The Rescue(15)

“Whichever can get me out of the country fastest.”

Sergei cocked his colossal head. “That bad?”

“I don’t know,” said Penkin, downing the vodka. “And I’m not sticking around to find out. Alexei!” he bellowed.

Sergei lumbered away. Penkin filled the four shot glasses on the table, spilling the vodka as he moved from glass to glass. When his second in command walked into the room from the front lobby, Penkin pushed one of the glasses toward him, waiting impatiently for him to take it.

“What’s the occasion?” said Alexei.

“We’re taking a vacation from here,” said Penkin. “Until this Decker thing is resolved.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Alexei, clinking Penkin’s glass. “He’s been nothing but trouble from the start.”

The dark-haired former Spetsnaz captain finished his shot in a single gulp and slammed the glass down on the table. Penkin did the same before pushing another shot toward Alexei.

“I want to get out of here immediately. Our American friend sounded nervous.”

“I need to run across the street and tell Misha that he’s in charge of the place,” Alexei said before downing the last shot. “The bar is starting to fill up with customers.”

“Make it quick,” said Penkin, sliding out of the booth.

Penkin contemplated another drink after Alexei had left, but decided against it. He’d felt a little woozy when he stood up. Six generous shots of vodka within a short span of time tended to do that. He glanced around the squalid room that passed for one of his clubs. Dingy lighting hid the cracked wood-panel walls, stained ceiling tiles, and scuffed linoleum floor—not that any of his customers cared. They weren’t here for the ambience. They were here for the girls, and Penkin was here to take their money.

The setup was diabolically simple, repeated in dozens of locations throughout the East San Fernando Valley, most of them concentrated in North Hollywood and Van Nuys. A dive bar served to collect and funnel customers into the clubs, which were situated within easy walking distance to Bratva-owned fronts, usually near a condemned apartment building or failed business.

Customers would get liquored up in the bars, where Penkin’s people vetted them for trouble. Undercover cops and private detectives from trafficking-rescue organizations frequently showed up, temporarily bringing operations at that location to a halt. He always ran a few dozen clubs at the same time to counter their efforts and keep the cash flow steady.

The number of active clubs fluctuated daily, the ebb and flow of law enforcement activity dictating the final count. The average location lasted two weeks, requiring him to actively seek new real estate for the business. He had a dedicated crew working that problem, and they’d so far managed to keep the numbers from shrinking. A small miracle—given the targeted interest in his business over the past year—but more importantly, a profitable one.

With twenty or so active clubs, he had around three hundred girls making money for him on any given night. It didn’t sound like a lot, but each girl brought in more than a thousand dollars per night, the younger ones even more. Working seven days a week, the average prostitute in one of his clubs represented a street value of more than half a million dollars. His total gross for the year topped a hundred million, and that didn’t include the money made on booze and “membership” fees in the feeder bars.

For a moment, the sheer weight of the numbers emboldened him. A Bratva avtoritet wielding this kind of power and making this kind of money shouldn’t feel compelled to run from trouble. He had plenty of muscle available to handle threats, but something about Decker unnerved him. The man had accomplished the impossible, locating Senator Steele’s daughter at one of their distribution centers. Penkin should have melted her in a tub of lye as soon as he discovered her identity. He’d foolishly held on to her for future leverage, a decision that cost him close to a year in prison. No. He’d get the hell out of town. He had no intention of getting caught up in whatever mess Decker currently represented. That psychopath American could deal with it while he sipped mojitos on the beach.





CHAPTER ELEVEN

Harlow had no doubt she’d been made by the Bratva lookouts, but she wasn’t in any danger—yet. The Russians expected surveillance. Part of doing business when you ran a prostitution ring in plain sight. This particular club had been in business longer than usual, close to six weeks, leading her to believe that the location’s longevity had been secured with a payoff. The police would eventually shut it down, after someone gave the Russians ample warning. The lookouts would keep an eye on her, and that was about it, until Decker jumped into action.

“I still think this is a bad idea,” she said over the radio net.

“You should see it from my end,” replied Decker. “Still nothing?”

“Nothing,” she said. “I told you this was a long shot.”

“A bad idea and a long shot. Great combo,” said Decker. “Are you sure he’s here?”

“He’s here. My sources confirmed it.”

“How reliable are your sources?”

“Very,” said Harlow.

The lookout seated in the car parked directly in front of the shuttered hardware store spoke into a handheld radio.

“Hold on,” she said, raising a night-vision scope. “Something’s up.”