Walk the Wire (Amos Decker #6)(39)

The man who Decker had clubbed in the knee looked up and nodded. “We can take care of each other,” he said quickly. “No need for you to stick around, sir.”

“Fuck you,” screamed the man whose shoulder Baker had separated.

“Did you think of that one all by yourself?” said Decker drily.

He and Baker walked down the street to the next block over and parted company there.

“I’ll call you tomorrow about coming out to the worksite,” said Decker.

“I’m usually there six in the morning until six in the evening. And thanks for helping me back there. Wasn’t your fight.”

“I’m not sure you needed me,” replied Decker.

He left Baker there and continued on his way. The street he was on was even emptier than the previous ones. The rain was falling harder now, and Decker picked up his pace. He calculated that if he took a shortcut down the alley coming up he would shave his time in half.

He ducked into the alley as the rain picked up. He was about halfway down it when something hit him from the side. It was as hard as a Mack truck and took Decker right off his feet. It reminded him of the blindside tackle he’d taken that had led to his brain trauma.

An instant later a gun was fired and the bullet hit the brick wall opposite right where Decker would have been. It punched a two-inch hole in the wall, and as soon as it did a mini explosion happened and flames licked the brick. If it had struck him, he’d have been a dead man.

The person who had hit him was lying on top of Decker. He whispered into Decker’s ear, “Stay down and stay safe. I’ll be right back.”

The next moment Decker was all alone.





THE MAN WHO HAD FIRED the shot at Decker was now sprinting from his concealed position. He had followed Decker to the alley after shadowing him most of the evening. When Decker and his friend had been attacked by the group of thugs the man thought his work might be done by them.

He wasn’t thrilled with having missed, but for some reason Decker had gone down right as he had fired.

As though someone had . . . Shit. The mission’s been compromised.

He picked up his pace as the rain soaked him. He did this for a living, and his paranoia antennae were kicking into high gear. His weapon was a custom-built .44-caliber pistol with a special long barrel to give it more range. He had the big man right in the crosshairs, pulled the trigger, and gotten zip for all his troubles.

He was irritated. Not only would he not get paid, he might get killed for missing his target. It was just that sort of high-level gig. He had no idea who had hired him, but he’d been doing this long enough to know the presence of heavy hitters.

Yes, one crappy night this is turning out to be.

He reached the rental car. The long-barreled pistol went under the front seat. He climbed into the driver’s side and hit the button to start the engine.

Only it wasn’t there. The button was gone. He was just looking at the mechanical innards behind it. What the hell was— He stopped wondering when the passenger’s-side door opened and the man who had knocked Decker down and saved his life stood there, his pistol trained on him.

His gaze flicked up and down over this new man on the scene. The eyes were cold, colder than his had ever been, and somehow he didn’t think this was the man’s top range of ice. He was about six feet, lean, wiry, probably strong as an ox without all the muscle mass. Nimble, alert, quick in his ways, a pro. That could be read in the calm features as the rain poured down on him.

“Should I even bother to ask who you are?” he said.

The other man shook his head one time and one time only.

“You fouled my shot back there.”

One curt nod was the response to this statement.

“Full disclosure. I’ve got a lot of juice behind me. You can walk away from this or go down under the wheels. I’m not the only one out there. It’s a good deal. Take it.”

Another brief shake of the head.

“Then what do you want?”

It was then that the man spotted the suppressor on the end of the gun barrel pointing at him.

“You’re making a huge mistake,” he said. “This is a lot bigger than both of us.”

“First thing you’ve said that makes sense,” said the other man.

He pulled the trigger once and drilled a hole in the other man’s forehead. Dum-dum round, it stayed inside. The man slumped forward over the steering wheel.

The other man had a comm bud in his ear and spoke into a mic tagged to his jacket.

He gave the location and situation. He received an affirmative that “cleanup” would commence right away. He put the starter button back from where he had earlier taken it. Then he closed the door without looking at the man he had just shot dead.

He slipped his pistol into a holster that rode on the back of his waistband and sprinted back to the spot where he had left Decker.

Decker was still there lying on his belly in the middle of the alley. With the falling rain he was as soaked as though he had jumped, fully clothed, into a pool.

When Decker saw the man heading down the alley, he called out, “Hey, can I get up?”

“Affirmative.” The man hustled over and helped him up. Decker could feel the strength in the other man’s grip.

“Someone just tried to kill me,” said Decker.