The Rescue(6)

Glancing through the café window, he checked on the van. The front passenger seat was empty. One of the Russians was on the plaza. He craned his head a little farther but couldn’t spot him among the shoppers and tourists. Damn. That was an epic fail. Then again, he’d never found it particularly difficult to pick them out of a crowd before. Bad haircuts. Distinctively out-of-place clothing choices. Neck and arm tattoos. Turtlenecks in the middle of August—to cover said tattoos. He’d take a seat at the counter and scan the crowd. It shouldn’t take him long.

The van rolled away, immediately replaced by a black SUV. Maybe they did plan to cut him down right here. He looked again at the little girl, who hid her face behind her mom. What the hell was he thinking? Decker stepped out of the line. He had to get out of here. If the Bratva wanted him dead more than they cared about a public relations mess, he was putting a lot of people at risk by being here.





CHAPTER FOUR

Harlow Mackenzie accelerated into the intersection, the yellow light changing to red before she started the turn. When her car straightened on Second, she drove as fast as possible without hitting the careless jaywalkers popping out of nowhere. Like the gaggle of business types stepping into the street right now. She hit her brakes in time to glide to a precarious stop a few feet shy of them.

“What don’t these idiots get about crosswalks?” she muttered.

She refrained from laying on the horn as they debated whether to continue across the street. Decker had two vehicles working him. A gray SUV and a white cargo van. There were bound to be more that she hadn’t spotted. Instead of drawing undue attention to herself, she impatiently waved the group across, keeping her eyes on the road beyond them. The cargo van turned onto Second Street from Alameda, heading in her direction.

“Dammit!” she said, pounding the steering wheel.

If Decker was careless enough to approach the street, he could stumble right into a curbside ambush. She sped up, running a few quick plans through her head. Her creaky sedan arrived at the southern entrance to the open-air shopping plaza several seconds ahead of the van, giving her a chance to scan the plaza without making it too obvious. Not that her crappy little sedan would draw a second look.

Harlow immediately spotted Decker, headed toward one of the shops lining the plaza. Looked like a coffee shop. What the hell was he thinking? This was not the time to sit in one spot. She’d have to intervene sooner than expected. The white van rolled in front of the plaza entrance as she furiously typed a text message to her assistant. When she looked up, the tall vehicle mostly obscured her view of the coffee shop. A serious-looking driver wearing an earpiece gave her a passing glance before scanning the street ahead.

She squeezed her vehicle through the pedestrian traffic at the crosswalk ahead and parked along a red curb. The car was one of her throwaways, so she didn’t care if it got towed, though she hoped her assistant could move it before the tow truck arrived. It all depended on what happened in the next ten minutes.

Her feet hit the street seconds later, carrying her swiftly between the slowed traffic toward the other side. Pretending to be absorbed by her phone, she reached the sidewalk and merged with the eclectic mix of Little Tokyo tourists and locals headed toward the plaza.

Harlow was invisible to them now, dressed in Southern California’s patented “might be working out or might be running errands” outfit—purple backpack, black yoga pants, tight midriff top covered by an unbuttoned, long-sleeve studio wrap. Olive-drab ball cap with jet-black ponytail pulled through the back.

A fit-looking man wearing hiking boots, cargo shorts, and an untucked navy polo shirt got out of the van’s front passenger door and blended into the plaza’s foot traffic. Not a bad disguise, except for the boots. She turned into the plaza and headed for the café, keeping her eye on the possible shooter. He drifted out of the crowd and took a seat next to an elderly Asian woman on a bench across the plaza from the café.

She scanned the people approaching the café from the other direction. She presumed that the gray SUV had dropped off a few operatives to make sure Decker didn’t double back. Nobody in the throng passing underneath the strings of red and white Japanese lanterns looked out of place, which further complicated an already problematic situation. She turned toward the café and spotted Decker in line.

“Had to get that coffee,” she mumbled. “Didn’t you?”

By the time she reached the door, he had stepped out of the line, a worried look on his face. He was bailing on the coffee. Not the best idea at this point, with multiple unidentified bad guys floating around the plaza. Decker was good, but he wasn’t that good. He’d definitely need her help to get out of this. She opened the door and placed a firm hand on his sternum, careful to position her body so that nobody approaching from the gray van could see she was touching him.

He reacted instantly, gripping her wrist and applying a frightening amount of pressure.

“Do not break my wrist, Decker,” she said firmly. “I’m one of the few friends you have left.”

“You don’t look familiar. At all,” said Decker, his eyes locked onto hers.

Harlow hesitated, a wave of disappointment washing over her. Decker couldn’t possibly know who she was or how they were connected, but she couldn’t help it. She knew Decker’s face better than her own brother’s at this point. His dismissive statement cut a little deeper than she’d have thought possible coming from someone she’d never met before. She shook it off.