“You are.” Evan quickened his stride, bearing down on the door. He knocked out the brief melody and raised the shotgun, seating the butt on his good shoulder.
I love you, son.
The speakeasy hatch squeaked open, and Evan pushed the muzzle into the surprised square of face and fired.
There was no longer a face.
He shoved the shotgun farther inside, the muzzle clearing the door, and unleashed two buckshot rounds, one to the left, one to the right.
The three shock-locks were up next, copper-powdered, heavy-compressed centered shots that provided a total energy dump on one spot with no scatterback or frag.
Hinge removers.
He shifted the action to manual so he could cycle the low-powered breaching rounds and give them more steam. Then he stepped back and fired top to bottom—boom-boom-boom. The last slug knocked the door clear off the frame, sending it skidding across the floor.
Cycling buckshot into the chamber and toggling the switch back to autoload, he stepped through the dust into the metallic tang of cordite, shotgun raised.
The blow-radius effect of the initial blasts in the contained shop was biblical. With no air movement, the powdered smoke had stratified, hovering like gray mist.
Five men, either dead or in various stages of critical injury, shuddered on knocked-over folding chairs, tilted against bloodstained walls, sprawled over a central table. No sign of the Orphan. The broad-shouldered man was the only one able to do more than bleed out.
He bellied across the floor, dragging himself away with his forearms, a combat crawl. His right leg was a mottled fusion of denim and flesh.
He kept on, making for a rack of rifles and shotguns beside the steel front door.
Evan walked toward him, stuck a toe in his ribs, flipped him over.
The man tried to look away. “Oh, God,” he said. “You’re—are you—Orphan X? Oh, God.”
Evan seated a boot square on his barrel chest, hovered the hot muzzle over his throat. “You killed Jack Johns.”
The man’s fine hair, so blond it was almost gray, was shaved in a buzz cut. His scalp showed through, glistening with sweat. “No—not me. I didn’t go up in the chopper, man. There was a special crew.”
“But you were there. On the ground in Alabama. You were all there.”
“Yes.”
Evan swung the shotgun to the side and blew off his hand.
The howl was inhuman.
But so was making a man in his seventies jump out of a Black Hawk with his wrists cuffed together.
Evan rotated the Benelli back to the man’s head. “Van Sciver?” he said. “Where?”
Somewhere behind them, a final sputtering wheeze extinguished.
“I don’t know. I swear. Never even met him.”
Evan moved the Benelli over the guy’s other hand.
“Wait! Wait! I’ll tell you—tell you everything. Just don’t … don’t take me apart like this.”
“How many freelancers did he bring in? Not including the helo crew.”
“Twenty-five. He hired twenty-five of us.”
Evan surveyed the wreckage, added it to the train-station tally. “Fifteen now,” he said.
“Sixteen.” The man risked a look at his hand, failed to fight off a full-body shudder. “I make sixteen.” And then, more desperately, “I … I still make sixteen.”
“Who’s running point here?”
The man looked over at the red-smeared linoleum where his hand once was and dry-heaved. His face was pale, awash in sweat. Evan put more pressure on his chest, cracking a rib, snapping him back to attention.
“Jordan Thornhill,” the man said. “Orphan R. Nicest guy in the world. Until he kills you.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Black dude, all muscle. Could scale a cliff with his bare hands, he wanted to.” The man started hyperventilating. “God, oh, God, I think I’m bleeding out.”
“You’ve got enough for the next five minutes. Where is he?”
“Van Sciver called him home. I don’t know where.”
Evan twitched the barrel slightly.
“I DON’T KNOW WHERE! I don’t know anything. I swear. They keep us in the dark about everything.”
Evan let the weight of the hot barrel press into the hollow of the man’s throat. The flesh sizzled. “Not improving your situation, hired man.”
“Hang on! I overheard Thornhill saying something about a female Orphan. Candy something. Orphan V.”
At this, Evan’s face tightened.
