Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 119597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 478(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 478(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
That alone means he knows something.
With no other option, I’m forced to confront this situation in person, further delaying my search for Frankie.
Inside the hangar, a dismantled bush plane reveals the innards of a mechanic’s life. Tools of the trade scatter the space, including a forklift and flatbed truck.
No Turbo Beaver.
Not that I expected to see it here. It’s been twenty-five years since the last flight was logged.
I loosen my tie and tug at the cuffs of my sleeves, distinctly out of place. My expensive shoes shine against the dusty ground, the fabric of my tailored jacket fluttering in the grease-scented breeze.
Wealth is my cloak, shielding me from worlds like this. Yet here I stand, surrounded by simplicity and purpose. It’s unfamiliar, this proximity to manual labor and the grit of modest living.
But there are answers here.
My heart races at the thought of uncovering something, anything that could lead me to Frankie. The absence of clues has been crushing. I’m caught in a holding pattern where sleep evades me, and desperation constricts my chest.
With every passing day, the trail goes colder. Staler. Each tick of the clock is a drip of acid on the steel of my resolve, corroding layers of calm.
But as I pace through the hangar, I know she’s not the reason I’m here.
My restless steps stir up a cloud of dust that clings to my shoes and takes me deeper into a world far removed from my own. But I’m driven by a need to understand my family’s connection to this place.
The tread of footsteps approaches, drawing my focus.
Sirena strides in with a rugged-looking man in his fifties, his face etched with the deep creases of a life spent outdoors. A gray beard drapes over his chest, and his denim overalls struggle to contain his ample belly.
Her investigation into Alvis Duncan’s background revealed nothing out of the ordinary. He’s lived on this property his entire life, been married for thirty years, and earns his living doing mechanic work on small aircraft.
But he knows something.
“This is my employer, Monty Novak.” She motions at me. “Like I said on the phone, we’re looking for a missing person, and your name showed up on some old flight logs.”
Alvis greets me with a wary look, the kind that’s seen too much yet expects more.
“Thank you for meeting with us.” I grip his calloused hand in a brief shake.
“Told you I don’t know nothing.”
I remove two photographs from my breast pocket and hold up the first one. “Do you know this man?”
He glances at the stoic image of my father. “Never met him.”
“Look again. This is Rurik Strakh. He died twenty-five years ago.”
Glancing away, he mumbles, “I know the name.”
“How?”
“You with the police? The FBI?”
“No.” My pulse quickens. “Rurik was my father. How do you know him?”
“I don’t. But he used to send fancy people dressed like you.” He makes a whistling sound. “Must’ve been thirty years ago when the first man showed up. Said he worked for Rurik Strakh and would pay me good money to keep a log of the comings and goings of his plane.”
“A Turbo Beaver.” I rattle off the tail number by memory.
“Yeah. That’s it.”
“Where did it go when it left here? Who was on board?”
“Can’t say.”
“Can’t say or won’t say?” My hands twitch to reach out and strangle the answers from him.
His eyes dart to the exit, his breaths growing shallow, like he’s running out of air.
“Won’t say,” I answer for him.
Rurik Strakh kept some dangerous men on his payroll. Ex-Russian military. Armed escorts. Mobsters. Hitmen.
It’s safe to assume these hired guns put the fear of God in poor Alvis Duncan. If Rurik built an off-grid safe house with regular supply runs and staff to maintain it, he wouldn’t want anyone to know its location.
So why keep a flight log?
Why involve Alvis at all?
“These men…” I snag his gaze and hold it steady. “If they threatened you to keep your mouth shut, none of that matters now. They no longer work for my father. He’s dead. I’m here on unrelated business.”
“You’re his son. No offense, but I didn’t like his fancy, uptight men. And I don’t like you much, neither.”
My anger crackles, a live wire sparking and snapping as I shove a finger at his chest. “Listen to me, you redneck fuck—”
“Excuse us for a minute.” Sirena wedges between us and forces me backward with a loud glare and a hushed voice. “You’re not helping. Can you give me a minute with him, please?”
I take a deep breath, attempting to quell the storm.
She plasters on a sweet smile and turns back to Alvis. “We’re not investigating you, Mr. Duncan. We’re trying to find Monty’s missing wife.”
His lips purse. “Sorry to hear that.”
“You might be able to help us find her.” She taps on her phone screen and shows him a photo of Frankie in a cocktail dress. “Have you seen her?”