The Rescue

Book 1: Ryan Decker

by Steven Konkoly

Genres: Action & Adventure; Military Thrillers; Political Thrillers

Synopsis

For fans of Tom Clancy and Lee Child, a heart-pumping thriller of betrayal, revenge, and conspiracy by USA Today bestselling author Steven Konkoly.

Former CIA operative turned mercenary for hire Ryan Decker’s specialty is rescuing kidnap victims. Hired by an influential US senator to liberate his daughter from a human-trafficking ring, Decker never anticipated sabotage or that the assault could go so disastrously wrong. The hostage is dead. His team is wiped out, and so are their families, including Decker’s own wife and son — eliminated one by one by the Russian mafia. And he’s survived to take the fall.

When he’s inexplicably freed soon into a ten-year sentence in federal prison, Decker suspects another setup. And private investigator Harlow Mackenzie knows he’s right. She has evidence that a power greater than the Russian mob was behind the raid that ruined Decker’s life.

The next move in a nationwide cat-and-mouse game of high-level sedition is up to them. Fueled by revenge and an obsession to clear his name, Decker has only one mission: to destroy a growing conspiracy before it’s too late.

Release date: April 1, 2019

Publisher: Thomas & Mercer

Print pages: 390

Sample

Chapter One
Ryan Decker wiped the perspiration from his face with a damp, threadbare hand towel. A futile gesture he’d repeat again in a few moments. The temperature inside the dank motel room pushed ninety degrees, the rattling air conditioner unable to keep up with the extra demand imposed by his teammates and a table packed with overtaxed computer towers.

Luckily for him, the two-day stay at La Jacinta Inn was rapidly approaching an end. Barring any unforeseen difficulties, they should be packing up within ten minutes. Gone in less than twenty.

“Ghost just crossed phase line Charlie,” said Brad Pierce, the team’s second-in-command.

“Tell them they need to pick up the pace,” said Decker. “Specter crossed Charlie a minute ago.”

“They know what they’re doing.”

“I know,” said Decker, confirming Ghost’s position on the flat-screen monitor.

Ghost, a five-man team of seasoned hostage-rescue operators, had the tougher approach, crossing several hills and ravines from their drop-off point north of the target house. The thicker scrub and occasional tree in the hills would camouflage their approach and allow them to nestle in closer to the Bratva “distribution center” than Specter, which would have to cross nearly a hundred yards of flat, sandy ground to reach the house.

Specter was the direct-action assault team, assigned to clear a path immediately outside and then inside the target structure for Ghost. Comprised of six former SWAT and Special Forces operators, they would arrive from the south and split into two groups of three, to enter the house from opposite sides. Ghost would closely follow whichever team encountered the least resistance and execute the hostage-rescue phase of the operation.

Decker had outsourced the hostage-rescue team from an exclusive word-of-mouth-only group that specialized in “actively opposed asset recoveries.” His in-house hostage-rescue team was top-notch, but the men and women he’d hired for this mission were the absolute best in the business. You didn’t cut corners with the life of an influential US senator’s daughter on the line.

Deborah Payne, his lead tactical operations coordinator, spoke without moving her eyes from the screen. “Specter reports no obvious movement in the house. All dark.”

“Thermal imaging?” said Decker.

“Nothing.”

He didn’t like that. A few guards would be active, even at two in the morning, especially given what the long-range surveillance team had confirmed earlier in the day. Fifteen children and teenagers had been moved into the house during the morning. Decker had planned to move on the location last night—but when he learned that more kids were on the way, he delayed the mission by twenty-four hours. He couldn’t leave these children in the hands of the Russian mob.

The isolated Riverside County compound served as a Bratva collection point for children abducted from the greater Los Angeles area. Abductees were inspected and evaluated over the span of a few days, then assigned to various categories for distribution into the Bratva’s human-trafficking network.

The senator’s daughter could endure one more day of captivity to save this newly arrived “crop.”

“Dammit,” muttered Pierce. “I told you it was a bad idea to wait. If the place is empty, we’re screwed.”

“It’s not empty,” said Decker. “We’ve had a team watching the place for three days. She’s there.”

“What if she’s not?”

“Then our intelligence is wrong, and she was never there.”

“The intel is good,” said Pierce.

“Then we have nothing to worry about. Only the driver and escort crew left with the delivery van. Just like they always do.”

“As far as we could tell.”

“They’ve never concealed a transfer at a location like this before,” said Decker. “Hell. They barely disguise what they’re doing in the middle of the city—in broad daylight.”

“I’m just saying we have a lot riding on this one.”

“We always have a lot riding on these,” said Decker.

“You know what I mean.”

Decker nodded. “I do. Everything will be fine.”

Pierce didn’t look convinced, and Decker started to have his own doubts. He shook his head. No. The kids were there. The guards were there. Senator Steele’s daughter was there, and if she wasn’t, the Bratva had moved her long before Decker received the information asserting her presence at the house.

He’d been entirely frank with Senator Steele and Jacob Harcourt from the start: too much time had elapsed since the girl’s disappearance, the FBI had produced no physical evidence, and no ransom note had been delivered. The likelihood of finding Meghan Steele was nearly nonexistent. Nearly.

Decker’s World Recovery Group got extremely lucky after a long month and a half of searching. Needle-in-a-haystack lucky. The odds of finding this needle twice would be nonexistent once the Bratva learned what happened here. This would be Decker’s last shot at finding the senator’s daughter.

“Ghost is in final position,” said Payne.

Decker took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. “Give them the green light.”

“Specter. This is Tombstone. You have a green light to breach the house. Ghost, advise when you start the hostage-rescue phase.”

Decker watched the Specter team leader’s bouncing feed as the operative reached the back door. The other half of his team was on the other side of the house. Several seconds passed as the team prepped small explosive charges that would blow the door off its hinges.

“Specter Two ready for breach,” announced a gravelly voice.

“Copy that. Specter One ready. Stand by to breach,” said the team leader. “Two. One. Breach.”

The simultaneous flash of the door charges was followed by rapid, confusing camera movement. A few seconds later, the video feed stabilized. A tightly clustered, night vision–equipped group of operatives appeared in the far left corner of the feed, panning their rifles around a large common area featuring a combined kitchen and living room. The team leader’s camera pointed at a padlocked door leading to the other half of the house.

“Something’s off,” said Payne. “No guards.”

His teams must have been detected on the way in. That was the only explanation. Decker had a bad feeling about what they’d find on the other side of that door. Pierce muttered an obscenity, shaking his head.

“Bring Ghost up and breach the padlocked door immediately,” said Decker.

