Skystorm (Ryan Decker)

by Steven Konkoly

  Nicki just sat there, blankly staring through the windshield for several seconds.

  “How do we make all of them die?” she asked.

  He was shocked by the question. But not by the fact that his daughter had just casually suggested killing as a solution to a problem. Pierce felt the same way. What took him by surprise was its sheer elegance and simplicity. It was a question he’d never asked before—but he fully intended to pursue the answer with a new sense of clarity and purpose.

  “I don’t know, Nicki,” he said. “But I’m going to find out. And your uncle Ryan and I are going to make them all die.”

  Or die trying.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Decker was now convinced they were being tracked. A few blocks past West Martin Luther King Jr. Drive, the same metallic-green, two-door sedan appeared every time they passed a connecting street. The car’s presence meant progress with the Sinaloans—or whichever gang they paid to do their dirty work up here. Until the car showed up, he’d thought negotiations with the cartel had ended, and they’d just wasted close to an hour driving through some of the city’s roughest neighborhoods—with APEX closing in.

  “Green car to the right,” said Decker. “It’s been ghosting us for a few minutes.”

  As they cruised past the next street, the little car appeared, matching their speed. He decided to give his contact another try. The direct line he’d been assured would be answered twenty-four hours a day turned out to be anything but direct. Or maybe this was all part of the process. The cartels were notoriously suspicious of anyone outside of their tight circle, especially north of the border. Decker couldn’t blame them for taking caution to the next level under the circumstances, but he was running out of time.

  The Los Angeles Police Department had issued a citywide all-points bulletin for their Land Cruiser about three minutes ago. He had APEX to thank for that. In addition to providing the heavily armed dead bodies that undoubtedly scared the hell out of every responding officer, the trick they’d pulled with the video surveillance system had likely delayed matters.

  An eyewitness from the building, with a view of Holloway Drive, probably filled in enough blanks for police to find them on a nearby business’s closed-circuit camera feed. The bullet dents and spiderweb-cracked windows kind of stood out.

  Just another reason he had hoped to be off the streets thirty minutes ago. He redialed the number that had hung up on him a few minutes ago.

  “Hello?” said the same Hispanic voice.

  “Can we stop playing games?” said Decker. “You know exactly who this is. I need to get off the streets immediately. That was the deal.”

  “One million dollars. I’ll text you the routing instructions.”

  “Seriously? I seem to remember us striking an agreement that more or less saved your organization hundreds of billions of dollars a few years ago. Sí?” said Decker. “Actually, that agreement probably netted you another hundred billion a year. Does any of this ring a bell?”

  “I’m well aware of those particulars, but I’m not bound by the agreement—if my judgment dictates otherwise.”

  “And your judgment says you should squeeze some money out of me—because you can?” said Decker.

  “No. But my judgment says I should get something in return for the twenty-million-dollar bounty I’m passing up. And the shitstorm my operation is likely to endure from a group that can afford to post such a bounty.”

  Harlow tapped him on the shoulder and whispered, “It’s Steele’s money. Pay the million.” He nodded.

  “I assume you don’t expect a suitcase full of cash?” said Decker.

  “Not unless you have one.”

  “I wish. Go ahead and send the bank transfer instructions,” said Decker.

  “Just like that?” said the man. “No counteroffer?”

  “I don’t have time for that,” said Decker. “Just get us off the street.”

  “As soon as I have the money,” he said, and a text appeared on Decker’s phone.

  He opened the text to find the requested financial instructions.

  “I’ll call you when the money goes through,” said Decker.

  “When the money goes through, you’ll receive directions,” said the voice. “Do not deviate from the directions. Failure to comply voids our deal.”

  “And makes you twenty million dollars richer?”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Decker.”

  He passed the phone back to Sandra, who tossed it to Joshua.

  “How long will it take?” asked Decker.

  “Not long. I’m already in the account,” said Joshua. “Assuming we don’t have a transaction limit. We’ve never moved this much before.”

  “Don’t even say that,” said Decker. “The only option left is to pull up to one of these beat-down repair shops and try to buy a few hours of their time and discretion.”

  “Be a lot less expensive,” said Pam. “That’s for sure.”

  “I don’t think any of these places accept bank transfers,” said Katie.

  “I grabbed the cash pouch from the vault,” said Sophie. “That’s about forty-five hundred.”

  “That should buy us about five minutes,” said Katie.

  He was too nervous to join the banter or even fake a laugh. His eyes darted back and forth along the road ahead of them. All it would take is one police cruiser with a half-awake officer behind the wheel to derail everything. They needed the cartel’s help to pull this off.

  “Get us off Normandie,” said Decker. “We’re pushing our luck on this road. We should be ducking and weaving through the neighborhoods. Like before.”

  “Your cartel contact very specifically said to drive south on Normandie,” said Pam.

  “That was before the APB,” said Decker.

  “They’re watching us,” said Harlow. “You heard what that guy said.”

  The traffic light at the West Slauson Avenue intersection turned yellow, and Pam slowed the Land Cruiser.

  “We need to keep moving.”

  “You want to drive?” said Pam, easing them to a stop in front of the crosswalk.

