Skystorm (Ryan Decker)

by Steven Konkoly

  “Mazzie. Anything we should be worried about?”

  Her drone now hovered about two hundred feet above the parking garage exit, giving them a bird’s-eye view of the scene.

  “Nothing. They’re licking their wounds,” said Mazzie.

  “What does that mean, exactly?” asked Decker.

  “The survivors are consolidating into the BMW and the Armada.”

  “Damn. I should have taken the keys,” said Garza.

  Decker turned to check on Garza, immediately focusing on his bloodied leg.

  “Yeah. It’s bad,” said Garza, lying faceup across Harlow’s, Sandra’s, and Katie’s laps.

  “The body odor and tequila smell is worse,” said Katie.

  “I forgot to shower this morning. And yesterday, come to think of it. All related to the tequila,” said Garza.

  “Just turn your head or something,” said Katie.

  “I’m fine, everyone. Thank you for asking,” said Garza.

  “We have a stitch-and-fix kit in back somewhere,” said Decker.

  “That’ll work for now,” said Garza. “But this is going to take more than the hemostatic gauze trick. I’m still not entirely sure how I managed to get to the Beemer.”

  “Maybe the tequila numbed the pain,” said Katie.

  “Brutal crowd,” said Garza.

  “Just a little tough love,” said Harlow.

  “Speak for yourself,” said Sandra from the middle seat. “I’m bearing his full body weight—and body odor.”

  Everyone got a quick laugh out of Sandra’s joke, except for Pam, who slowed the Land Cruiser to navigate a roundabout. Decker sensed her tension.

  “Sophie. Dig around behind you for the kit. It’s stuffed behind the third row. Let’s get Garza patched up for now,” he said. “The rest of you watch your sectors. Or screens. We’re still deep in enemy territory.”

  “Santa Monica Boulevard is about a block south of here,” said Pam. “What are you thinking?”

  They needed to disappear. Fast. In order to pull that off, he needed to call in the favor promised to him by the Sinaloa Cartel. Right now.

  “I need to make that call,” he said. “As much as I hate the idea.”

  His phone buzzed, lighting up the cup holder. He could read the contact name upside down. A moment later, the word DAD appeared on the SUV’s touch screen. He jabbed the green button.

  “Dad! Are you okay? Is everyone okay? Where’s Riley?” he said, finally shutting up to let his dad answer.

  “Riley is with us. Mom is fine,” said Steven. “I don’t know if I should tell you where we are right now. Can they listen in on us?”

  His eyes teared up, the lump in his throat delaying his answer.

  “Ryan. Are you guys okay?”

  “We’re all fine, Dad. Harlow. Everyone at the firm. We barely made it out,” said Decker. “Don’t tell me your location. That’ll just make it easier for them.”

  “Do you want us to drive to you?”

  “Are you still anywhere near the school?” said Decker. “Yes or no answer.”

  “Yes.”

  He had a better idea.

  “Ditch all of your phones and drive south. Tell Riley to turn on the burner she keeps in her backpack. She’s going to receive a call from someone that can help you.”

  “I’m driving us out of here right now,” said his dad.

  “Is that gunfire?” whispered Pam.

  “Sounds like gunfire,” confirmed Harlow.

  They were right. Distant gunfire crackled on his dad’s side of the call. Decker had been so absorbed in the conversation that he hadn’t noticed it.

  “Is Brooklyn with you?”

  A long silence followed. “We don’t know what happened to her. She held them off long enough for Riley to escape.”

  “I hear gunfire,” said Decker.

  “It’s been going on for about five minutes. LAPD responded right away.”

  “Have you tried to get in touch with her?” asked Decker.

  “She’s not answering,” said his dad.

  He didn’t know what to say, so he hit the default button. Back to controlling what he could.

  “All right. Ditch the phones,” said Decker. “You should get a call in a few minutes.”

  “We love you, Ryan,” said his mom.

  “Love you guys, too,” said Decker, ending the call.

