The Rescue(16)

“I’m not going anywhere,” said Decker. “And neither is this smell.”

“Hey. You insisted on authenticity.”

“Remind me to cut some corners next time.”

Harlow failed to stifle a quick laugh. Decker had traded his clothes and the contents of a stolen wallet, along with a prepaid motel room, for a homeless man’s clothes a few hours ago. The man had been so excited, he’d stripped half-naked on the street before they could get him into her car and bring him to the motel—a decision she’d instantly regretted when the stench hit her. Decker had been wearing that reek for the better part of ninety minutes.

She steadied the scope on the front door to the business and was rewarded several seconds later when Alexei Kuznetsov stepped onto the street. She recognized him immediately. Kuznetsov was Penkin’s right hand, head of security for the Bratva’s Los Angeles prostitution ring. He’d spent the last several months with Penkin in the Metropolitan Detention Center, awaiting the trial that never happened. His presence absolutely confirmed her source’s information.

Kuznetsov leaned into the front passenger-side window and spoke briefly with the lookout. Both of them glanced momentarily in her direction before he crossed the street and disappeared into a windowless bar. She had definitely been made.

“I just watched Kuznetsov cross the street and head into their feeder bar.”

“Both of them in one place?”

“Thick black hairline almost down to his eyebrows. He’s unmistakable,” said Harlow, lowering the scope. “It makes sense.”

“Which one will know more?” said Decker. “I doubt I can take both of them.”

“Penkin. Definitely Penkin. He’ll have someone spying on Kuznetsov. That’s how their organization works.”

“I don’t know about this. I’m seeing a lot of shiny new SUVs back here. I’m guessing he has some serious security,” said Decker. “Couldn’t we do this at Penkin’s house?”

“In Bel Air?” she said. “I don’t think so. This is our best bet, and it’s a—”

“Long shot. I think you might have mentioned it before.”

She detected movement on the dimly lit sidewalk in front of the bar. Kuznetsov crossing the street, moving fast.

“Interesting,” she said.

“What’s interesting?”

“Kuznetsov just bolted back across the street. We might be in business,” said Harlow. “Looks like they’re in a hurry to do something.”

“I guess we’ll know shortly,” said Decker, pausing. “There’s no going back from this, Harlow.”

“You keep saying that.”

He was starting to sound like a broken record—and just a little more than patronizing. Harlow might not have the kind of black-ops background and training he’d acquired in the Marine Corps and CIA, but she’d worked the gritty, unpredictable streets of Los Angeles for close to a decade as a private investigator, honing her skills from scratch—on her own.

“This time there’s really no going back. These people have long memories. Painfully long,” said Decker. “Are you sure I can’t convince you to drop the car off near the alley and walk away?”

Relentless. He truly didn’t get it. Harlow had witnessed this crew’s depravity and cruelty firsthand more times than she could stomach recalling. They treated the kids dragged into their trafficking network like disposable commodities, selling them to overseas slavers or body-part harvesters when the customers started to lose interest. It got worse, but she didn’t want to think about that right now. She couldn’t afford to cloud her judgment any further. Decker’s life depended on it—not to mention hers.

“Not a chance,” she said.





CHAPTER TWELVE

Decker raised the whiskey bottle, taking a clumsy swig while scanning the alley. He’d emptied the cheap booze and replaced it with tea, but could still taste traces of whiskey. Part of him wished he’d left the booze in the bottle. He could use a nip or two right about now. His plan to take Penkin alive was a stretch. Hardly a plan might be a better description.

He’d wandered up and down the side street leading into the alley for the better part of an hour, talking to himself the whole time. When the lookout posted next to the club’s back door quit paying attention to him, he stumbled into the dark alleyway and collapsed against the tall concrete wall separating the alley from the neighborhood behind it. The lone Russian guarding the exit made his way over to investigate, finding a homeless drunk who had spilled his guts on the crumbled asphalt.

Decker wasn’t sure if the kimchi–clam chowder mixture or the powerful stench radiating from his clothes did the trick, but the lookout left without giving him a second glance. After the guard left, he had sat against the wall sipping from his bottle. Observing. And that was the extent of his so-called plan. Act like a drunk to get close enough to exploit any opportunity that presented itself. So far so good. What came next was anybody’s guess.

The lookout posted next to the club’s back door raised a handheld radio to the side of his head, exposing the barrel of a submachine gun under his loose-fitting Starter jacket. The guard nodded once and responded with a few clipped words before scanning the alley.

“Stand by,” said Decker. “Looks like something’s up.”