“Please.” Saliva sheeted between the man’s lips. “That’s all I know. I told you everything. Can I … will you let me live?”
“You were dead the minute Van Sciver told you my name.” Evan pulled the trigger.
He heard a creak behind him and pivoted, dropping the empty shotgun and drawing his ARES.
He found himself aiming at Joey.
She stood in the doorway, surveying the wreckage. A flush had come up beneath her smooth brown cheeks. The shack smelled of blood iron and the insides of men. Through the lingering smoke, her emerald eyes glowed, unguarded, overwhelmed.
“I told you to stay in the car.”
“I’m fine.”
“Pull the car around. Hurry.”
She stepped back and was gone.
He flung a corpse off the central table and rifled through the items beneath. Coffee cups, battery packs, a half-eaten sub. Useless. Beneath a pack of black gel pens, he found a red-covered notebook. Seizing it, he thumbed through the stiff pages. Nothing inside.
He tossed it, moved to the chipped counter em-dashing half of the east wall. Coffeepot, microwave, utility sink. The cabinet beneath held rusted pipes, water spots, a crusted bottle of Drano.
He turned in his crouch, giving the room a last, hurried scan.
Blood dripped from the edge of the table. A strip of duct tape shimmered beneath the lip.
A laptop, adhered to the table’s underside.
He tore it free and turned for the door. As he stepped over what was left of the broad-shouldered man, something chimed. Evan paused to fish a familiar-looking Samsung Galaxy from the dead man’s pocket.
He used the man’s shirt to wipe a crimson smear off the screen. Location services were toggled off, GPS disabled.
Out front he heard the Subaru squeal to the curb.
Keeping the phone, he exited through the fortified steel door. As it swung open, he heard the faint slosh of water within.
It was a nice security measure, if you thought about it.
23
Damaged Goods
As Joey sped away, Evan checked out the Samsung. It appeared to be wiped of data, holding only the operating system and a single app.
Signal.
The encrypted comms software showed several incoming contact attempts.
Sirens wailed, a squadron of cop cars rocketing past one block over on Lombard Street, blues and reds lasering through the night air.
Joey had gotten them quickly away from the pest-control shop. She darted nervous glances at the seemingly endless procession. The cruisers were visible only at intersections and alleys, strobing into view behind warehouses and buildings.
“We’re fine,” Evan said. “Get on the 5.”
“And then?”
“Head north.”
Signal only worked over Wi-Fi, but—God bless Portland’s waxed mustaches, artisanal beers, and municipal benefits—they remained under the umbrella of free citywide service.
The sirens reached an earsplitting pitch and then faded quickly.
Joey blew out a breath, letting it puff her cheeks.
Evan kept his eyes on the Samsung, waiting for it to chime.
Joey said, “What are you—”
It chimed.
Two words appeared: EVENTFUL AZURE.
Joey glanced over at him. Her eyes held the frantic alertness of cornered prey. “That’s him, isn’t it?”
Evan tapped the screen.
/>
Van Sciver’s voice came through. “Code.”
“You don’t need to bother with that anymore,” Evan said.
A long, static-free pause ensued. Van Sciver finally spoke again. “How did you hack this connection?”
“I didn’t,” Evan said. “I hacked your men instead.”
He let Van Sciver digest that fact. Forty percent of his manpower, gone. Freelancers were replaceable, sure, but getting them vetted, up to operational standards, and read in on an Orphan mission took time. And time was a luxury Evan wasn’t going to allow him. Van Sciver had lit the fuse the instant he’d put Jack in that Black Hawk.
Evan checked to see if the Wi-Fi connection had dropped, but they were still in range.
Van Sciver finally replied. “X.”
“Y.”
“I didn’t figure you’d hang around the area. After you surface, you always go to ground.”
“Things are different now.”
“Ah, right. The old saw—‘This time it’s personal.’ I thought you were better than that.”
Evan let the line hum.
