which pissed him off the most. He started to lean forward, but a hand on each shoulder clamped down like vices and slammed him back.
Karralkov waved a hand dismissively. “I did not kidnap this boy. I did not send men after a dog or you. This is your last chance to leave here unhurt.”
“You’re full of shit,” Chase said. “You shut down SAS’s computers two weeks ago.”
“Now you will be hurt,” Karralkov said.