The Rescue(3)

All of his people stood in the middle of the lot, hands held high above their heads. A few seconds later, the courtyard swarmed with heavily armed, body armor–encased FBI agents barking orders. Decker followed their instructions, ending up facedown—with his hands zip-tied behind his back. He turned his head to the side, scraping his cheek on crumbled asphalt. A rifle barrel gently poked the other cheek.

“Don’t move,” said the agent, activating the flashlight attached to his rifle.

Decker closed his eyes, unable to keep them open in the blinding light.

A nearby agent yelled, “Over here,” and more light penetrated his eyelids.

“Ryan,” Payne whispered next to him. “The feed went dead.”

He turned his head. “What do you mean?”

The rifle barrel pressed against the top of his head. “Stop talking and stop moving. That’s your last warning.”

“The feed just flatlined,” said Payne.

“What part of shut up don’t you understand?” The agent standing above Payne pushed her head down with his rifle barrel.

“Where’s Decker?” said a familiar voice. Special Agent Reeves.

Before anyone answered, the pavement shuddered once, the word earthquake thrown around the motor court by the agents.

“Isn’t that ironic!” said Reeves, his voice nearby. “An earthquake at the very moment Ryan Decker is shut down for good.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is coincidence,” said Decker, the rifle barrel pressing hard into his cheekbone.

Reeves squatted between Decker and Payne, a victorious grin plastered on his face. “What’s going on here, Mr. Decker?”

“We’re completely legit.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Reeves. “I imagine I’ll find some non-California-compliant firearms in these rooms. This looks like the kind of operation you’d want to protect with some serious firepower, given the people you’re bound to piss off.”

“Sounds like you’re the only one pissed around here. Everything is California compliant.”

“Well. I’m not interested in this half of the equation,” said Reeves. “I want the other half.”

“This is it. We’re conducting routine surveillance related to Meghan Steele’s kidnapping.”

“You’re doing more than following up worthless leads. Something big is going on nearby.”

One of the agents spoke up. “The woman here was saying something about a feed going dead.”

“Feed to who?” said Reeves.

A deep, window-rattling crunch cut off Payne’s smart-ass reply.

Reeves looked around the parking lot. “That better not be any of your handiwork, Decker. High explosives are pretty freaking far from California compliant.”

It all came together for Decker in the blink of an eye. No guards at the target house. Ground waves traveled faster than sound. The parking lot vibration, then, thirty seconds later, a massive, distant explosion. The house had been rigged with explosives. The Russians had known they were coming—well before Decker’s team arrived in Hemet.

It was the only explanation. But why didn’t they drive a truck bomb into the motor court at the same time and simply cut the rest of the operation down? All of this was related. It had to be. But how? The Russians must have tipped off the FBI, which brought him back to one of his previous questions: Why not vaporize everyone at once?

Decker’s vision narrowed with the realization that the command team had been spared for a reason. The Russians weren’t done with them.





CHAPTER TWO

Two years later

Decker dragged the flimsy disposable razor over the thick stubble on the side of his chin before swishing it in lukewarm water. He repeated the process until the thin layer of gel was gone and his face was smooth. The moment he set the razor down on the side of the sink, a rap against the cell door reminded him the rules still applied, regardless of why he had been transferred. He walked the plastic razor to the door and put it in the small stainless steel bin, which quickly closed.

“Get dressed,” said the guard through the intercom. “Marshals are waiting for you.”

Decker nodded and returned to the sink to wipe the rest of the gel from his face. Pausing in front of the mirror, he took a long look at the hard face staring back at him. Same face. Same man. At least that’s what he told himself every time he could bear to look. In truth, nothing was the same—and never would be again. Life as he’d once known it had come to a sudden, unceremonious end two years ago, at a rat-trap motel in Hemet, California.

Overnight, Ryan Decker, decorated Marine veteran and savior of the innocent, had become Prisoner 6581, criminally negligent mercenary and killer of children. Even worse, the loving husband and caring father of two had turned into a disgraced widower and father of one. The newspapers had been merciless from the beginning. The prosecutors—ruthless to the bitter end.

Even his surviving daughter, Riley, blamed him for what happened and wanted nothing to do with him, or so he’d been told. His wife’s sister had assumed custody immediately after his arrest and hidden her from the world—and him. Unceremoniously ripped from his life, like his wife and son.

He’d give anything to see her again, or even hear her voice. He’d sent her dozens of letters through his parents, so her aunt wouldn’t intercept them, but he’d never received a reply. Decker had no idea if she read them. His parents passed them along during the regular visits they were allowed, but she never opened the letters in front of them. It didn’t matter. He’d keep writing. At some point she might change her mind, and he wanted her to know he’d never given up on her.