  “No. I’d probably get us killed right now,” said Decker, before glancing over his shoulder. “How are we doing on the transfer?”

  “Almost there,” said Joshua. “I didn’t hit a block on the amount, so we should be good to go.”

  “Decker,” said Pam.

  Her tone told him they were in trouble. He turned his head and immediately spotted the problem. A black-and-white Ford Interceptor approached from the east.

  “Shit,” said Katie, clueing in on their dilemma.

  “What’s our move?” said Pam, flexing her grip on the steering wheel.

  Sitting first in line at the intersection, the officer couldn’t possibly miss them. And a high-speed escape through the streets of South Los Angeles was pretty much out of the question with Garza lying unsecured across three laps.

  “We sit here and hope the officer is legally blind,” said Decker.

  “We’re home free. The money went through,” said Joshua, blissfully unaware.

  “We just bought a whole lot of nada,” said Decker.

  “Maybe not!” said Pam.

  A black pickup truck flashed by her window and careened through the intersection, just barely avoiding a collision with the cross traffic. The Interceptor lit instantly, its siren wailing away as it weaved through the stopped cars in the intersection to pursue the pickup. Harlow handed Decker his phone, which displayed a text message.

  Ur welcome. Continue south. Left on 59th. Right on Raymond. Left on Florence. Just past Vermont turn left into Quickstop Car Wash. Transfer inside automatic wash. Do exactly what is asked of you!

  “Sounds like we’re going to get a little wet,” said Decker.

  He guided Pam through the directions, which wisely took them off Normandie Avenue immediately after driving through the intersection. No fewer than three police vehicles zipped past Fifty-Ninth Street in Decker’
s side mirror. The same attention to detail had been given to the choice of taking them east on Florence. Two pursuing units raced by, headed in the opposite direction, the Land Cruiser’s bullet-scarred back half mostly concealed.

  When they turned into the car wash parking lot, a squat, serious-looking Latino gentleman walked them through the rightmost gate and motioned for Pam to lower her window. The guy’s attitude matched his appearance.

  “When everything stops, you get out and get into the white van in the lane next to you. Leave all of your shit behind. And I mean everything. Phones. Wallets. Watches. Nothing but the clothes on your back. Comprende?”

  “Sí,” said Decker. “Will we get anything back?”

  “Don’t talk. Don’t ask questions. Just do exactly as you’re told. Get moving,” he said, before pounding the hood.

  Pam raised the window, her eyes squinted and lips pursed shut, until the glass stopped—when she broke out into a mouthful of expletives.

  “Yep,” said Decker. “That’s pretty much how we all feel.”

  When her justified minitirade ended, she drove them into the wash while everyone frantically removed their tactical vests and emptied their pockets. Decker shook his head as he placed his wallet, pistol, and spare magazines on the dashboard. They’d be lucky to see any of this stuff again, especially the electronics equipment, weapons, and tactical gear. As much as he hated the thought of giving any of that stuff up, they wouldn’t need any of it where they were headed. When it was time to return, they could always buy more.

  The wash operated like any other automatic car wash he’d been through, until they reached the spinning brushes. Once the Land Cruiser had been fully enveloped, the brushes stopped rotating and started to retract. A man knocked on Pam’s window after the mechanical spinners were clear of the vehicle. Decker assumed that was the signal to switch vehicles.

  “Remember. Do exactly what they say. If something feels off, communicate that before acting,” said Decker.

  “This whole thing feels off,” croaked Garza.

  “I meant really off,” said Decker.

  “So did I.”

  “We’re well past the point of no return,” said Decker. “Let’s go. Everyone out.”

  The moment Decker stepped down from the Land Cruiser he was unnecessarily manhandled and prodded with a rifle toward the white, windowless cargo van. It felt like these thugs sensed a cut of the twenty-million-dollar bounty—if they could get him to snap without going entirely overboard. He managed to grab Harlow’s hand before the cargo door slammed shut, casting them into pitch-black darkness. That warm touch was his only form of reassurance right now.

  “Everyone sound off!” said Decker, needing to be sure no one had been separated.

  The entire group answered in quick succession. Once everyone had been accounted for, Pam and Sandra scooted to the back, followed by Mazzie and Joshua—making room for the rest of the team. The car wash brushes reactivated, thumping against the van’s sides and top as the vehicle moved along the automated path.

  A few minutes later, they were on the road. Decker tried to monitor their route, but he lost track within minutes. The van turned dozens of times, pulled into several driveways to reverse direction, and circled a few parking lots before finally coming to a stop for longer than a minute. Total elapsed time? He had no idea. They’d made him leave his watch in the Land Cruiser. He squeezed Harlow’s hand, and she squeezed it back. Their fates were entirely in the hands of a gang of murderous criminals, and it didn’t feel right in any sense of the word.

  There was no way he’d put Riley and his parents through this. He’d hire a private jet to fly them wherever the Sinaloans ultimately took Decker and the crew. Jessica Arnay could arrange a safe, entirely anonymous place to stay somewhere between Los Angeles and San Diego until he made that happen. Fortunately, she’d been waiting inside the Edmund D. Edelman Children’s Court lobby at the time of the attacks, deep inside the Los Angeles County Superior Court building—one of the most secure facilities in the city.

