The Rescue(52)

“Wait. Did she help with my—”

“Your daughter is safe, Decker,” said Katie. “We put one of our most trusted outside teams on the job.”

“Thank you,” he said. “For all of this. I don’t know how I can repay it.”

“For starters—don’t get yourself killed,” she said.

“I’ll see what I can do about that,” said Decker, sitting on the edge of the empty bed.

“Keep that phone on at all times. We’ll be in touch,” said Katie.

“Don’t call us. We’ll call you,” he said.

“See you around, Decker,” she said, closing the door behind her.

“Can’t wait,” he muttered, plopping backward.

Decker lay on his back for a few minutes, the comforter’s odor completely permeating his nose. A not-so-subtle combination of mildew and dumpster that he’d probably take with him wherever he traveled over the next day or so. He got up and secured the door, throwing the dead bolt and swinging the bar lock shut. It didn’t escape his notice that the door locks looked like the only part of the room that had been updated in the last thirty years.

A quick check of the windows showed recently installed security bars. Great. Not only should he levitate above the bed to avoid infection, he’d apparently need to sleep with one eye open to avoid being robbed for meth money in the middle of the night. At least the air-conditioning worked. Sort of. The rattling unit didn’t inspire a lot of hope.

He debated taking a shower, concluding it wasn’t a good idea at this time of the night, despite the robust system of locks. Sleeping probably wasn’t the best idea, either, but that wasn’t really up for debate. Eyeballing the two beds, he selected the one farthest from the window and door. Decker repacked the duffel bag with everything except the satellite phone, loaded pistol, and sheet set.

Five minutes later, he set the pistol and activated satellite phone on the nightstand and turned off the light, listening to the late-night traffic speed by on Fremont Street. The sunbaked dumpster odor still leached through the sheets, but it was fainter, and he felt reasonably assured that he wouldn’t wake up with bedbug bites on his hands and face. Reasonably.





CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Reeves gently lifted the blankets and eased out of bed, trying not to wake his wife, Claire. It was 5:16 a.m. and she didn’t normally wake up until six, when the kids started moving around the house. He’d woken her last night after midnight when he tried to quietly navigate the bedroom, failing miserably thanks to the Barbie Dream Camper left in the middle of the floor. After twenty-three years of chasing bank robbers, domestic terrorists, and mobsters for the FBI, his daughters’ toys continued to pose the greatest threat to his safety.

His wife stirred under the covers as he rose from the squeaky mattress. She turned her head on the pillow, like she might say something, before sinking back into a solid sleep. He admired her placid face for a few moments, wishing he could lie here with her a little longer, but he’d been wide-awake for close to an hour at this point, his mind racing back and forth over the Decker case.

Relying on the faint glow of a night-light in the hallway, Reeves shuffled his bare feet across the carpeting, painfully aware that he hadn’t cleared all of the sharp plastic hazards strewn across the room. Arriving safely at the bedroom door, he stepped into the hallway and eased the door shut.

Armed with a glass of water and the knowledge that a pot of freshly brewed coffee would be ready in five minutes, he made his way to the home office. Claire’s home office. He’d only managed to stake out enough space in her graphic-design studio to charge his laptop. Once inside the studio, he turned on a desk lamp and retrieved his computer from the edge of her desk before settling into the cozy leather club chair she relied on to spawn ideas. Maybe some of the chair’s magic would rub off on him this morning.

A minute later, he’d negotiated a secure connection with the remote-access server specifically configured for his use, confirming his identity using the fingerprint scanner built into laptop. He dived right into his email inbox, finding a message from the FBI’s JRIC Liaison Office.

“Let’s see what we have,” said Reeves, clicking on the link embedded in the email.

He started with Rich Hyde, currently employed by Constellation Security, an Aegis Global subsidiary. Left the SEALs as a second-class petty officer after ten years of service. Three combat deployments to Iraq. Two to Afghanistan. Two Bronze Stars, each with the combat “V” designation. A dozen other military decorations. Honorable discharge. Hyde had been no slouch during his naval career, which made his murder in an obscure parking garage stairwell even more bizarre.

Beyond the two tightly spaced bullet holes in his right temple and the gaping exit wounds on the other side of his head, Hyde had been found with an untraceable pistol. The kind of loadout he’d expect to find on a Bratva hit man. The discovery of a sophisticated wireless communications rig suggested he hadn’t been working alone, and whatever had happened didn’t give his team enough time to sanitize the scene.

Had he been freelancing outside Constellation Security? Reeves couldn’t imagine any reason why Constellation Security would be running an operation on US soil, unless it had something to do with Decker. But why would Constellation or Aegis be interested in Decker?

Reeves shook his head. He wasn’t going to let Decker sidetrack him. For all he knew, Decker had hired these guys to spring him from prison and then double-crossed them at the mall, with the help of Harlow Mackenzie. But why would she help Decker and continue to run interference for him despite the FBI’s involvement? No. Things got too messy too quickly at the Japanese Village Plaza. He sifted through Hyde’s file for another minute or two, not finding anything useful.