“Jack jumped out of that helo himself,” Van Sciver said. “You watched it with me. We didn’t push him.”
“But you were going to.”
“Yes,” Van Sciver said. “We were.”
Evan pointed through the windshield, and Joey veered up the on-ramp, accelerating onto the 5.
“Can’t blame me, can you?” Van Sciver said. “Hell, I learned it from you. To be ruthless.”
“From me?”
“You had to be. You were never the best. Everyone loves a thoroughbred, sure. But they root for the underdog.”
“Who’s rooting, Charles?”
Van Sciver kept on. “Helluva move you pulled all those years ago back at the home. Beat me to the starting gate.”
“That was long ago.”
“It was the past, yes. And it’s the present, too. You define me, Evan. Just like I define you.”
Evan watched the headlights blur past on the freeway. He could sense Joey’s gaze heavy on his face.
“The Mystery Man wanted me,” Van Sciver said. “Not you.”
“Yes,” Evan said. “He did.”
“We were so young. Remember when we thought he was important? Remember when he held all the power in the world?”
“I remember.”
“Now he works for me. The Program’s pared down, way down, but when I decided to recruit a little fresh blood … well, he’s still the best. Though even he makes a mistake now and again. Like the girl. I’m sure she’s told you all about it.”
Joey’s hands tightened on the wheel. Van Sciver’s voice, deep and confident, was carrying from the receiver.
“A mistake,” Evan echoed. “I asked her how to find you. She couldn’t tell me anything. She’s not even bait. She’s useless.”
Joey looked straight ahead, drove steady, but Evan could hear her breathing quicken.
“She’s another stray mark we have to erase,” Van Sciver said. “She knows my face.”
“What’s she gonna do? Hire a sketch artist? She doesn’t have the skills. She’s damaged goods. She’s not even worth killing.”
“Yeah, but Johns took her in, so I’m gonna kill her anyway. Because he took her in. Because that makes her important to you.”
“Your call to make,” Evan said. “If you think you can afford not to concentrate on me.”
Van Sciver sounded amused. “You have no idea, do you? How high it goes?”
“What does that mean?”
He laughed. “You still think it’s about me and you.”
“That is all it’s about,” Evan said. “From the minute you took Jack.”
The reception weakened and then came back, the Subaru skirting the edge of the Wi-Fi hot zone.
“For years I’d reconciled myself to living off the radar,” Evan said. “I was content to hide in the shadows. To leave you alone. Not anymore.”
Joey had inched above the speed limit, and Evan gestured for her to slow down.
“Evan,” Van Sciver said. “That’s what we’re counting on.”
The connection fizzled into static, then dropped.
Evan turned off the Samsung and pocketed it. He leaned to check the speedometer. “Keep it at sixty-five.”
Joey’s chest rose with each breath, her nostrils flaring. “‘Not worth killing?’” She shot his words back at him.
“Everything’s strategic, Joey.”
“Didn’t seem that way to me.”
“We don’t have time for this,” he said.
“What?”
He tore the dangling duct tape off the laptop and popped it open. “Your feelings.”
They drove in silence.
24
A Teaching Moment
Given the events at Portland Union Station, Evan decided to get Joey safely out of the state before parting ways. In the past he’d had a few near misses with Van Sciver around Los Angeles, so Van Sciver likely knew that Evan had a base there. Putting himself in Van Sciver’s shoes, Evan figured he’d bulk up surveillance on routes leading south from Oregon. So rather than head for California, Evan and Joey rode the bell curve of the I-90, routing up through Washington and cutting across the chimney stack of Idaho.
They swapped seats at intervals, Evan driving the current leg. His attempts to access the laptop had been unsuccessful. The Dell Inspiron had proved to be heavily encrypted. Breaking in would require time, focus, and gear, none of which he could get until he had Joey off his hands.