Payne relayed the orders, and the body armor–clad operatives swarmed forward to attach the explosive charges. Ghost team stacked up along the wall next to the door, waiting for Specter to finish their job.

Pierce tapped his shoulder. “We have company,” he said. “Front Door has a tight convoy of Suburbans and Town Cars turning onto Florida from Santa Fe. Heading in our direction.”

Front Door was a two-person surveillance team situated on the roof of a realty business across the street from the motel. They had a commanding view of Florida Street and the front entrance. Another team sat on the roof of a two-story building behind the motel, ensuring nobody could sneak up on Decker’s command center undetected.

“Do you want me to delay the breach?” said Payne.

“Hold on, Deb,” said Decker, turning to Pierce. “How long until the vehicles reach the motel entrance?”

“Ten seconds max. They’re moving fast.”

The time would feel like an eternity for the teams at the target house, but Decker needed to know what they were up against from the vehicles outside the motel before making a final decision.

“Any sign of similar activity near the target house?”

“Negative,” replied the operations technician seated next to Payne. “Graveyard reports all clear.”

It had to be the FBI. Agent Reeves, the special agent in charge of the Steele case, had protested WRG’s involvement from the start, embarking on an immediate campaign of harassment that had required the senator’s intervention. Reeves had picked the worst possible moment to renew his vendetta.

“Tell them to breach in twenty seconds unless they hear otherwise,” said Decker.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” said Pierce.

“If a bunch of Russians jump out of those vehicles, I’ll assume the worst about the house and withdraw the team.”

“You haven’t already assumed the—” Pierce began. “Hold that. Back Door reports heavily armed teams on foot approaching the back of the motel. FBI stenciled in bold letters on their ballistic shields.”

“Has to be Reeves. The senator will have his badge for this,” muttered Decker.

“What are we doing?” said Payne.

“The operations center stands down. Only the operations center,” said Decker. “Tell Ghost to breach the door now and rescue the hostages. Then transfer command of the operation to Graveyard. Let them know we’re compromised.”

“Copy that,” said Payne before transmitting the orders.

Red strobe lights flashed through the thin cracks between the window shades as tires screeched in the distance.

“Front Door reports heavily armed personnel exiting the vehicles and heading for the motor court entrance. FBI stencils confirmed,” said Pierce. “What now?”

“We disarm and walk out with our hands up. Immediately,” said Decker, removing his pistol from a concealed hip holster and tossing it on the bed.

“What about the surveillance teams?” said Pierce.

“My guess is they’ve already been made. Probably under sniper cover. Tell them to raise their hands and stand very still. Wait for the FBI.”

Pierce relayed instructions and threw his pistol on the bed next to Decker’s. “None of this makes sense,” he said. “The house—and now this?”

He was right. It didn’t add up, but there was nothing they could do about it right now. The best they could hope for was a miracle at the target house.

“Any word from Ghost?” said Decker, his hand on the doorknob.

“Breaching in a few seconds,” said Payne.

He wanted to wait, but they needed to beat the FBI into the motor court or things would get complicated. “It’s in their hands now,” he said. “Everyone disarm and walk out behind me.”

“I’ll switch the feed over to a wireless earpiece,” said Payne, standing up. “They might not notice.”

“Good thinking.”

Satisfied that everyone was disarmed and ready, Decker opened the door and raised his hands, scanning the empty, weed-infested parking lot. Red strobe lights from a dark SUV penetrated the arched motor court entrance, reflecting off the ground-floor windows. He took several steps into cooler night air, turning his head far enough to see that everyone on the command team had followed. Doors on both sides of the motor court creaked open, and his internal security teams streamed into the parking lot.

All of his people stood in the middle of the lot, hands held high above their heads. A few seconds later, the courtyard swarmed with heavily armed, body armor–encased FBI agents barking orders. Decker followed their instructions, ending up facedown—with his hands zip-tied behind his back. He turned his head to the side, scraping his cheek on crumbled asphalt. A rifle barrel gently poked the other cheek.

“Don’t move,” said the agent, activating the flashlight attached to his rifle.

Decker closed his eyes, unable to keep them open in the blinding light.

A nearby agent yelled, “Over here,” and more light penetrated his eyelids.

“Ryan,” Payne whispered next to him. “The feed went dead.”

He turned his head. “What do you mean?”

The rifle barrel pressed against the top of his head. “Stop talking and stop moving. That’s your last warning.”

“The feed just flatlined,” said Payne.

“What part of shut up don’t you understand?” The agent standing above Payne pushed her head down with his rifle barrel.

“Where’s Decker?” said a familiar voice. Special Agent Reeves.

Before anyone answered, the pavement shuddered once, the word earthquake thrown around the motor court by the agents.

“Isn’t that ironic!” said Reeves, his voice nearby. “An earthquake at the very moment Ryan Decker is shut down for good.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is coincidence,” said Decker, the rifle barrel pressing hard into his cheekbone.

Reeves squatted between Decker and Payne, a victorious grin plastered on his face. “What’s going on here, Mr. Decker?”

“We’re completely legit.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Reeves. “I imagine I’ll find some non-California-compliant firearms in these rooms. This looks like the kind of operation you’d want to protect with some serious firepower, given the people you’re bound to piss off.”

“Sounds like you’re the only one pissed around here. Everything is California compliant.”

“Well. I’m not interested in this half of the equation,” said Reeves. “I want the other half.”

“This is it. We’re conducting routine surveillance related to Meghan Steele’s kidnapping.”

“You’re doing more than following up worthless leads. Something big is going on nearby.”

One of the agents spoke up. “The woman here was saying something about a feed going dead.”

“Feed to who?” said Reeves.

A deep, window-rattling crunch cut off Payne’s smart-ass reply.

Reeves looked around the parking lot. “That better not be any of your handiwork, Decker. High explosives are pretty freaking far from California compliant.”

It all came together for Decker in the blink of an eye. No guards at the target house. Ground waves traveled faster than sound. The parking lot vibration, then, thirty seconds later, a massive, distant explosion. The house had been rigged with explosives. The Russians had known they were coming—well before Decker’s team arrived in Hemet.

It was the only explanation. But why didn’t they drive a truck bomb into the motor court at the same time and simply cut the rest of the operation down? All of this was related. It had to be. But how? The Russians must have tipped off the FBI, which brought him back to one of his previous questions: Why not vaporize everyone at once?

Decker’s vision narrowed with the realization that the command team had been spared for a reason. The Russians weren’t done with them.

