The Rescue(17)

“Ready,” responded Harlow.

He set the bottle down next to him and drew the suppressed Glock from one of the deep coat pockets. When the Russian started moving across the alley toward the row of SUVs, Decker assumed a two-hand grip and centered the pistol’s illuminated tritium sights on the guard’s torso, pressing the trigger twice. The man stumbled, dropping to a knee while Decker aligned the pistol’s centermost green dot with his head and fired again.

“I need you in the alley, right now,” said Decker.

“On the way.”

The Russian remained upright for a moment before collapsing forward, his head striking the pavement with a thud. Decker scrambled to his feet and sprinted toward him, hoping to drag him out of sight before Penkin’s entourage emerged. He reached down and grabbed the dead man’s jacket collar on the way by, pulling him to an adjacent dumpster. The club’s heavy metal door creaked open before he could drag the guard any farther, leaving him with one option if he wanted to take Penkin alive. He sat on the Russian’s sprawled legs and started singing like a drunk.

Two men stepped into the alley, drawing their pistols, and headed straight in his direction, yelling in Russian while he sang. Decker understood some of what they were saying; his three semesters of Russian were not completely wasted. They wanted to know where Dmitry had gone. In the alley’s darkness, they obviously couldn’t tell that he was sitting on their friend. With his left hand, Decker pointed to the side-street alley entrance.

“He went that way! I think,” said Decker, breaking into drunken song again.

“Shut up!” yelled one of them.

The other turned toward the door and spoke sharply in Russian, pointing where Decker had just indicated. A heated debate broke out inside the doorway, ending when the nearest SUV chirped, its taillights blinking at the same time. Two men emerged from the club arguing, one of them instantly recognizable in the sparse light from Harlow’s surveillance pictures and her recent description. Kuznetsov. Penkin’s right hand.

When the guard standing in front of him glanced over his shoulder at the argument, Decker quickly extended his hand and fired a single bullet through the side of his head. Two more suppressed shots dropped the next guard, leaving Penkin and his associate stranded in the middle of the alley. Neither one of them seemed to know what to do when Decker rose from the ground beyond the two recently fallen Russians, pointing a pistol at them.

“Don’t do it,” said Decker.

“Fuck you,” said Kuznetsov, reaching for his weapon.

Decker shot him in the chest twice, then shifted his aim to the other Russian.

“Viktor Penkin?” said Decker as Kuznetsov fell to his knees clutching his boss’s arm.

“Decker,” muttered Penkin, trying to shake Kuznetsov loose.

“Surprised?”

“You’re a dead man,” hissed Penkin.

“A dead man walking—nothing more dangerous,” said Decker, firing a single shot into the dying Russian hanging from Penkin’s arm.

Kuznetsov slid down Penkin’s right leg, his head coming to rest on the Bratva boss’s shoes.

“I guess this is it, then,” said Penkin.

“Not yet,” said Decker, closing the distance to him.

“You’ll have to kill me,” said Penkin, slowly reaching into his jacket.

Decker pocketed the pistol, continuing to move forward. “The police have picked you up twenty-three times for one thing or another. Never a weapon.”

Penkin bolted for the back door, screaming for help, but Decker had already pulled one of Harlow’s compact Tasers from the other pocket. The Russian flopped to the pavement, unable to make a sound, as Harlow’s nondescript gray sedan raced into the alley, its headlights illuminating the ghastly scene.

“We need to make this quick,” said Decker.

“I know. Three Russians ran out of the bar while I was turning on the side street.”

“Hell.”

Decker switched the Taser into his left hand and drew the pistol with his right. He crossed the pistol over his left forearm, keeping it aimed at the door as he approached Penkin. The Russian twitched on the ground, his body locked in an electrical paralysis. Harlow pulled the car as close to the back of the club as possible without running over Kuznetsov’s lifeless body.

“Can you get Penkin in the car?” Decker said quietly into his radio mic. “I might need to take a more proactive approach to keeping us alive here.”

“It hasn’t been proactive so far?”

“We’re running out of time. I can hear voices inside—headed this way.”

“I can deal with Penkin,” said Harlow, opening her car door.

“He’s all yours,” said Decker, tossing the Taser to the ground. He scrambled for the dumpster, catching a glimpse of a human silhouette deep inside the club. Yelling had erupted from the hallway by the time he reached the dead lookout’s body.

“Decker. I’m a little exposed out here.”

“Hang in there.”

Decker knelt next to the body, surprised to find a Russian PP-2000 submachine gun. A nasty little weapon designed to fire even nastier ammunition. He disconnected the PP-2000 from its one-point sling and searched the guard’s pockets, finding a spare magazine and a compact pistol. He pocketed both and crouched next to the dumpster, studying the weapon. He’d seen these before but never fired one.