Van Sciver’s words returned, a whisper in his ear: You have no idea, do you? How high it goes? You still think it’s about me and you. No matter how many ways Evan turned the conversation over in his head, he couldn’t make sense of it. Van Sciver was working off an agenda unknown to Evan.
That scared him.
It felt as though Van Sciver were sitting at the chessboard and Evan was a pawn.
It was ten hours and change to Helena, Montana, a destination chosen for its unlikeliness and because they had to cross three state lines to get there. His stomach started complaining in hour six. It had been nearly eighteen hours since he’d eaten.
Joey had finally dozed off, slumped against the passenger window, a spill of hair curled in the hollow of her neck. It was good to see her sleeping peacefully.
Evan pulled off at a diner, braking gently so as not to wake her. He parked behind the restaurant, out of sight from the road, and reached to shake her awake.
She jolted upright, shouting and swinging. “Get off me! Get off—”
Awareness came back into her eyes, and she froze, backed against the door, fists raised, legs pulled in, ready to kick.
Evan had leaned away, giving her as much space as possible. He’d taken the brunt of her fist off the top of his forehead. If he’d been a second slower, she would have rebroken his nose.
Her chest was still heaving. He waited for her to lower her shoulders, and then he relaxed his.
She unpacked from her protective curl, looked around. “Where are we?”
“I thought we’d get some food.”
She straightened her clothes. “This isn’t a thing, okay? Like some big window into me.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know what happened to me. Or didn’t happen to me.”
“Okay.”
“I just have a temper, is all.”
Evan said, “I’d noticed.”
* * *
They sat in a booth in the far back of the empty diner, Evan facing out. Despite the stuffing peeking through the cracked vinyl benches, the restaurant was clean and tidy and appealed to his sense of order. The aroma of strong coffee and fresh-baked pies thickened the air. A Wall-O-Matic jukebox perched at the end of their table, the Five Satins “shoo-doo ’n’ shooby-doo”–ing in between hoping and praying. Salt and pepper shakers, syrup bottles, and sugar jars gathered around the shiny chrome speaker like c
hildren at story time.
From the old-school baseball pennants to the inevitable Marilyn poster, the manufactured nostalgia made the place seem like a location from a TV show, a faux diner set decorated to look like a real diner.
Evan ate egg whites scrambled with spinach and dosed heavily with Tabasco. Joey picked at a stack of pancakes, furrowing the pooled butter with the tines of her fork.
Conversation had been in short supply since the incident in the car.
Evan set down his fork, squaring it to the table’s edges. A few drops of coffee formed a braille pattern next to his plate, remnants from the waitress’s lazy pour. He resisted for a few seconds and then caved, wiping them clean with his napkin.
Joey remained fascinated with her pancakes. Her rucksack rested next to her, touching her thigh, the closely guarded life possessions of a street dweller.
Evan searched for something to say. He had no experience when it came to matters like this. His unconventional upbringing had turned him into something sleek and streamlined, but when he collided with the everyday, he felt blunt, unwieldy.
Then again, he supposed she wasn’t very good at this either.
He watched her eviscerate her short stack.
“If you’re fighting off an attacker—a real attacker—go for the throat or eyes,” he finally said. “Up and under. If you swing for the head, he can just duck, protect his face, take the blow off the top of the forehead where the skull is thickest.”
Her mouth gaped, but for once no words were forthcoming.
He sensed he had said something wrong.
“Are you seriously turning this into a teaching moment?” she said.
The best course of action, he decided, was to consider the question rhetorical.
But she pressed on. “Everything doesn’t have to be some learning experience.”
He thought of his upbringing in Jack’s farmhouse, where every task and chore held the weight of one’s character—making the bed, drying the dishes, lacing your boots.
How you do anything is how you do everything.
“Yes,” Evan said. “It does.”
“You’ve seen me fight,” she said. “I know how to fight. That wasn’t about fighting. It was just … a startle response.”
“A startle response.”
“Yes.”
“You need a better startle response.”
Hellbent--An Orphan X Novel Page 11