Chapter Two
Two years later

Decker dragged the flimsy disposable razor over the thick stubble on the side of his chin before swishing it in lukewarm water. He repeated the process until the thin layer of gel was gone and his face was smooth. The moment he set the razor down on the side of the sink, a rap against the cell door reminded him the rules still applied, regardless of why he had been transferred. He walked the plastic razor to the door and put it in the small stainless steel bin, which quickly closed.

“Get dressed,” said the guard through the intercom. “Marshals are waiting for you.”

Decker nodded and returned to the sink to wipe the rest of the gel from his face. Pausing in front of the mirror, he took a long look at the hard face staring back at him. Same face. Same man. At least that’s what he told himself every time he could bear to look. In truth, nothing was the same—and never would be again. Life as he’d once known it had come to a sudden, unceremonious end two years ago, at a rat-trap motel in Hemet, California.

Overnight, Ryan Decker, decorated Marine veteran and savior of the innocent, had become Prisoner 6581, criminally negligent mercenary and killer of children. Even worse, the loving husband and caring father of two had turned into a disgraced widower and father of one. The newspapers had been merciless from the beginning. The prosecutors—ruthless to the bitter end.

Even his surviving daughter, Riley, blamed him for what happened and wanted nothing to do with him, or so he’d been told. His wife’s sister had assumed custody immediately after his arrest and hidden her from the world—and him. Unceremoniously ripped from his life, like his wife and son.

He’d give anything to see her again, or even hear her voice. He’d sent her dozens of letters through his parents, so her aunt wouldn’t intercept them, but he’d never received a reply. Decker had no idea if she read them. His parents passed them along during the regular visits they were allowed, but she never opened the letters in front of them. It didn’t matter. He’d keep writing. At some point she might change her mind, and he wanted her to know he’d never given up on her.

He rubbed his smooth chin and looked away from the mirror toward the stack of loosely folded civilian clothes on the bed. Khaki pants, long-sleeved blue button-down shirt, black socks, and a pair of brown loafers. He lifted the shirt, frowning at the wrinkles. Seriously? This was the best the FBI could do for a court appearance? Whatever. It beat the orange jumpsuit—barely.

Normally he wouldn’t care, but today wasn’t about Ryan Decker. It was about something bigger. Something he cared passionately enough about to put aside his distaste for Special Agent Reeves, the man who had made it his personal mission to put Decker behind bars. The very thing that landed him here in the first place—a compulsive sense of duty to protect the innocent.

At some point today, he would testify against the Solntsevskaya Bratva, in a trial focused on the mob organization’s human-trafficking operation—or at least that’s what he assumed. The Department of Justice had moved him without prior notice from the United States penitentiary in Victorville, California, to the Los Angeles Metropolitan Detention Center, a few blocks from the US District Courthouse. He was familiar with the facility, having spent several months here awaiting his own trial. Inmates returned only to testify in federal cases.

The secretive nature of his transfer further supported the theory. The federal case against the Bratva had kicked into full gear six months after the Hemet disaster—partly due to a wealth of detailed information collected by Decker over the years. Information not subject to Fourth Amendment evidentiary standards, but dependent on his testimony. Hard-earned testimony.

In just over two years of federal custody, Decker had survived eight attempts on his life—a new record, according to the warden at Victorville. Someone really wanted to bury that testimony, and Decker’s money was on the Russians. The Bratva had a vested interest in deep-sixing him, and the feds had no intention of fumbling the case this close to victory. Hence, the pains they had undertaken to keep the transfer a secret.

He’d been placed in protective confinement at Victorville three days before US marshals arrived unannounced and drove him straight to Los Angeles. He’d been in this solitary holding cell since his arrival around four o’clock in the morning. No visitors. No fanfare. Marshals stationed nearby. Factory-sealed MRE for breakfast. The US attorney’s office wasn’t taking any chances today.

Decker removed his jumpsuit, catching a glimpse of a tightly muscled upper body in the mirror. Several finger-length scars wove across his body, each representing a different chapter in the near-death story that had defined his life. Only one other person knew the full story, taking it to her grave because of him. As far as he was concerned, that story would never be told again.

He finished dressing and checked his appearance. Business casual in federal court—after sleeping in the same clothes for a week.

“Could be worse,” he muttered before knocking on the door. “I’m ready.”

The door opened without the usual series of strict verbal instructions, causing Decker to tense, then move to the opposite wall and place his palms against the painted cinder block. He kept his head turned toward the door to get a jump on attempt number nine, should it materialize.

The same guard he’d seen upon arrival appeared in the doorway. “No need for that,” he said, motioning for Decker to step into the corridor.

Decker didn’t like the change in strict routine that had become his way of life for the past two years. The informality felt wrong.

“Are you sure?” said Decker, lowering his hands and turning around.

“I was given those instructions directly by my section leader,” said the guard. “You won’t be any trouble, will you?”

He shook his head.

“How about you cover some ground and make your way out of the cell, then?”

Decker complied, stepping into the wide, brightly lit hallway. A furtive look past the guard confirmed they were alone. Five sets of opposing doors ran the length of the hallway, which ended in a featureless door in both directions. A dome camera was attached to the ceiling above the hallway exit doors.

“We’re headed that way,” said the guard, pointing toward the door to Decker’s left.

The door buzzed for a long second, followed by a series of clicks. It automatically opened to a tight room, where a matching pair of US marshals in suits—easily identifiable by the distinctive five-pointed-star lapel badges—stood waiting.

“We’ll take him from here,” said one of the marshals.

“He’s all yours,” said the guard before disappearing into the small cellblock.

When the door closed and sealed behind him, the door beyond the marshals buzzed.

“You ready, Mr. Decker?” said the lead marshal, nodding respectfully.

Mr. Decker? He hadn’t been formally called anything but “prisoner” or “inmate” since his conviction. Informally, he’d been called every pejorative in the book, plus a few he’d never heard before. Something was off.

“I think so,” said Decker. “Where are we headed?”

“Processing,” said the marshal. “This way.”

He followed the marshal through the door, into the section’s control station. Three detention-center guards dressed in olive-drab, military-style uniforms sat behind thick ballistic glass inside the fully enclosed floor-to-ceiling structure. Situated in the middle of the octagonal room, guards inside the impregnable station controlled the comings and goings of prisoners placed in solitary or protective confinement. He imagined it was one of the quietest jobs in the building.

“Processing for trial?” said Decker. “To go over my testimony?”

The marshals cast him a confused look.

“No. Outprocessing,” said the marshal.

Decker froze in place on the shiny concrete floor. “I don’t understand.”

The federal officer shrugged. “That’s all I know. Sounds to me like you’ll be a free man within the hour.”

“Unless you want to go back to a cell,” said his partner, chuckling softly at his own joke.

