The Rescue(23)

“Wait. That was before you started surveillance of the house,” said Harlow, squinting. “I thought the FBI traced parts of four adult males back to the Bratva organization?”

She’d figured it out faster than he had.

“They supposedly did, which makes zero sense if this mystery group took over the house five days before the raid,” said Decker. “Why would the Russians still be there?”

“Penkin is lying?”

“I don’t think so,” said Decker. “There’s more. He said these Americans also wanted the Bratva to do the other thing.” For a moment, he was unable to get more descriptive. “When Penkin refused, they offered a very significant sum of money for the job.”

“Those animals would sell their own mothers into slavery for the right amount,” she said.

“Apparently it wasn’t the right amount, or even the Bratva has its limits,” said Decker. “Penkin swears they turned down the offer.”

“The Bratva has no limits. Trust me.”

“Then they passed on the job because of the potential fallout.”

“They got blamed anyway,” said Harlow.

“But they got to show exactly what happens to anyone that messes with the Bratva, secure in the knowledge that they couldn’t actually be tied to the murders,” said Decker. “Free advertising.”

“It’s sick,” said Harlow, pushing her plate away.

For a fleeting moment, the images of his wife and son flashed through his head, nearly breaking him down. He hadn’t burst into spontaneous tears for several months. The memories hadn’t faded; he’d just learned to compartmentalize them, only letting them out briefly to cherish before putting them away where they wouldn’t cripple him. Harlow looked like she was about to cry, which meant he hadn’t locked them away fast enough.

“It’s a disgusting revelation,” said Decker. “But it gives us a solid focus. The man I killed in the parking garage is undoubtedly connected to the group that handed Meghan Steele over to the Russians. Then there’s Ares Aviation. If we play this right, we might draw out the original crew.”

“I can have my SCIF team try to ID him with the pictures you took on my phone.”

“You have a SCIF?”

A dedicated sensitive compartmented information facility like the one he’d set up to support World Recovery Group operations was expensive, and resource intensive.

“Not in the traditional sense,” said Harlow. “I don’t keep a fixed space for intelligence gathering. Too risky. Especially with the Russians, FBI, and possibly the cartels breathing down my neck.”

“Damn. You’re big-time if you have the FBI watching you.”

“Don’t worry. They’re not watching me,” she said. “But my computer people are convinced they’ve tried to hack my team. That’s why I move them around.”

“How many do you have on the payroll?”

“That’s my little secret,” said Harlow, sipping her coffee.

He got the distinct impression that she’d had a small retinue of support staff following them yesterday. They’d changed cars twice in the afternoon, and once on the way back from Hemet, late last night. The process was always the same. Harlow would unexpectedly turn onto a side street, where they would switch cars. Any required supplies or gear would be found in the new vehicle. It was a simple but effective process, adding a necessary degree of separation between Harlow and her operation.

“And Katie?” said Decker. “She did some impressive work at the mall.”

Harlow acted like he hadn’t asked the question. Even more secrets.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Supervisory Special Agent Joseph Reeves lowered his phone. Unbelievable. He pushed his black-framed glasses tight up against his face and turned to Special Agent Kincaid.

“Matt. You’re not going to believe what I just learned.”

“I’m not sure you can top this,” said Kincaid, nodding toward the cluster of bodies drawing flies behind the Bratva club.

A joint team of a dozen or so LAPD and FBI crime-scene investigators snapped pictures and documented evidence at the murder scene. Actually, it looked more like the site of a small battle. A very one-sided battle. The Russians had taken a beating here. Nine dead. Two wounded, their bodies destroyed by the armor-piercing ammunition presumably fired by the PP-2000 submachine gun found underneath one of the SUVs.

The weapon had been designed specifically for Russian Special Forces to fire the latest generation of armor-piercing bullets, and it was at the top of the ATF’s import ban list. Reeves’s ATF colleagues wouldn’t be happy to learn they’d found two more inside, along with several dozen magazines of armor-piercing ammunition. Reeves would let them worry about it. The presence of a few banned weapons paled in comparison to what he had on his hands now.

“Remember what I said when we arrived here last night?” said Reeves.

“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy?” said Kincaid.

“After that.”

Kincaid shook his head. “I’m too low on coffee for guessing games.”

“I said that there’s only one person on the planet I could think of who would have the motivation and the skills to do this.”