  Reeves had graciously agreed to protect Jessica’s and Decker’s families until their final destination in Mexico had been arranged. He owed Reeves and his entire team one hell of a thank-you party when the dust settled from this mess. Not only had he managed to intercept and secure Decker’s daughter and parents within minutes of his call, but he’d dispatched a team to locate Brooklyn, who had already been transported to the level one trauma center at the Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center less than a mile away.

  A heavily armed four-agent detail watched over her while emergency surgeons fought to keep her alive. She’d been shot several times by the time the Los Angeles Police Department finally overwhelmed the APEX operatives sent to kidnap his daughter. According to the brief conversation he’d had with Riley, Brooklyn had sacrificed herself so Riley could safely escape. He owed Brooklyn everything for that and planned to make good on it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The side cargo door abruptly slid open, filling the van with harsh fluorescent light. Harlow squinted and raised her hand to shield her eyes.

  “We’re here,” said a man she recognized from the car wash. “Follow me and keep moving. I got you set up in back. We’ll bring your stuff to you shortly.”

  She hopped down from the van, taking a quick look around before the man motioned for her to keep moving. A chop shop from the looks of it. Several luxury vehicles sat partially disassembled across an expansive, raised corrugated metal garage.

  He led them to the back of the shop and a door that opened into a hallway belonging to a building attached to the garage. The man opened the second door on the right and invited them inside. Decker made his way to the front of the group, whispering in her ear as he passed.

  “This is the guy I talked to on the phone.”

  He examined the room before any of them entered, quickly nodding his approval. As though they had a choice. The cartel thugs had dropped the pushing and prodding routine, but it was still crystal clear that this wasn’t a social visit. The several neck- and face-tattooed, AK-47–toting gangbangers gently corralling them into the room didn’t look like they would be breaking bread and swapping stories with them later.

  Harlow followed her friends into what surprisingly resembled a small military barracks. Six metal bunk beds took up the entire left side of the room, spaced a few feet apart and topped with thin foam mattresses. Several folding chairs lay stacked in the far-right corner, next to two flattened card tables that leaned up against the wall. An empty watercooler sat in the corner closest to the door. Decker went back into the hallway to get Garza, helping him lie down on the closest lower bunk.

  “It’s not much, but you won’t be here for very long,” said their host. “I’ll have someone bring a new water jug and some cups.”

  “And a doctor capable of taking care of our friend, please,” said Decker.

  The man studied Garza for a few moments. “I can bring someone in to stitch him up, but my guess is he’s going to need more care than that if he wants to use his leg again.”

  “I do,” said Garza.

  “What are our options?” asked Decker.

  “We can drop him off in front of an emergency room.”

  “He won’t last long without protective custody. They’ll be watching the ERs,” said Decker. “I’d need to make some calls before you drop him off.”

  She could tell by the slight change in the man’s posture and the tightening of his face that he had become very uncomfortable with Decker’s suggestion. If Decker even hinted about their inside track with the FBI, this guy might think twice about the whole arrangement. Before Decker could sign their death warrants, Harlow intervened.

  “Forget taking him to an ER. He’s not exactly dying,” said Harlow. “Give him twenty bucks and help him into a booth at any Denny’s or IHOP in the city. Give us the location after you drop him off. We’ll take care of the rest.”

  “I can do that,” said the man. />
  “I’ll need my phone,” said Decker.

  Harlow shot him a look. He was always pushing it at the wrong moment.

  “I can’t imagine our phones will ever show up in this building,” said Harlow. “For security reasons.”

  “Your phones have already been destroyed. I’ll provide you with a suitably encrypted and untraceable method of communication to be used at my discretion,” said the man, nodding at her. “For security reasons.”

  “Given the circumstances, I think it’s fair to say that we all appreciate your attention to detail,” said Harlow.

  A subtle, sly grin crossed his face. “That’s my job. Paying the closest attention to all of the details.”

  “Would it be fair to assume you know the details of our departure?” asked Decker.

  “You’re departing in a few hours,” he said. “The rest is up to you.”

  Decker displayed a puzzled look, which was reflected in all their faces.

  “Is something wrong?” asked the man, looking back and forth between them.

  Harlow took control again. Decker was on a hair trigger, and it couldn’t be more obvious that the cartel had changed the deal again. A potentially explosive combination right now.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” said Harlow. “I just don’t think any of us expected to have a say in the matter. For security reasons.”

  “Security won’t be a concern once you’ve reached your destination,” said the man. “This is a delivery only.”

  Something was definitely off. Decker beat her to the next logical question.

  “Are we still talking about the same arrangement? A safe haven in Mexico?”

  “Mexico is no longer an option,” said the man.

  “Why the hell not?” said Decker.

  The man shook his head. “You don’t get it, do you?”

  “All I’m getting is that your boss extorted a million dollars out of us, and now he’s going back on the most important part of the agreement.”

  The man quickly yanked the door shut.

  “You’re either crazy,” said the man, “or you’re stupid. Or both. Because only a truly crazy or stupid person would yell out a number like that.”