The Rescue(5)

“Processing for trial?” said Decker. “To go over my testimony?”

The marshals cast him a confused look.

“No. Outprocessing,” said the marshal.

Decker froze in place on the shiny concrete floor. “I don’t understand.”

The federal officer shrugged. “That’s all I know. Sounds to me like you’ll be a free man within the hour.”

“Unless you want to go back to a cell,” said his partner, chuckling softly at his own joke.

“This must be a mistake. I was supposed to testify in a US District Court case against members of the Solntsevskaya Bratva,” said Decker. “I assumed that’s why I was brought here.”

“That case was dismissed three days ago,” said the marshal.

“What? Wait. How the hell did that happen?”

“Something was wrong with the evidence.”

A bored intercom voice interrupted the conversation.

“I need you gentlemen to clear the space,” said one of the control station guards.

“Busy day?” said the lead marshal, flashing a grin.

“Funny man,” said the guard. “Don’t let the door hit you.”

The door on the other side of the station buzzed, opening a few seconds later. Decker remained in place, running what he knew through his head. It didn’t take him long to reach a conclusion. His release was neither a mistake nor a coincidence. Somehow, the long arm of the Bratva had pulled enough levers to get him released—in downtown Los Angeles.

“You heard the man,” said the marshal.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” said Decker. “Why would they bring me to Los Angeles?”

“No idea,” said the marshal, losing patience. “I need you to keep moving, Mr. Decker. My orders are to deliver you to processing.”

More like deliver him to an execution. He’d be lucky to last thirty minutes on the streets.





CHAPTER THREE

Decker stood in the blazing noontime sun next to the detention center, contemplating the unexpected turn of events. Faking a Bureau of Prisons release must have cost the Russians a tremendous amount of money. An investment they’d be eager to recoup. He thoroughly scanned the street below him, not detecting anything suspicious. No surprise there. The Russians could be crazy and arrogant, but they weren’t stupid.

They’d track him from a distance and wait for a less conspicuous time and place to make a move. Decker planned to use that against them. He’d head a few blocks south to a part of Los Angeles called Skid Row, where he’d disappear among several city blocks of makeshift tents and homeless people. On the way, if circumstances allowed it, he’d duck into a coffee shop recommended by one of the marshals. He could really use a good coffee, especially if it might be his last.

Satisfied that the Russians didn’t plan on gunning him down in front of the detention center, he descended the steps to Alameda Street and walked south. He’d been told to follow Alameda until East First Street, where he’d see a Japanese-looking tower. Directions got even hazier after that. The café was tucked into an open-air shopping plaza on the edge of Little Tokyo.

Long rows of bleak warehouses gave way to lively shops as he approached the intersection of First and Alameda. He glanced back over his shoulder at the lifeless blocks he’d just walked. A perfect shooting gallery for the Bratva: No witnesses. Nowhere to run. A missed opportunity. He turned right at the intersection and spotted the red tower. Their loss. He was getting that coffee.

Pedestrian traffic picked up on First Street, bringing ample opportunity to better his situation. Choosing his victim carefully, he lifted a promisingly fat wallet from an entirely oblivious tourist before crossing the street. Two hundred dollars and three credit cards richer, he stuffed the wallet into an overflowing trash bin at the entrance to the Japanese Village Plaza and plunged into the noontime mall crowd, looking for a cell phone he could use to arrange a more permanent vanishing act later.

A glance over his shoulder confirmed that the gray Suburban that had been ghosting him since the intersection had stopped on the far side of street, in front of the northern plaza entrance. The windows were heavily tinted, but he knew what was inside. Bratva soldiers. Coffee would have to wait. He walked briskly through the crowded outdoor mall, his focus on reaching Skid Row.

He’d just passed the café recommended by the marshals when a windowless white van crept into view on Second Street, effectively blocking his escape from the busy shopping plaza. Time for a new plan. Decker turned and headed for the coffee shop, where he’d presumably be safe—for now.

Decker opened the heavy door to the Sweetspot Café, taking in the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans. He’d grab a coffee and assess the situation. Possibly pick up a weapon he could use to surprise one of the men sent to kill him.

He separated a twenty from the small wad of cash in his pocket and settled in behind a pair of young women with toddler daughters. One of the girls peeked around her mom’s tanned leg at him. He smiled, the little girl’s blonde hair and blue eyes reminding him of his own daughter. His smile faded just as quickly, and for the same reason.

He couldn’t afford to think about her right now. Decker’s only chance of seeing his daughter again hinged on getting out of here alive, and it was going to take all his focus to pull that off.