The Rescue(18)

“Can’t be too hard,” he muttered.

While he fumbled with the oddly designed weapon, someone turned off the light deep inside the club, which meant one thing. He was about to have company. A man barreled out of the building, turning and firing in Decker’s direction. Bullets sparked off the dumpster as a second man emerged, aiming his pistol in the same direction. The second man paused before firing, turning his attention to Harlow, who had Penkin on his feet—a black bag over his head.

Decker flipped the only switch that resembled a safety and touched off a long burst of automatic fire. The bullets ripped through the two men, knocking them flat on the concrete. Decker placed the next burst in the doorway, yielding a high-pitched scream from inside the club.

While Harlow strong-armed Penkin into the car, Decker emptied the PP-2000’s magazine, burst by burst, into the building. Before loading the second magazine, he lobbed a flash-bang grenade into the doorway. A hollow metal rattle echoed in the dark hallway, immediately followed by panicked voices.

“Flash bang out,” he said, covering his ears and looking away.

The explosion lit the alley like a flash of lightning, the multiple high-decibel detonations penetrating his hands like gunshots. Decker didn’t stick around for the inevitable counterattack. Most of these men would be former Russian Special Forces, not likely to be dissuaded for long by a little gunfire and a flash bang. He ran for the car, drawing return fire when he passed in front of the doorway. The bullets passed behind him, thumping into the side of one of the SUVs.

“You’re driving!” Harlow yelled out of the rear passenger window.

Decker changed course in midstride, leaping up to slide across the sedan’s hood. The homeless guy’s sticky clothes brought him to an abrupt stop on the metal, forcing him to roll the rest of the way. He hit the ground behind the car an instant before a string of bullets struck the windshield and hood. Rising to his knees, Decker stuck the submachine gun into his shoulder and fired the entire magazine through the doorway.

“Countermeasures!” he yelled, tossing the weapon and jumping into the car.

Staying low in the seat, he put the car in drive and hit the gas while Harlow tossed a few surprises out of her window. Bullets punched the trunk and shattered the rear windshield as the car picked up speed. Several earsplitting detonations interrupted the gunfire, the alley once again flashing white. A quick look in the rearview mirror revealed several men standing in the middle of the alley, in various states of disorientation and pain—a thick cloud of smoke rising to obscure them.

Decker raced the car down the alley, slowing just enough to make the tire-squealing turn onto an empty side street.

He glanced over his shoulder, seeing that Harlow had everything under control. She pressed a stun gun against Penkin’s hood, right under his neck. Her other hand held a compact semiautomatic pistol, which she rested on her thigh, pointed at the Russian. Decker started to say something, but Harlow cut him off.

“Just drive.”

“Drive me back, and I’ll let both of you live,” said Penkin.

She jammed the pistol into the Russian’s crotch, causing him to inhale sharply.

“Give me a reason,” she said.

Five very quiet minutes later, Decker merged the sedan into light northbound traffic on Interstate 405—headed toward a reckoning.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Harlow reluctantly guided Penkin through the charred skeleton of a structure that had once been a house, terrified by the prospect of what was about to unfold. Mostly terrified. A part of her wanted this to happen. The really dark part she couldn’t yet embrace. Wouldn’t embrace—she hoped.

Decker walked several feet ahead of them, directing his flashlight at the debris-littered floor. He carried a metal folding chair in one hand and a red plastic gasoline container in the other. The sight of the container sickened her. It was one thing to think or dream about burning this piece of human garbage alive, but something completely different to be delivering him to this gruesome fate.

“I smell an old campfire,” said Penkin, his voice muted under the black hood. “But stronger.”

She’d started taking shallow breaths as soon as they reached the incinerated house, unable to shake the feeling that she was inhaling more than charred wood. Harlow couldn’t believe he had brought them here. Life as Decker knew it had come to an end because of this place. It would be the last thing she’d ever want to see again—but Decker didn’t appear to be on a healing journey. Quite the opposite. He seemed hell-bent on destroying himself. The moment she finished that thought, Decker unfolded the chair and slammed it down, turning it to face Penkin.

“Sit him down,” he said in a tone that sounded a lot like an order.

She pushed Penkin toward him. “This is your show.”

Decker twisted the Russian’s arm and forced him to sit down. When Penkin leaned against the seat back, Decker ripped the hood off his head and directed the flashlight beam at his face. The Russian squinted, raising a hand to block the light.

“Do you know where you are?” said Decker, panning the light over the burned-out, three-quarters-missing structure.

Penkin followed the light for a few seconds before taking in his surroundings at his own, slower pace. As the top-ranking member of the Bratva in Los Angeles, it was highly unlikely he’d ever been here. On top of that, there was no way for him to geographically determine his location. The house had been strategically situated on a rolling patch of high desert land, well out of sight of the distant neighbors. The perfect location to keep prying eyes away from a grim business.