The Rescue(19)

Penkin turned his gaze to the gas container and chuckled. “You really brought me here?”

“I couldn’t think of a more fitting place,” said Decker, unscrewing the top of the container. “To make things right.”

“I recognize her,” said Penkin, out of nowhere. “A troublemaker on the rise. Miss . . . uhhhh . . . Mackenzie. How the hell did the two of you end up together?”

“Actually, your organization indirectly facilitated that,” said Harlow. “Several years ago.”

Decker’s foot hit Penkin in the solar plexus. While the Russian groaned, bent over in the chair, Decker dumped a long stream of gasoline over his head. When Penkin finally sat up, he poured the rest of the can in his lap, tossing the container aside.

“Good,” hissed Penkin. “Finally that piss smell is gone.”

Decker squatted in front of him. “So. You get to choose.”

“Choose what?”

“How this ends.”

“Let me guess. I get to choose between flames or a bullet to the back of my head?”

“Front of your head,” said Decker. “I don’t have a problem looking people in the eye when I kill them.”

“You might be a tough son of a bitch, Decker. But you’re not a killer,” said Penkin, pausing for a moment. “Not this kind of a killer.”

“I’m looking to try new things before I cash out,” said Decker. “Dead man walking.”

“There’s only one dead man walking here, and it’s not you—or Miss Mackenzie back there. You signed my death warrant the moment you showed up at the club. And believe me when I tell you, the two options you offer are far better than what I’d get from my own people.”

“Why would they kill you?”

“They don’t like attention, and I’ve attracted more than my fair share over the past year—thanks to you.”

“I’m the gift that keeps on giving,” said Decker.

“Yes. You are. Snatching me right out of one of my clubs, in front of my soldiers—that was the end,” said Penkin. “A real shame, too. The US attorney dropped the case against me a few days ago. Things were back on track.”

“You can’t outrun karma.”

“Who’s karma?” said Penkin. “What is that?”

“He’s stalling. Trying to talk his way out of this,” said Harlow. “Not a word out of him for two hours. Now he’s chatty Kathy.”

Penkin’s face flattened. “I know I’m not leaving here alive.”

“I’m glad we’re on the same page,” said Decker.

“Then why all of the theatrics? You know I don’t care if I go up in flames. Dead is dead. It doesn’t matter how you get there. Burning me alive will hurt you more than me.”

“Now you’re a philosopher?” said Decker. “Trust me. Burning a sex slaver won’t bother me in the least.”

“I meant her,” said Penkin. “I’ve burned more people alive than I can remember. Never bothered me, either. But Miss Mackenzie—badass heroine of the streets—this will ruin her forever. I could use a cigarette. Did anyone bring a condemned man a last smoke?”

Penkin laughed hysterically, clapping his hands against his gasoline-soaked thighs. The part of Harlow that wanted this sadistic maniac to go up in flames grew rapidly, threatening to tip the scales. She started to move forward, but Decker seemed to sense her anger. He glanced over his shoulder at her and shook his head.

“This is on me,” he whispered.

“So,” said Penkin. “What do you want with me, Ryan Decker?”

“The truth.”

“I’ll give you the truth. If Miss Mackenzie returns my flask. I could use a drink.”

“You have a lot of bad habits,” said Decker.

“I never expected to live a long life.”

“At least you’re realistic,” said Decker, turning to Harlow and nodding. “You have his flask?”

“Really? You’re going to give this asshole a drink?”

“Can’t hurt,” said Decker. “Maybe it’ll loosen his tongue.”

“It’s back in the car.”

Decker shrugged.

“Why don’t I pick up a pizza, too, while I’m at it,” Harlow said before turning around in the dark and yelling over her shoulder, “Any other requests?”

“Extra pepperoni,” said Penkin, laughing again.

Harlow gave them the finger and set off carefully through the wreckage, the light from her phone shining the way. She couldn’t believe Decker was indulging him. Penkin was a calculating, merciless animal. A flask of booze wasn’t going to influence what he planned on telling him. Nothing the man said could be trusted.

“Dead man walking, my ass,” she muttered.

Halfway to the car, she breathed deep, purging her lungs with the crisp desert air. The smoky ruins of the house clung to her nose the rest of the way, gradually fading by the time she reached the car. They’d parked her shot-up sedan behind a stand of tall bushes growing behind a hill, a few hundred yards away from the house—just in case. She opened the back door and grabbed the metal flask from the passenger-side seat back, closing the door quietly behind her.