The Rescue(26)

“I need you to find Decker and return him to prison—where he belongs,” said Steele. “I won’t be able to sleep until I know he’s locked up again.”

“I’m already working on it.”

“Keep me posted, and let me know if you run into any bureaucratic wrinkles. I’ll do whatever I can to iron them out for you.”

“Hold on, ma’am. I think we might have something.”

Her fitness tracker buzzed again. She waited as long as she could stand. “Joe. What’s going on?”

“Apparently, there was a murder at the Japanese Village Plaza yesterday morning, less than an hour after Decker was released from the Municipal Detention Center downtown. The plaza is two blocks from the detention center.”

“Are you one hundred percent sure it’s related?”

“No. But there was some kind of public scare right at the same time as the murder. Someone tossed several smoke grenades and police-grade flash bangs into the lunchtime crowd, creating a panic. The victim was found in an adjacent parking garage stairwell. Two bullets to the head. LAPD said the guy was wearing a wireless communication device, which they found smashed next to him. They also found a pistol in the stairwell with the victim’s fingerprints. He had a tattoo typically found on Navy SEALs. LAPD thinks he was a contract military type, but they haven’t found him in any database.”

“I don’t know what to make of that. What does your gut instinct tell you?”

“First impression? Either Decker has nothing to do with the murder and it’s just an amazing coincidence, or he was somehow involved. If he was involved, that’s when things get a little murky. If the guy was there to help Decker, someone else was there to kill him. If the guy was there to kill Decker, well—he failed. Either Decker somehow killed him or Decker’s accomplices did it.”

“Either way, Decker’s in the middle of it.”

“It looks that way, unless it’s a coincidence.”

“You don’t believe that, do you?”

“No,” said Reeves. “Something bigger might be in play.”

“Keep me in the loop, Joe. You can call me at any hour,” said the senator, pressing a button to disconnect the call.

Her hand trembled when she withdrew it from the phone console, her wrist still buzzing from the fitness tracker. She removed the watch and set it on the desk. There was no point to wearing it for the rest of the day. Probably the rest of the week.

Would Decker really try to hurt or kill her? Why would he hold that kind of a grudge against her? Of all people, Decker should fully understand why she held him responsible for destroying her life—and why she’d gone after him so relentlessly.

He’d gambled with Meghan’s life and lost, killing both her daughter and her husband in the process. David had committed suicide a year ago today, the final casualty of Decker’s hubris. He’d crawled under their deck and ended twenty-four years of a wonderful friendship with a shotgun. She could forgive David for leaving her with this mess—he’d struggled with severe depression for years and absolutely adored Meghan—but she could never forgive Ryan Decker.

Senator Steele grabbed her purse and buzzed her executive assistant. She needed to make a phone call that shouldn’t be placed from her office.

“Scott. I need to get some fresh air,” she said. “I’m going for a walk.”

“Do you want anyone to accompany you?”

“No. I need some time alone.”

“Of course,” he said. “Just don’t wander or stay away too long, please. Everyone is concerned about you.”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Just need to clear my head, away from this place.”

“I’ll have someone follow you,” he said. “At a very discreet distance.”

She was about to protest, but then she thought about Decker. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Gunther Ross craned his neck to get a better look at the commotion on the side street next to the Bratva club. He didn’t catch anything new or interesting before a police officer waved his driver into a slow right turn off Sepulveda Boulevard. A dozen or more LAPD cruisers and SUVs formed a tight perimeter around the club, diverting traffic onto side streets. Several unmarked cars sat parked at odd angles within the perimeter, men and women in suits and blue FBI windbreakers. A shiny black truck with BOMB SQUAD emblazoned on the side blocked his view of the club’s entrance.

The trip out here had been a waste of time, not that he’d expected to catch Decker slithering out of a backyard or climbing out of a window. He’d pretty much learned everything he needed to know from Aegis’s LAPD and FBI contacts. An unknown number of assailants had hit the Bratva club around 10:00 p.m., killing most of the Russians in the building and grabbing Penkin.

Penkin’s kidnapping was assumed, since neither of the two surviving Bratva soldiers would confirm that he’d been present at any time that night. A few of the teenage kids rescued from the club reported seeing someone matching his description sitting in one of the booths shortly before the attack, but half of the Bratva roster had dark hair, dark eyes, and neck tattoos. For all anyone knew, this could have been an internal conflict. Penkin’s position had weakened during his incarceration. Maybe the Solntsevskaya Bratva’s highest leadership had decided he was more of a liability than an asset at this point. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d cleaned house.