“This must be a mistake. I was supposed to testify in a US District Court case against members of the Solntsevskaya Bratva,” said Decker. “I assumed that’s why I was brought here.”

“That case was dismissed three days ago,” said the marshal.

“What? Wait. How the hell did that happen?”

“Something was wrong with the evidence.”

A bored intercom voice interrupted the conversation.

“I need you gentlemen to clear the space,” said one of the control station guards.

“Busy day?” said the lead marshal, flashing a grin.

“Funny man,” said the guard. “Don’t let the door hit you.”

The door on the other side of the station buzzed, opening a few seconds later. Decker remained in place, running what he knew through his head. It didn’t take him long to reach a conclusion. His release was neither a mistake nor a coincidence. Somehow, the long arm of the Bratva had pulled enough levers to get him released—in downtown Los Angeles.

“You heard the man,” said the marshal.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” said Decker. “Why would they bring me to Los Angeles?”

“No idea,” said the marshal, losing patience. “I need you to keep moving, Mr. Decker. My orders are to deliver you to processing.”

More like deliver him to an execution. He’d be lucky to last thirty minutes on the streets.

Chapter Three
Decker stood in the blazing noontime sun next to the detention center, contemplating the unexpected turn of events. Faking a Bureau of Prisons release must have cost the Russians a tremendous amount of money. An investment they’d be eager to recoup. He thoroughly scanned the street below him, not detecting anything suspicious. No surprise there. The Russians could be crazy and arrogant, but they weren’t stupid.

They’d track him from a distance and wait for a less conspicuous time and place to make a move. Decker planned to use that against them. He’d head a few blocks south to a part of Los Angeles called Skid Row, where he’d disappear among several city blocks of makeshift tents and homeless people. On the way, if circumstances allowed it, he’d duck into a coffee shop recommended by one of the marshals. He could really use a good coffee, especially if it might be his last.

Satisfied that the Russians didn’t plan on gunning him down in front of the detention center, he descended the steps to Alameda Street and walked south. He’d been told to follow Alameda until East First Street, where he’d see a Japanese-looking tower. Directions got even hazier after that. The café was tucked into an open-air shopping plaza on the edge of Little Tokyo.

Long rows of bleak warehouses gave way to lively shops as he approached the intersection of First and Alameda. He glanced back over his shoulder at the lifeless blocks he’d just walked. A perfect shooting gallery for the Bratva: No witnesses. Nowhere to run. A missed opportunity. He turned right at the intersection and spotted the red tower. Their loss. He was getting that coffee.

Pedestrian traffic picked up on First Street, bringing ample opportunity to better his situation. Choosing his victim carefully, he lifted a promisingly fat wallet from an entirely oblivious tourist before crossing the street. Two hundred dollars and three credit cards richer, he stuffed the wallet into an overflowing trash bin at the entrance to the Japanese Village Plaza and plunged into the noontime mall crowd, looking for a cell phone he could use to arrange a more permanent vanishing act later.

A glance over his shoulder confirmed that the gray Suburban that had been ghosting him since the intersection had stopped on the far side of street, in front of the northern plaza entrance. The windows were heavily tinted, but he knew what was inside. Bratva soldiers. Coffee would have to wait. He walked briskly through the crowded outdoor mall, his focus on reaching Skid Row.

He’d just passed the café recommended by the marshals when a windowless white van crept into view on Second Street, effectively blocking his escape from the busy shopping plaza. Time for a new plan. Decker turned and headed for the coffee shop, where he’d presumably be safe—for now.

Decker opened the heavy door to the Sweetspot Café, taking in the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans. He’d grab a coffee and assess the situation. Possibly pick up a weapon he could use to surprise one of the men sent to kill him.

He separated a twenty from the small wad of cash in his pocket and settled in behind a pair of young women with toddler daughters. One of the girls peeked around her mom’s tanned leg at him. He smiled, the little girl’s blonde hair and blue eyes reminding him of his own daughter. His smile faded just as quickly, and for the same reason.

He couldn’t afford to think about her right now. Decker’s only chance of seeing his daughter again hinged on getting out of here alive, and it was going to take all his focus to pull that off.

Glancing through the café window, he checked on the van. The front passenger seat was empty. One of the Russians was on the plaza. He craned his head a little farther but couldn’t spot him among the shoppers and tourists. Damn. That was an epic fail. Then again, he’d never found it particularly difficult to pick them out of a crowd before. Bad haircuts. Distinctively out-of-place clothing choices. Neck and arm tattoos. Turtlenecks in the middle of August—to cover said tattoos. He’d take a seat at the counter and scan the crowd. It shouldn’t take him long.

The van rolled away, immediately replaced by a black SUV. Maybe they did plan to cut him down right here. He looked again at the little girl, who hid her face behind her mom. What the hell was he thinking? Decker stepped out of the line. He had to get out of here. If the Bratva wanted him dead more than they cared about a public relations mess, he was putting a lot of people at risk by being here.

Chapter Four
Harlow Mackenzie accelerated into the intersection, the yellow light changing to red before she started the turn. When her car straightened on Second, she drove as fast as possible without hitting the careless jaywalkers popping out of nowhere. Like the gaggle of business types stepping into the street right now. She hit her brakes in time to glide to a precarious stop a few feet shy of them.

“What don’t these idiots get about crosswalks?” she muttered.

She refrained from laying on the horn as they debated whether to continue across the street. Decker had two vehicles working him. A gray SUV and a white cargo van. There were bound to be more that she hadn’t spotted. Instead of drawing undue attention to herself, she impatiently waved the group across, keeping her eyes on the road beyond them. The cargo van turned onto Second Street from Alameda, heading in her direction.

“Dammit!” she said, pounding the steering wheel.

If Decker was careless enough to approach the street, he could stumble right into a curbside ambush. She sped up, running a few quick plans through her head. Her creaky sedan arrived at the southern entrance to the open-air shopping plaza several seconds ahead of the van, giving her a chance to scan the plaza without making it too obvious. Not that her crappy little sedan would draw a second look.

Harlow immediately spotted Decker, headed toward one of the shops lining the plaza. Looked like a coffee shop. What the hell was he thinking? This was not the time to sit in one spot. She’d have to intervene sooner than expected. The white van rolled in front of the plaza entrance as she furiously typed a text message to her assistant. When she looked up, the tall vehicle mostly obscured her view of the coffee shop. A serious-looking driver wearing an earpiece gave her a passing glance before scanning the street ahead.

She squeezed her vehicle through the pedestrian traffic at the crosswalk ahead and parked along a red curb. The car was one of her throwaways, so she didn’t care if it got towed, though she hoped her assistant could move it before the tow truck arrived. It all depended on what happened in the next ten minutes.