  Harlow squeezed his arm. “They’ll be fine. And Brooklyn has proven to be shockingly survivable in the past.”

  “I know,” said Decker, grabbing his phone from the cup holder.

  Pam glanced at him. “Are you really going to send a drug cartel to help them?”

  Decker scrolled through his contacts until he found what he needed.

  “No. I barely trust the Sinaloans not to sell us out to APEX,” said Decker, pressing “Send.”

  The Land Cruiser’s Bluetooth system took over, the touch screen displaying FBI GUY.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Supervisory Special Agent Joseph Reeves stared beyond his office window into the deep-green fields of the Los Angeles National Cemetery, trying to process the call he’d just received from Ryan Decker. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe Decker. Given everything that had transpired between Reeves, Decker, and Senator Steele over the past few years, nothing Decker had said sounded implausible. Reeves simply didn’t want to believe it. He didn’t want confirmation that the system was entirely broken. And that gave him just enough sand to consider burying his head in. To doubt Decker.

  “Dammit,” he muttered, before calling Senator Steele.

  He certainly couldn’t ignore Decker’s plea, but he sure as hell wasn’t putting the lives of his agents at risk if Decker had somehow stepped in a new, unrelated pile of shit.

  “Joe? Is everything okay?” asked Steele.

  “Is there any reason it wouldn’t be?”

  “No. Not for you,” said Steele.

  “For Decker?” said Reeves.

  The long pause answered his question.

  “I just got an interesting call from him,” said Reeves. “And I’m not exactly sure how I should proceed.”

  “He’s well aware of the newly developed situation. I warned him as soon as I knew there was a problem—not even an hour ago,” said Steele. “Sorry. I should have given you a heads-up. I didn’t think he’d call you.”

  She had no idea.

  “Senator. Ryan Decker was attacked in his office just minutes ago,” said Reeves. “And they tried to grab his daughter from her school.”

  “What? That fast?” said Steele. “Oh God. Please tell me they’re okay.”

  “Everyone is fine, for now,” said Reeves. “How serious is this? Decker asked for some very specific help. The kind that puts me in an awkward spot. But most importantly, it puts my agents at risk.”

  “Joe. Nobody expects you to put yourself or your agents at risk,” said Steele.

  “Are you certain this is APEX?” said Reeves.

  “I’m afraid so. I’ve had one of their top people under surveillance for several months. They uncovered something big about a week ago,” she said. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t—”

  “Did Decker know?”

  “Know what?”

  “About you continuing to look into APEX?” said Reeves.

  “No. He had . . . no idea,” said Steele, her voice trailing away.

  She’d obviously come to the same realization that had just hit him over the head like a frying pan. His family might be in danger.

  “I need to hang up now,” said Reeves. “I highly suggest you get somewhere safe—surrounded by people you trust. They’re cleaning house.”

  He ended the call and dashed out of his office, drawing stares from the half dozen or so task force agents not assigned to field duty that morning.

  “Where’s Kincaid?” asked Reeves.

  “Break room,” said Special Agent Vale. “Simonetti brought in Dunkin’. I was just about to grab you
before the doughnuts disappeared.”

  Reeves absently nodded at Vale before taking off again. He found Kincaid, Simonetti, and Gaines each holding a Styrofoam cup and a partially eaten doughnut.

  “Shit. Sorry. I should have grabbed you,” said Kincaid. “There’s still a few left. Glazed, but—”

  “Simonetti. Gaines. Grab a car and meet me at the edge of the parking lot, directly across from the mailboxes—in ten minutes,” said Reeves. “I’ll explain on the road.”

  He could tell by the looks on their faces that they understood the gravity of the situation. The absolute silence and speed of their departure confirmed it.

  “What’s going on?” said Kincaid, setting down his coffee and doughnut.

  “How many vehicles do we have in the field—right now—carrying a tactical kit?” said Reeves.

