Sergey Baksheev - Secret Target

Translator Boris Smirnov

© Sergey Baksheev, 2019

© Boris Smirnov, translation, 2019

ISBN 978-5-4496-1535-0

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

The Noose is a series of detective novels about a woman detective. Protagonist Elena Petelina is a tenacious, creative and decisive woman with an unsettled personal life. Besides investigating crimes, she must solve the problems afflicting her loved ones and delve into the secrets of the past – all while she strives to love and be loved.

Book1: Secret Target

Book2: Dangerous Evidence

Secret Target. The Russian Investigative Committee entrusts its most difficult cases to Detective Elena Petelina. Now the detective faces yet another mysterious murder. Each person associated with the crime has his or her own secret, and somehow one of these secrets involves Elena’s own father as well as her brother who disappeared many years ago…

Copyright © Sergey Baksheev, 2019

What’s keeping her? How much longer till that skank gets back?

Pressed flush against the steering wheel, Inna watches the green gates to the private residence. The autumnal dusk helps conceal her car, as does the roadside brush she’s parked behind.

What if I got the address wrong?

She looks around frantically. The address post by the gates reads «24.» The street sign at the intersection reads «Dorozhnaya Street.»

This is the skank’s house alright. She’ll be back from work soon. Come on, what’s keeping her? And what if she’s working late tonight?

Inna checks her watch for the hundredth time. Its hands tick with the urgency of molasses and a new fear grips her tighter than the last.

Maybe it’s me who’s late and she’s home already? Then all is lost!

But at long last something stirs in the vacant, suburban street. Inna wipes the cold sweat from her forehead with the palm of her gloved hand and sinks back into her seat. Through her sunglasses and the steering wheel, her eyes follow the approaching xenon beam as it glides along the fence. A car turns onto the silent street. The tires rustle and the beam splits in two, tracing a smooth arc over the bushes until it comes flush up against the closed gates. Inna recognizes the Volvo’s silhouette. That’s the car she’s been waiting for. In the twilight it looks darker, but as the door opens, the interior light rewards her anticipation.

The car is red.

The automatic gates remain closed.

Everything is as it should be.

She’s so on edge that her body feels like a seated statue. Unblinking, she watches the woman emerge from the car. The headlights illuminate her little ankle boots, their thin heels, but Inna is not interested in such details. The woman presses up against the gates and begins pushing them open. Now she’s fully in the lights’ glare.

She’s a blonde! It all fits!

As sensation returns to Inna’s limbs, she slips her hand into her purse and feels cold steel through her the fabric of her glove. Her eyes scan the little street one last time.

It’s still empty. Now is the time.

Inna throws open the car door and makes her way toward the gates. Her gaze is drawn taut, riveted to the back of the woman’s head, and it’s like she’s been attached to some invisible cable, gliding toward her target with the implacability of a counterweight. As she approaches, her right arm rises shoulder-level and extends. Inna’s two, bloodshot eyes are now joined by the gun’s empty barrel – all three straining at the blonde’s neat ringlets.

The owner of the house is rolling back the unruly gate when, suddenly, she stops mid-motion. Surely she’s heard Inna’s rapid footsteps. Surely she will now turn and – but it’s already too late. Nothing will save her. Inna walks right up to her and takes aim at her head.

No words – just pull the trigger.

She squeezes. The shot is deafening. Inna shuts her eyes from fright. When she opens them, it’s all over. The blonde is lying on the ground, her head across the gates’ threshold. The toes of her splayed boots cast long shadows, while the headlights’ glare creeps crassly up her rumpled skirt.

You earned it, you bitch.

Inna backs away, drops the handgun and runs back to her car.

Away from here! Home!

The drive from Aprelevka back to Moscow passes as in a fog. But there at last is her street. She turns into her building’s driveway. She feels the car come to a stop, and as it does so, a savage chill seizes her. Inna begins to shiver. Tears stream down her cheeks. In her mind, she’s still there, outside 24 Dorozhnaya Street. Murky spots float before her eyes. A green gate, a red car, bleach-blonde hair and – a horrible gunshot. The memory strikes her like an electric shock – her tears, her shivers cease.

Gather yourself. You’re only halfway there.

She gets out of the car, walks to the front entrance, notices the trash bins.

Almost forgot! Dump the clothes – there’s gunpowder on them.

She tosses her gray coat and gloves into the trash. The oversized sunglasses follow. Now she’ll buy herself some slim ones to change her look. She’ll have her bob trimmed short and buy a bright colored jacket. No one will recognize her.

Inna enters the building lobby and wearily ascends the stairs. One little pull of the trigger – but how exhausted it’s made her! Here’s her apartment. She already knows what’s inside and begins to grow afraid all over again.

But there’s no way back now. Have to make it through this too.

A deep breath – she holds it – then exhales. The door is unlocked. Inna crosses the threshold. Pop music blares from the television – starlets howling in unison about being humped and dumped – and Inna feels like screaming: «What’d you expect? A plastic doll?» But there’s a heavy lump in her throat that wants to come out, and it’s too early to start screaming anyway. She’s got to take at least a look first.

She takes three steps and comes across her husband’s slippers, lying forgotten in the middle of the hallway. And there is he who once wore them. Bare male legs stick out of the bath, heels up. The water burbles, the pop singers squeal and a dull drill hums tediously inside her head. Inna latches onto the doorjamb and peeks inside with rising horror. The back of her husband’s new blue bathrobe is smeared with whitish lumps of something revolting. Her gaze rises higher to the horrible gash on the back of his head. Dirty blood glosses the tile around the cleaver, little dried hairs stuck along its blade.

Inna wants to take a breath but cannot. The lump is choking her from within. Her eyes grow dim. She swoons and collapses onto the corpse – her hand flops into the pool of blood.

As Major Elena Pavlovna Petelina entered the lab, her heart tightened in rueful expectation. This is how it was each time some young man’s remains from the mid-’90s were uncovered. Eighteen years of searching. In the beginning, she would visit the morgue to identify the bodies. Back then, new ones would turn up as often as several times a week. She saw it all. By the age of seventeen, the gangsters’ cruel executions had been chiseled into the young girl’s memory not by the newspapers’ terse type but by the sight of broken bodies, gunshot wounds, burned flesh. And by the smell – of rot and decay. Thankfully, these days, the victims’ remains took on a more palatable appearance and were subjected strictly to DNA identification.