Her feet hit the street seconds later, carrying her swiftly between the slowed traffic toward the other side. Pretending to be absorbed by her phone, she reached the sidewalk and merged with the eclectic mix of Little Tokyo tourists and locals headed toward the plaza.

Harlow was invisible to them now, dressed in Southern California’s patented “might be working out or might be running errands” outfit—purple backpack, black yoga pants, tight midriff top covered by an unbuttoned, long-sleeve studio wrap. Olive-drab ball cap with jet-black ponytail pulled through the back.

A fit-looking man wearing hiking boots, cargo shorts, and an untucked navy polo shirt got out of the van’s front passenger door and blended into the plaza’s foot traffic. Not a bad disguise, except for the boots. She turned into the plaza and headed for the café, keeping her eye on the possible shooter. He drifted out of the crowd and took a seat next to an elderly Asian woman on a bench across the plaza from the café.

She scanned the people approaching the café from the other direction. She presumed that the gray SUV had dropped off a few operatives to make sure Decker didn’t double back. Nobody in the throng passing underneath the strings of red and white Japanese lanterns looked out of place, which further complicated an already problematic situation. She turned toward the café and spotted Decker in line.

“Had to get that coffee,” she mumbled. “Didn’t you?”

By the time she reached the door, he had stepped out of the line, a worried look on his face. He was bailing on the coffee. Not the best idea at this point, with multiple unidentified bad guys floating around the plaza. Decker was good, but he wasn’t that good. He’d definitely need her help to get out of this. She opened the door and placed a firm hand on his sternum, careful to position her body so that nobody approaching from the gray van could see she was touching him.

He reacted instantly, gripping her wrist and applying a frightening amount of pressure.

“Do not break my wrist, Decker,” she said firmly. “I’m one of the few friends you have left.”

“You don’t look familiar. At all,” said Decker, his eyes locked onto hers.

Harlow hesitated, a wave of disappointment washing over her. Decker couldn’t possibly know who she was or how they were connected, but she couldn’t help it. She knew Decker’s face better than her own brother’s at this point. His dismissive statement cut a little deeper than she’d have thought possible coming from someone she’d never met before. She shook it off.

“The café is under surveillance. Possibly surrounded. You’re going to need my help,” she said. “Get back in line before they notice something is off.”

The pressure eased, but his piercing glare remained. “How many?” he asked.

“One that I’m sure you spotted, across from the café sitting next to the old Asian lady,” said Harlow. “My guess is that two more followed you through the mall, from the gray Suburban parked on First Street.”

Decker released her wrist and got back in line. Harlow took her place behind him.

“What’s your angle here?” Decker said over his shoulder.

“My name is Harlow Mackenzie. I’ve been watching you for a long time.”

“Hardly creepy at all.”

“Let me try again. I’m a private investigator,” she said. “That’s probably not what you want to hear, either.”

“Strike two. One more strike and—you don’t want to know what happens after strike three.”

“World Recovery Group got me off the streets thirteen years ago,” said Harlow. “Your work on behalf of Recovery Street saved my life.”

Decker ran a hand over his buzz cut. “That’s right when we started. Was it the McNulty group?”

“Yep,” she said. “I was strung out in Van Nuys, waiting for an audition that would never come. Sounded like a great idea at the time.”

“Always does,” said Decker. “They had quite a racket going. We took down six apartments that night and seized information leading to thirty more across greater Los Angeles.”

“I was in an apartment on Kittridge.”

“Small world. Crazy,” said Decker, shaking his head. “So now what?”

“You’re going to get a coffee. I’m going to get a coffee,” said Harlow. “By the time we’ve finished, I’ll have a plan to get us out of this.”

“How did you know I’d be released? Just over an hour ago, I thought I was getting dressed to testify in court.”

“I have a friend at Victorville,” said Harlow. “I got the call at nine this morning, when my friend’s shift began. I just guessed the marshals were taking you here. Lots of guesswork in this business. I got lucky.”

“Or not. The Bratva won’t hesitate to kill you—or worse,” said Decker. “You should just walk out of here right now.”

“This isn’t the Bratva.”

He turned his body and looked past her at the plaza outside the shop.

“What are you doing?” she said.

“Looking for the people that want to kill me,” said Decker. “I’d look more suspicious if I didn’t.”

“Good point,” she said, pretending to stare ahead.

Instead, she gave him a covert once-over—finally free from his intense scrutiny. The buzz cut wasn’t exactly flattering. The blue dress shirt was a few sizes too large, hiding a rock-solid physique underneath, judging by the sculpted neck muscles. This close, his face looked a little starker than in the pictures. Ruggedly handsome with signs of battle wear—namely, a one-inch scar across his left cheek and a slightly longer one on his right temple. Once again, she found herself mesmerized standing in front of someone she’d admired from a distance for so long.

“Doesn’t look like a Russian. I’ll give you that,” said Decker, turning back to face the counter.

“I need to show you something,” said Harlow. “I did some digging after your arrest. Deep digging.”

“I just want to see my daughter again,” said Decker. “That’s all I care about right now. How do we get out of here?”

“There’s more to Hemet than the Russians.”

“Look. I appreciate whatever you’re doing here, but—”

“I think you were set up by whoever hired you to find Senator Steele’s daughter.”

He visibly tightened in front of her. The two women and their daughters moved aside, but Decker remained in place.

“You have proof?”

“I have a good start,” said Harlow. “Grab two seats somewhere. Try not to make it obvious.”

“Not my first rodeo.”

“Just making sure,” she said.

Decker stepped up to the cashier, speaking over his shoulder.

“I hope you understand what you’re getting into here. Russians or not, they look serious.”

“Not my first rodeo, either.”

Chapter Five
Decker took his cappuccino to the wall-facing counter next to the bathroom, snagging a free local magazine from a display stand on the way. He set the magazine on the low-back stool next to him and took a seat. A glance at the vacant leather lounge chairs near the front window left him craving their well-worn luxury. No reason to get greedy. He had what he wanted right in front of him.

The first sip burned the inside of his mouth. Rookie mistake. Coffee on the inside was served warm to lukewarm so you couldn’t throw it in someone’s face and put them in the infirmary. Now he’d have to wait a minute or two before he could taste again. Not a problem.

Decker was in no hurry to get out of here. His executioners had taken up positions surrounding the café, and from what he could tell, there was no back door. He hoped Ms. Mackenzie had a solid plan to get him out of the shop.

Motion in the far reaches of his peripheral vision announced her arrival.

“Is this seat taken?” she said.

