The Rescue(4)

He rubbed his smooth chin and looked away from the mirror toward the stack of loosely folded civilian clothes on the bed. Khaki pants, long-sleeved blue button-down shirt, black socks, and a pair of brown loafers. He lifted the shirt, frowning at the wrinkles. Seriously? This was the best the FBI could do for a court appearance? Whatever. It beat the orange jumpsuit—barely.

Normally he wouldn’t care, but today wasn’t about Ryan Decker. It was about something bigger. Something he cared passionately enough about to put aside his distaste for Special Agent Reeves, the man who had made it his personal mission to put Decker behind bars. The very thing that landed him here in the first place—a compulsive sense of duty to protect the innocent.

At some point today, he would testify against the Solntsevskaya Bratva, in a trial focused on the mob organization’s human-trafficking operation—or at least that’s what he assumed. The Department of Justice had moved him without prior notice from the United States penitentiary in Victorville, California, to the Los Angeles Metropolitan Detention Center, a few blocks from the US District Courthouse. He was familiar with the facility, having spent several months here awaiting his own trial. Inmates returned only to testify in federal cases.

The secretive nature of his transfer further supported the theory. The federal case against the Bratva had kicked into full gear six months after the Hemet disaster—partly due to a wealth of detailed information collected by Decker over the years. Information not subject to Fourth Amendment evidentiary standards, but dependent on his testimony. Hard-earned testimony.

In just over two years of federal custody, Decker had survived eight attempts on his life—a new record, according to the warden at Victorville. Someone really wanted to bury that testimony, and Decker’s money was on the Russians. The Bratva had a vested interest in deep-sixing him, and the feds had no intention of fumbling the case this close to victory. Hence, the pains they had undertaken to keep the transfer a secret.

He’d been placed in protective confinement at Victorville three days before US marshals arrived unannounced and drove him straight to Los Angeles. He’d been in this solitary holding cell since his arrival around four o’clock in the morning. No visitors. No fanfare. Marshals stationed nearby. Factory-sealed MRE for breakfast. The US attorney’s office wasn’t taking any chances today.

Decker removed his jumpsuit, catching a glimpse of a tightly muscled upper body in the mirror. Several finger-length scars wove across his body, each representing a different chapter in the near-death story that had defined his life. Only one other person knew the full story, taking it to her grave because of him. As far as he was concerned, that story would never be told again.

He finished dressing and checked his appearance. Business casual in federal court—after sleeping in the same clothes for a week.

“Could be worse,” he muttered before knocking on the door. “I’m ready.”

The door opened without the usual series of strict verbal instructions, causing Decker to tense, then move to the opposite wall and place his palms against the painted cinder block. He kept his head turned toward the door to get a jump on attempt number nine, should it materialize.

The same guard he’d seen upon arrival appeared in the doorway. “No need for that,” he said, motioning for Decker to step into the corridor.

Decker didn’t like the change in strict routine that had become his way of life for the past two years. The informality felt wrong.

“Are you sure?” said Decker, lowering his hands and turning around.

“I was given those instructions directly by my section leader,” said the guard. “You won’t be any trouble, will you?”

He shook his head.

“How about you cover some ground and make your way out of the cell, then?”

Decker complied, stepping into the wide, brightly lit hallway. A furtive look past the guard confirmed they were alone. Five sets of opposing doors ran the length of the hallway, which ended in a featureless door in both directions. A dome camera was attached to the ceiling above the hallway exit doors.

“We’re headed that way,” said the guard, pointing toward the door to Decker’s left.

The door buzzed for a long second, followed by a series of clicks. It automatically opened to a tight room, where a matching pair of US marshals in suits—easily identifiable by the distinctive five-pointed-star lapel badges—stood waiting.

“We’ll take him from here,” said one of the marshals.

“He’s all yours,” said the guard before disappearing into the small cellblock.

When the door closed and sealed behind him, the door beyond the marshals buzzed.

“You ready, Mr. Decker?” said the lead marshal, nodding respectfully.

Mr. Decker? He hadn’t been formally called anything but “prisoner” or “inmate” since his conviction. Informally, he’d been called every pejorative in the book, plus a few he’d never heard before. Something was off.

“I think so,” said Decker. “Where are we headed?”

“Processing,” said the marshal. “This way.”

He followed the marshal through the door, into the section’s control station. Three detention-center guards dressed in olive-drab, military-style uniforms sat behind thick ballistic glass inside the fully enclosed floor-to-ceiling structure. Situated in the middle of the octagonal room, guards inside the impregnable station controlled the comings and goings of prisoners placed in solitary or protective confinement. He imagined it was one of the quietest jobs in the building.