The Rescue(20)

A distant gunshot stopped Harlow in her tracks. She tossed the flask back in the car and drew her pistol, fairly certain that the gunfire hadn’t been directed at her. She hadn’t heard the telltale snap of a passing supersonic bullet.

She considered calling Decker’s phone but didn’t want to risk giving away her position. It was nearly impossible to conceal the phone’s light while talking or sending a text. Not to mention the loss of situational awareness. No. She’d watch and wait. A single gunshot meant one thing. One of them was dead—and the survivor was headed in this direction.

Given this fact, Harlow decided to move off the direct path between the house and the car. She settled against a slight rise in the ground, about thirty steps to the left, and waited. A darkened figure appeared in the distance, walking at a normal pace toward the general vicinity of the car. She raised her pistol, thinking that Decker would be using his flashlight, before remembering that he’d first turned it on only when they reached the house. On the other hand, Penkin wouldn’t be stupid enough to use it and give himself away. Keeping the pistol aimed at the approaching figure, she crouched lower, presenting as little of a target as possible.

“Harlow! It’s Decker! I can see you hiding over there, next to that little hill. I saw you move off the path.”

She pocketed the pistol and headed toward the car, both angry that he’d sent her away like a child and relieved that he’d spared her the sight of an execution. Harlow couldn’t help wondering if she’d made a mistake saving Decker earlier today. His hell-bent focus on revenge would get them both killed long before either of them could shed a steady light on the shadowy group behind Meghan Steele’s kidnapping and death. She might be better off on her own at this point.

Decker met her in front of the car.

“He killed himself with a pistol I took off one of the Russians,” said Decker. “I gave him the option, and he accepted. I figured he would. He knew it beat the alternative.”

“Alternative?”

“I could have let him go,” said Decker. “The Bratva would catch up with him eventually, wanting to know who kidnapped him and why. Of course, that conversation wouldn’t happen over drinks and dinner. It would happen over a bathtub of sulfuric acid, while they dipped him feetfirst, a centimeter at a time.”

“You actually trusted him to put a gun to his head and not shoot you?”

“I’m not completely crazy,” said Decker. “I took cover and threw him the pistol, with one bullet.”

“And he just shot himself.”

“They say that people feel absolved from their sins right before they take their own life. I’m not sure how they know that, but I have to admit—Penkin looked relieved right before he pulled the trigger. It almost felt wrong giving him that kind of peace.”

Harlow’s knees buckled, the day’s gravity finally catching up to her. She steadied herself against the bullet-riddled hood.

Decker moved close to her. “You okay?”

She wanted to punch him. Even better, kick him in the groin. Knock a little sense into him. Of course she wasn’t okay!

“What do you think?” she said. “You’ve killed what—eight people within the past twelve hours?”

“I didn’t have a choice at the mall, or the club,” Decker said before pointing in the direction of the burned-out house. “And Penkin? I can live with that decision.”

They stood there silently, staring at each other. He was either deep in thought or about to explode. After a few tense moments, Decker walked around the car and opened the rear passenger door. He returned with Penkin’s flask and took a seat on the hood.

“I need a drink,” he said.

“Right now?”

“Why not?”

Decker unscrewed the cap and raised the flask to his nose.

“Vodka?” said Harlow.

“What else?” he said, and tipped the flask back. “Yikes. I haven’t had a drink in a while.”

He offered her the flask, which she accepted reluctantly before leaning against the front of the car. She took a small drink of the smooth vodka and stared at the star-filled sky.

“I’m sorry to put you through this, Harlow. I want to burn the entire world to the ground right now.”

After a few deep, cleansing breaths, she handed the flask back to Decker.

“I’ll never know what you’ve been through,” she said. “But you can’t kill your way to the end of this. I understand it could happen again. We’re up against some really bad people. I get it. But violence has to be our last resort. I won’t work with you unless that’s crystal clear.”

“Clear enough,” said Decker, taking another long drink. “We do this your way from now on, holding my skill set in reserve.”

“Close-quarter gun battles aren’t your only skill set,” said Harlow. “You ran a very successful human-recovery operation for years. How many times did your operators utilize the set of skills you leaned on today?”

“Rarely,” he allowed. “It was bad for business.”

“A last resort.”

“Exactly,” he said, offering her the flask.

She shook her head. “I’m driving.”

“Good idea. This stuff is going straight to my head,” said Decker, emptying the flask onto the ground.