  Given the fluid, quick-to-escalate tempo of the Russian organized-crime division’s investigations and the violence-prone nature of their targets, Reeves had fought tooth and nail with agency bureaucrats to proactively and properly equip his field agents for the high-risk work they faced on a daily basis. At any given time, a quarter of the division’s vehicles carried the kind of tactical firearms and gear that gave them a fighting chance against the Bratva soldiers who would rather die in a blaze of glory than face a jail sentence.

  “Eight,” said Kincaid. “We can double that number in about thirty minutes, but it’ll raise some eyebrows.”

  Reeves did the math. Each kit equipped two agents with an M4 rifle, several rifle magazines, body armor, ballistic helmets, communications gear, flash bang grenades, a hand portable door-breaching ram, and plenty of zip-tie restraints. He could put sixteen agents into action right now, which should be enough to dissuade APEX from making a costly mistake.

  “Have the agents in the field gear up right now, wherever they are—and then send half to my house and half to your house,” said Reeves.

  “What the hell?”

  “It’s just a precaution.”

  “Sounds like more than a precaution,” said Kincaid.

  “Just get it done,” said Reeves, already headed for the door.

  “Do you want me to put together more teams?”

  Reeves shook his head. “We shouldn’t need more than that. This is mainly for show.”

  “Is my family in danger?” said Kincaid.

  “No more than mine,” said Reeves. “I’m pretty sure I’m just being paranoid.”

  Kincaid followed him out of the break room. “I’ll get everything rolling and coordinate the rest from the car.”

  Reeves stopped. “I need you to handle something else for me, discreetly, while I run a separate related errand.”

  “You’re not headed home?” asked Kincaid.

  “No. Eight agents are more than enough. Have them escort our families back to the secure parking garage across the street. Park on the roof and sit tight,” said Reeves. “I need you to run that as quietly as you can.”

  Kincaid nodded. “Got it. What’s the other thing?”

  “There’s an ongoing shootout at Crossmount High School, just north of UCLA—”

  “I know where it is,” said Kincaid. “How do you know this? We haven’t received an active-shooter alert.”

  “Just happened five minutes ago,” said Reeves.

  “How could you know that?”

  “I promise I’ll explain later,” said Reeves. “A young woman named Nava Cohen has most likely been shot at the school. She’s Riley Decker’s bodyguard.”

  “Ryan Decker’s daughter?”

  “Yes. Riley is headed in this general direction with her grandparents right now. I’m going to bring them to the secure garage,” said Reeves. “I need you to grab a carload of agents and head up to the high school to find out what happened to Ms. Cohen. If she’s KIA, end of story. I’ll meet you back at the parking garage. If she’s still alive—do whatever you need to do to establish federal protective custody. She’s not out of danger.”

  “We’ll stay with her,” said Kincaid.

  “Smooth things out with LAPD and leave your agents with her,” said Reeves. “This is going to scare the hell out of your family—and mine. You should get back here to see them as soon as possible.”

  “Right,” said Kincaid, heading for his office.

  “And Matt?”

  “Yeah?”

  “If there’s a tactical car near the school, divert those agents to meet you at the school,” said Reeves. “Six should be more than enough at my house.”

  “I’ll keep you posted,” said Kincaid, disappearing.

  When Reeves turned, five agents stood waiting at the division’s exit. They’d clearly overheard enough to know that the office had just been turned upside down by something that required an all-hands response. Special Agent Sarah Vale, who had been in the division from day one, shrugged.

  “Where we headed?” she asked.

  “You’re coming with me,” said Reeves. “The rest of you are headed out with Kincaid.”

  On the way to the elevator, Vale pulled him aside. “We should stop by my car on the way out.”

  “What?” said Reeves, peevishly. “Whatever it is can wait. We don’t have the time.”

  “‘Whatever’ happens to be a California-compliant AR-15 and several noncompliant magazines,” said Vale. “Just in case. Not that I was eavesdropping on your conversation.”