He shook his head and moved the magazine, placing it next to his coffee. She set her frozen drink on the ledge and dropped into the seat, keeping the purple backpack in her lap. Neither of them said a word for close to a minute, each going about their business. Decker savoring his cappuccino. The woman slurping her slushy drink and texting away on her phone.

“Are you actually using the phone?” he said. “Or is that part of the act?”

“I’m adjusting the plan,” she said without appearing to move her lips.

“About that,” he said. “What’s the plan?”

“Working on it. I didn’t expect you to stop for coffee,” she said, pretending to nod at her phone. “Based on your route, I figured you were headed for Skid Row. Easy to disappear in there.”

“That was the plan. The white van changed my mind.”

“Well. That is no longer an option,” she said, checking her phone. “We’ll have to go with a more direct approach, which will take a few minutes to arrange.”

“I like the sound of that,” said Decker before taking a long sip of his drink. “So. What’s this proof you were telling me about?”

“Now you’re interested?”

“What can I say, Ms. Mackenzie? You’ve given me hope I’ll see my daughter again.”

“Call me Harlow,” she said, taking a sheet of paper out of her backpack.

Harlow leaned close to him, pretending to adjust her shoe. She slid the sheet under the magazine and sat upright, taking a sip of her drink. He waited a moment before returning to the flimsy magazine. Using the magazine to shield it from view, he removed the document and placed it directly in front of him, scanning it from top to bottom.

“Airspace waiver request for unmanned aircraft systems,” said Decker. “I’m very familiar with these. We did everything by the book. Looks like a class-C airspace waiver for Riverside Municipal Airport, but I can’t make sense of these coordinates without a map.”

“Filed by Ares Aviation’s office in Riverside. Coordinates line up with the southeastern fringe of RMA’s restricted airspace, just west of Hemet. You’re not the only one that does things by the book,” she said. “The waiver codes granted by the FAA gave the operator permission to conduct night operations over populated areas, out of line of sight of the unmanned aerial vehicle—above four hundred feet.”

Decker frowned at the request form. “Over four hundred feet? Out of line of sight?”

“That’s what you’re focused on?” she said. “Not the location?”

He took a slow sip of the strong espresso drink and nodded slowly. “The location is obviously important,” he said. “But the combination of requested waivers tells a more interesting story.”

“More interesting than the fact that someone requested a surveillance drone waiver over the Bratva distribution center your team raided?”

“Right. First—it tells me that Ares Aviation wasn’t flying a drone you can order off the internet.”

“I kind of already guessed that,” she said.

“Nighttime and out of line of sight kind of go together. Can’t see the drone at night regardless. The two are always filed together.”

“Makes sense, which doesn’t sound very interesting,” she said. “We don’t have a lot of time, Decker. The drone isn’t run-of-the-mill. So what?”

“For night surveillance at that distance, you’d need a sophisticated night-vision sensor with significant magnification and clarity, which gets really expensive. At over four hundred feet, I’d also guess we’re talking about some kind of thermal-imaging component.”

“An expensive drone, then.”

“A high-tech drone. Military grade. Raven or latest generation. And the Bratva isn’t into drones. They’re decidedly low-tech,” he said, pondering the implications. “Ares Aviation? I assume you dug a little further?”

She nodded and held her phone up, pretending to laugh at a text. “Parent company is Aegis Global. More like a second-cousin company. The connection is obfuscated, but it’s definitely one of their holdings.”

“Aegis Global,” said Decker. “The top military contracting company in Iraq and Afghanistan.”

“The only company providing military and logistical support to the ongoing wars in Iraq and Afghanistan,” she said. “Things have changed while you were away.”

Decker shook his head again, draining his cup before crushing it against the brown painted wall in front of him. He didn’t care if his observers saw it. Partly because it was a logical thing for him to do as a hopeless ex-con. Mostly because he didn’t give a crap. Or did he care? The single sheet of paper presented by Harlow Mackenzie, stalker extraordinaire, provided an enticing spin on everything he’d come to believe over the past two years.

The Russians were involved somehow. The Solntsevskaya Bratva had owned the house in Hemet, and some very scary-looking men with extensive Bratva ink had perpetrated most of the attacks against him in prison. They were indisputably linked to this mess; he just wasn’t sure how anymore. If the paperwork Harlow had produced was real, a third party was involved—which changed everything.

“You okay?” she said.

“Not even close,” he said, squeezing the crumpled cup in his hand. “So where do we go from here?”

“That depends on you,” she said. “How far do you want to take this?”

“All the way.”

“I was hoping you’d say that. The first thing we need to do is get you out of here alive.”

“Sounds like you already have a plan.”

“I wouldn’t call it a plan.” Harlow removed a black nylon kit from her backpack. “I haven’t ironed out many of the details.” She pushed the football-size kit into his lap. “Keep that out of sight and grab a stall in the bathroom after I leave. The contents should be self-explanatory. Put on the gloves first, for obvious reasons.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Out there,” she said. “To even the odds.”

“You don’t have to do this for me,” said Decker. “Seriously.”

“Can I be really honest with you for a second?”

“Shoot.”

“I want you to see your daughter again,” she said. “But I also want these monsters to pay for what they did, and what they’ll keep on doing unless someone stops them. I’m going to need your help with that.”

“Sounds like our goals are aligned—for now,” said Decker.

“Don’t linger in the bathroom,” she said before leaving.

Decker waited another minute before heading into the bathroom. Miraculously, the single stall was unoccupied. He locked the door and quickly took a seat on the toilet, unzipping the kit she’d given him. The contents made him smile.

The first thing he removed was a pair of tight, skin-colored gloves, which he slipped over his hands, followed by a well-worn Glock nine-millimeter pistol with a threaded barrel. Not believing the threaded barrel was a coincidence, he reached into the bag and retrieved a six-inch cylindrical suppressor.

“Harlow Mackenzie. Who are you?” he mumbled before screwing the suppressor onto the barrel.

Further digging revealed five magazines for the pistol and a wireless communications kit. He inserted one of the magazines in the pistol, chambering a round by pulling the slide back and letting it slam forward. The other magazines disappeared into his pockets. A quick look at the communications rig revealed that it was ready for immediate use. Decker pushed the translucent earpiece into his ear and clipped the microphone to his collar. The compact transceiver went in his front trouser pocket. She’d thought of everything.

“Mackenzie. You there?” he said, assuming the rig was voice activated.

“I’m here,” she said. “Along with another member of my firm, so don’t freak out if you hear another voice.”

“I’m not prone to freaking out,” he said. “I assume the pistol is a throwaway?”

“It’s clean if you need to toss it,” she said. “But I don’t anticipate you using it.”

