The Rescue(7)

“The café is under surveillance. Possibly surrounded. You’re going to need my help,” she said. “Get back in line before they notice something is off.”

The pressure eased, but his piercing glare remained. “How many?” he asked.

“One that I’m sure you spotted, across from the café sitting next to the old Asian lady,” said Harlow. “My guess is that two more followed you through the mall, from the gray Suburban parked on First Street.”

Decker released her wrist and got back in line. Harlow took her place behind him.

“What’s your angle here?” Decker said over his shoulder.

“My name is Harlow Mackenzie. I’ve been watching you for a long time.”

“Hardly creepy at all.”

“Let me try again. I’m a private investigator,” she said. “That’s probably not what you want to hear, either.”

“Strike two. One more strike and—you don’t want to know what happens after strike three.”

“World Recovery Group got me off the streets thirteen years ago,” said Harlow. “Your work on behalf of Recovery Street saved my life.”

Decker ran a hand over his buzz cut. “That’s right when we started. Was it the McNulty group?”

“Yep,” she said. “I was strung out in Van Nuys, waiting for an audition that would never come. Sounded like a great idea at the time.”

“Always does,” said Decker. “They had quite a racket going. We took down six apartments that night and seized information leading to thirty more across greater Los Angeles.”

“I was in an apartment on Kittridge.”

“Small world. Crazy,” said Decker, shaking his head. “So now what?”

“You’re going to get a coffee. I’m going to get a coffee,” said Harlow. “By the time we’ve finished, I’ll have a plan to get us out of this.”

“How did you know I’d be released? Just over an hour ago, I thought I was getting dressed to testify in court.”

“I have a friend at Victorville,” said Harlow. “I got the call at nine this morning, when my friend’s shift began. I just guessed the marshals were taking you here. Lots of guesswork in this business. I got lucky.”

“Or not. The Bratva won’t hesitate to kill you—or worse,” said Decker. “You should just walk out of here right now.”

“This isn’t the Bratva.”

He turned his body and looked past her at the plaza outside the shop.

“What are you doing?” she said.

“Looking for the people that want to kill me,” said Decker. “I’d look more suspicious if I didn’t.”

“Good point,” she said, pretending to stare ahead.

Instead, she gave him a covert once-over—finally free from his intense scrutiny. The buzz cut wasn’t exactly flattering. The blue dress shirt was a few sizes too large, hiding a rock-solid physique underneath, judging by the sculpted neck muscles. This close, his face looked a little starker than in the pictures. Ruggedly handsome with signs of battle wear—namely, a one-inch scar across his left cheek and a slightly longer one on his right temple. Once again, she found herself mesmerized standing in front of someone she’d admired from a distance for so long.

“Doesn’t look like a Russian. I’ll give you that,” said Decker, turning back to face the counter.

“I need to show you something,” said Harlow. “I did some digging after your arrest. Deep digging.”

“I just want to see my daughter again,” said Decker. “That’s all I care about right now. How do we get out of here?”

“There’s more to Hemet than the Russians.”

“Look. I appreciate whatever you’re doing here, but—”

“I think you were set up by whoever hired you to find Senator Steele’s daughter.”

He visibly tightened in front of her. The two women and their daughters moved aside, but Decker remained in place.

“You have proof?”

“I have a good start,” said Harlow. “Grab two seats somewhere. Try not to make it obvious.”

“Not my first rodeo.”

“Just making sure,” she said.

Decker stepped up to the cashier, speaking over his shoulder.

“I hope you understand what you’re getting into here. Russians or not, they look serious.”

“Not my first rodeo, either.”





CHAPTER FIVE

Decker took his cappuccino to the wall-facing counter next to the bathroom, snagging a free local magazine from a display stand on the way. He set the magazine on the low-back stool next to him and took a seat. A glance at the vacant leather lounge chairs near the front window left him craving their well-worn luxury. No reason to get greedy. He had what he wanted right in front of him.

The first sip burned the inside of his mouth. Rookie mistake. Coffee on the inside was served warm to lukewarm so you couldn’t throw it in someone’s face and put them in the infirmary. Now he’d have to wait a minute or two before he could taste again. Not a problem.

Decker was in no hurry to get out of here. His executioners had taken up positions surrounding the café, and from what he could tell, there was no back door. He hoped Ms. Mackenzie had a solid plan to get him out of the shop.