  “Just in case sounds good right about now.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Brad Pierce sped away from his daughter’s high school, headed south toward the agreed-upon rendezvous point. His daughter grunted in the passenger seat.

  “Dad. I thought these days were behind us?” said Nicki.

  “So did I. This is just a precaution,” he said, not wanting to entirely freak her out.

  “You literally pulled me out of a trigonometry test,” she said. “And kind of made a scene. You don’t do that if it’s just a precaution. What’s really going on, Dad?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” he said, which was terrifying. “All I do know is that Uncle Ryan sent me a code about twenty minutes ago that he would only send if he thought there was a possibility that we were in immediate danger. Actually, the code was for everyone. Not just us. Something scared him that bad. That’s why I made a scene. Your mother did the same thing at Tommy’s school.”

  “Where are they?”

  “On their way to the Arapahoe County Sheriff’s Office,” he said. “We’ll meet them there.”

  The public parking area sat close enough to the main sheriff’s office building to provide a deterrent and was far enough away from East Broncos Parkway to give them plenty of warning if APEX wasn’t deterred. They’d transfer the gear he’d grabbed from the office vault into his wife’s SUV and take a few moments to collect themselves before fleeing town. Their emergency evacuation plan had gone smoothly so far.

  Anna, his wife, had driven away from the house in just under five minutes, after stuffing her vehicle with the prestaged bugout packs they kept in the garage, the travel packets locked away in their bedroom safe, and all the weapons in their gun vault. She’d practiced the drill several times since they’d moved into the house until she could do it by herself within that short time frame. Her diligence had paid off. The time between Decker’s warning and their departure would clock in under thirty minutes. The only way they could have done it faster was if everyone had been home at the same time—a rare event these days in the Pierce household.

  “I mean after that,” said Nicki. “Unless that’s it.”

  “No. That’s not it,” he said. “We’re going back to Aguilar.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until the coast is clear,” said Pierce. “Who knows. This could be a false alarm.”

  His phone rang, and he grabbed it from the center console.

  “That’s odd,” he muttered, answering the call. “Hey, Gunny,” said Pierce. “I was just about to call you about taking an un
planned trip out your way.”

  “Then this ain’t no coincidence,” said retired Gunnery Sergeant Fowler. “Three ginormous SUVs just burned past my place. Something going on up there?”

  “When we hang up, you and Denise need to get out of there,” said Pierce. “And not to your hunting cabin a few miles away.”

  “I guessed as much,” said Gunny. “Though I wouldn’t mind doing a little recon up that way.”

  “Probably not a great idea,” said Pierce. “My presence up in Denver isn’t a secret. If they wanted to kill me, they could have shot me getting out of my car at the office. They’re setting up some kind of ambush down there to grab us for leverage.”

  “Sounds about right,” said Gunny.

  “Go visit your grandkids. Between the five million cameras you have set up around your house and the one I have hidden up in the hills, we can figure out when it’s safe for you to return.”

  “Copy that, sailor,” said Gunny.

  Pierce shook his head. “Stay safe. And pass on my apologies to Denise. And my best, of course.”

  “She’ll be cursing your name all the way to Albuquerque.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, everyone’s going to be doing the same in my car—all the way to wherever we’re going,” said Pierce.

  “You know, it actually does make me feel a little better,” said Gunny. “Give those kids a hug for Denise. And give Anna a big ol’—”

  “You’re breaking up, Gunny,” said Pierce, talking over him.

  “Probably for the better,” said Gunny. “Watch your six, sailor. Out.”

  Pierce checked his messages while he had the phone in his hand. Still nothing from Decker.

  “How did they find our place in Aguilar?” asked Nicki.

  “They followed us back at some point,” said Pierce.

  “But we were careful, and Gunny was always watching,” she said. “They couldn’t follow us there without us knowing.”

  “All they really had to do was verify that the Aguilar area was our true destination,” said Pierce. “After that it was just a matter of spending a lot of money on aerial surveillance. And these people apparently have all the money in the world.”