“I guess that depends on what we’re up against. What are we looking at?”

A long pause ensued. “It’s going to take a miracle to get you out of here.”

Chapter Six
Harlow walked inside a sandal shop two doors down from the café and opened her backpack, removing a pair of pants and a hat.

“Can I help you?” said a middle-aged woman behind the counter.

“Quick wardrobe change,” she said. “Trying to ditch my boyfriend. I just broke up with him.”

“Okaaaay,” said the woman, stepping out from behind the counter. “Just keep the merchandise out of your backpack, please.”

“Feel free to keep an eye on me,” said Harlow, pulling a pair of baggy tan drawstring pants over her tight yoga outfit.

“Don’t worry,” said the woman, stopping several feet away and crossing her arms. “I will.”

“How are we doing, Katie?” said Harlow.

“Excuse me?” said the shop owner.

“Talking to someone else,” said Harlow.

The woman looked around before raising her eyebrows. “Maybe it’s time for you to move along.”

“I’ll be out of here in ten seconds,” said Harlow. “Katie?”

“Who’s Katie?”

“Imaginary friend of mine,” said Harlow, swapping her olive-drab baseball hat for a pink Dodgers cap.

She took off her studio wrap, stuffing it in the backpack along with the hat. A quick change to throw off surveillance, just in case she had attracted any attention. Her plan depended on the element of surprise—and Katie, who was more than capable of delivering.

“I’m all set,” said her assistant. “Primary vehicle is in the parking garage. Second level. Take an immediate left out of the stairwell. You’ll see it.”

“All right. Stay sharp. We’re working with a really small margin of error here,” said Harlow.

“That’s what you always say.”

“This time I actually mean it.”

“I guarantee there will be no margin,” interrupted Decker.

“Just be careful,” said Harlow. “I have a really bad feeling about this crew.”

“They’ll never know I was there,” said Katie.

“I’m heading out,” said Harlow.

She reached for the door handle, pausing for a second.

“Decker. It’s time. Head for the door. Once you get outside, take a right. Your sole mission is to get to the parking garage door two stores down.”

“Harlow?”

“Yeah?”

“If things go sideways, I want you to walk away,” said Decker. “This isn’t your fight.”

He had no idea how personal this fight was to her, or how closely he was connected to it. Ten years earlier, she’d been a mere day or two, possibly just hours, away from being “offered a chance” to repay the “enormous debt” she had incurred over the past two months. The cost of a drug-fueled, luxury apartment life—specifically designed to entice and ensnare young women who had flocked to Los Angeles to make it big in Hollywood. Decker had unknowingly snatched her from the jaws of a machine that devoured thousands of young lives every year.

“That’s not exactly true,” she said, pushing the door open.

Chapter Seven
Decker scanned the mall’s concrete courtyard through the café’s windows, quickly identifying three of the neatly dressed men sent to kill him. The man seated across from the café slowly stood, pretending not to focus on him. The other two flanked the coffee shop at cautious distances—one on each side. Their stationary presence amid the constant ebb and flow of tourists and lunchtime locals made them easy to spot. Almost too easy. He had no doubt that more of them were on the move, timing their approach. They’d be the real threat.

“I have three of them,” he said, his hand feeling the invisible tug of the suppressed pistol. “Forming a triangle around my exit.”

“They’ve left you enough room to move,” said Harlow.

“More like enough rope to hang myself.”

“Hold on. I have a fourth coming from the north. Passing me now,” she said. “I’m following him in. Time to move.”

“Stepping outside,” said Decker, opening the door.

“I’m wearing a pink Dodgers cap,” she said. “I see you coming out.”

He glanced to the right, immediately spotting her—and the linebacker headed directly for him. The guy’s untucked, light-blue oxford shirt bulged at the seams, no doubt concealing a weapon along his muscular frame. The other three men remained in place, waiting for Decker to make a move.

“Don’t worry about the guy in front of me,” said Harlow. “Turn in my direction and start walking.”

“Harlow. I have two moving in from the south. That’s six,” said Katie.

“Decker. Start moving,” said Harlow.

Decker walked toward Harlow, now completely convinced she had misread the situation. She had him walking directly into a brick wall of a man, who was undoubtedly armed and well trained, while five more men converged on him across a 180-degree arc. This would be over in less than ten seconds, and he couldn’t envision a scenario that didn’t involve the gun tucked into his waistband. A sudden flurry of movement in his peripheral vision suggested a far more compacted timeline. This was it. His right hand started to drift along his side, headed for the pistol.

“I’m going active,” said Katie, momentarily keeping him from drawing the weapon.

“Do it,” said Harlow. “Decker. You keep walking.”

“I don’t think that’s a good—”

A police siren pierced the air, startling Decker and stopping the oncoming man in his tracks. A quick glance over his left shoulder showed that the entire crowd had stopped, everyone searching for the source of the shrill sound. A crackling noise drew his attention back to the linebacker less than twenty feet away—just in time to see him drop to the concrete like a sack of stones. Harlow stood over him, a Taser in her hand—the coiled wires from the device bridging the gap between them.

Two low-pitched thumps echoed through the courtyard, immediately followed by a loud hissing sound. He didn’t have to look behind him to figure out what was happening. Harlow threw the Taser onto the ground next to the twitching man and pulled a black hood out of her backpack, wrestling it over his head. Before Decker could nod his approval, she produced a cylindrical gray canister from the pack and pulled the pin. She was out of her mind—and he kind of liked it.

“Get to the parking garage and stay out of sight,” she barked before underhanding the smoke grenade into the crowd to his left.

Decker took off at a dead sprint, pandemonium erupting behind him as screaming shoppers and panicky tourists scrambled to get away from the canister. Almost simultaneously, a string of firecrackers erupted on the other side of the courtyard, pushing the already frightened crowd into a frenzy. He ignored the stampede, plunging into a short, dimly lit hallway marked by a Parking Garage sign. A green metal door with a thin vertical window greeted him. He stopped for a moment and looked over his shoulder, expecting to see Harlow following him.

“Where are you?” said Decker.

“Don’t stop. I’ll be up shortly. I need to make sure nobody followed.”

“I can’t imagine any of them sticking around for the inevitable police response,” said Decker, opening the door and stepping into the stairwell. “Well done.”

“It’s not over yet,” said Harlow, the sound of terrified screams nearly rendering her radio feed incoherent. “Katie. Get out of here.”

“Already on the way out,” said her assistant. “These guys don’t look eager to stick around, either. I’m hearing a lot of sirens.”

“I have one of them on the ground right here,” said Harlow. “I don’t see any others.”

“Don’t spend too long down there,” said Decker. “If the police block the parking garage exit, we’re kind of screwed.”

“I got this,” said Harlow.

“Of course you do,” he mumbled before bolting up the stairs.

When he reached the second level, screams filled the stairwell below for a moment before the space went silent.

“Harlow. Are you in the stairwell?” he whispered.

“No.”

“I think someone got past you,” he said, drawing the suppressed pistol.

“Nobody got past me.”

Rapid footsteps echoed off the gray concrete walls, casting serious doubt on her stubborn proclamation.

“Somebody got past you.”

“I’m on my way,” she said.

“Be really careful,” he said.

Decker considered his options. He could open the door and position himself in the garage, but his pursuer would most likely hear the door. If the thug relayed that information back to his buddies in the van, Decker would have an entirely new series of problems on his hands. No. He had to take the man out quickly, before he could react or warn the others. Decker lay flat on the rough concrete landing, his pistol aimed just above the top of the stairs leading up from level one.

The sound of the steps below intensified for a moment before going quiet. The man was close, proceeding cautiously up the stairs. The opposite of what he had hoped. His impromptu tactic worked a lot better against a rushed opponent, who would be focused on the doors and upper reaches of the next flight of stairs. Decker lay in the middle of the landing, the last place anyone should expect him. Should being the operative term.

He kept the pistol level with the floor and waited. A few seconds later, clothing rustled below, followed by soft footsteps. A mop of brown hair came into view, and Decker applied pressure to the trigger. Before he could fire, a door slammed open below, causing the man to duck.

“Decker. I’m coming up,” whispered Harlow, her voice just barely audible in the stairwell. “What’s your status?”

Before the man could report what he’d heard or reposition to engage Harlow, Decker pushed off the concrete and fired twice. The bullets struck the man’s right temple in a tight pattern, spraying the concrete behind him with bright-red, speckled gore. The operative instantly dropped out of sight, his central nervous system switched off like a light. Decker stood up slowly, his eyes following a thick red streak down the wall to the man’s crumpled body.

“Decker. Please tell me you didn’t”—started Harlow over the radio, continuing out loud when she swung into view on the landing below—“blow someone’s brains out.”

Decker put his index finger to his mouth and shook his head. She nodded her understanding of the situation, frowning at the grisly sight. Decker moved quickly, finding a wireless voice-activated microphone inside the man’s collar. He removed the translucent device and placed it on the step, crushing it under his shoe.

“This is bad,” she said.

“He didn’t leave me much choice,” said Decker.

“Now we’re dealing with a murder investigation under really unusual circumstances. The cops will be all over this.”

He wanted to lay into her for letting this guy sneak by but didn’t think it would be productive. Plus, she’d saved his life. He stuffed the pistol into his waistband and knelt next to the twisted corpse.

“Don’t touch the body,” she said. “You’ll get—”

Decker turned the man’s head, revealing the mostly exploded side. He pulled the earpiece out of the man’s half-missing ear and wiped it on his pants.

“—blood all over you. And the car. Great.”

The piece looked intact, so he pushed it into his ear, catching part of a conversation.

“He said something about the parking garage,” said a male voice. “I saw him bolt north through the smoke.”

“We can’t stay here any longer,” said another man. “The first LAPD units are moments from arriving, and every cop within five miles is sure to follow. Whoever orchestrated that little stunt knew exactly what they were doing. I want all teams moving away from the scene immediately, and switch radio frequencies—in case Rich gets nabbed.”

“Copy that,” said the first voice, followed by two more acknowledgments from different men.

He took the earpiece out and stuffed it in his pants.

“Did you hear anything?”

“Get the car and pick me up at the door,” said Decker. “LAPD is seconds away.”

“Where are you going?” she said, starting up the stairs.

“Nowhere. I need to search this guy,” he said, turning the body over. “I’ll be right up.”

“We don’t have time for this,” she said, passing him.

“The guys talking on the radio weren’t Russians,” he said, digging through the man’s pants for some kind of ID.

Harlow continued up the stairs. “I could have told you that.”

He fished a slim wallet out of the man’s pocket.

“There. Let’s go,” said Harlow, reaching for the door on the landing above him.

“I need to check one more thing,” said Decker, pocketing the wallet. “Do you have a phone?”

“What?”

“For a picture,” he said. “So we can ID this guy.”

Harlow tossed him her phone. “Five seconds. That’s as long as I wait,” she said, stepping through the doorway into the garage.

Decker grabbed the man’s blue polo-style shirt by the bottom and pulled it up to his armpits. Finding nothing, he yanked the shirt over the man’s shattered head, tossing the blood-soaked garment to the landing below. Still nothing. He rolled the man onto his chest, exposing his muscular back. Bingo. A familiar tattoo lay across his left shoulder. A frog skeleton with one of the bony feet crafted to vaguely resemble the business end of a trident. He took a picture of the tattoo, followed by a few shots of the man’s face.

A minute later, they were headed north on Alameda Street, passing police cars headed in the opposite direction.

“Well?” she said.

“Uh . . . thank you?”

“Did you find anything?”

“The guy had a bone frog tattoo. Ex-SEAL,” he said, watching the Los Angeles Metropolitan Detention Center pass to their left. “Definitely not a Russian.”

“Maybe we should start digging into Aegis Global,” she said. “Start with Ares Aviation.”

He glanced at her with a raised eyebrow. “Aegis isn’t going anywhere,” he said. “But when word hits the street that I’m still alive, someone critical to our understanding of this is guaranteed to disappear for a while.”

“Who?”

“You’re not going to like this.”

A few moments passed before she took her eyes off the road to meet his glance.

“You’re out of your mind,” she said.

“Do you know where I can find him?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea—at all.”

“You don’t have to come along,” said Decker. “In fact, I’d prefer you didn’t.”

“Because you’ve done such a great job keeping yourself alive so far?”

Once again, he didn’t feel like arguing the finer points of who saved whom back at the shopping plaza. She’d orchestrated a clever escape from a nearly hopeless situation, but she’d nearly gotten herself killed in the stairwell. They each had their limitations right now, and their strengths. He’d keep working with her—not that he had other viable options.

“Do you know where he is?”

She hesitated, finally nodding. “Of course I do. I keep a close eye on them. I have to. Despite all of the very negative attention lately, human trafficking is still big business for them.”

“You’d think they’d have the sense to lie low.”

“I suspect they were never worried about losing business. The federal case against them was dismissed a few days before you were released.”

“I still can’t make sense of that,” said Decker.

“Money talks,” said Harlow.

“All the more reason to pay Viktor Penkin a visit first.”