Hellbent--An Orphan X Novel

by Gregg Hurwitz

  Sitting on the sheet-metal desk, Joey watched him disarm. “This is so stupid. It’s way too dangerous.”

  He removed the spare magazines from the hidden pockets of his cargo pants and set them aside as well. “Yes.”

  “You’re just gonna walk in there? Confront the entire gang?”

  “Yes.”

  They’d been having this argument for hours, and it was showing no sign of abating.

  “You cannot go into that church unarmed,” Joey said.

  “I told them I was coming back to kill them all,” Evan said. “There’s no way they let me in with a weapon. Not this time.”

  He smoothed down his shirt, checked his Victorinox watch fob. It was almost time.

  “If every single thing doesn’t go exactly right—”

  “Joey,” he said. “I know.”

  “Why don’t you wait until we figure out a better plan?”

  “I told Freeway twenty-four hours. A guy like him will get restless if I don’t show, start asking questions, exerting pressure. If he finds out Xavier’s behind it, he’ll kill him.”

  “You’re really gonna do this? For some guy you barely even know?”

  “Yes.”

  Unarmed, he started out.

  She slid off the desk, put her palm on his chest. Her yellow-flecked green eyes were fierce. “Why?”

  “Because he needs help. And I’m the only one who can give him this kind of help.”

  She implored him with her eyes.

  “Joey,” he said. “This is what I do. It’s what I’ve always done. Nothing’s changed.”

  “I guess … I guess I have.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Once you realize you want a life,” she said, “it’s a lot harder to risk it.”

  He thought of Jack stepping out of that Black Hawk, riding the slipstream, spinning through darkness.

  He moved her hand off his chest and walked out.

  * * *

  The Mara Salvatrucha contingent outside the church had been beefed up, no doubt in anticipation of Evan’s return. At 9:59 P.M. he emerged from the shadows and walked up to the crew of waiting men.

  The handguns came out quickly, ten barrels aimed at Evan’s face. He halted a few steps from the doors.

  Devil Horns said, “Spread your arms. We need to make sure you ain’t jacketed up like some Mohammed motherfucker.”

  Evan obeyed.

  Two younger MS-13 members came forward and patted him down roughly from his ankles to his neck. Puzzled, they looked back at the others and shrugged. “He’s clean.”

  Devil Horns smiled, shaking his head as he reached for the reinforced door. “You play one crazy-ass fool.”

  The hinges squealed as the door swung open. It seemed the rest of the gang was waiting inside, scattered among the overturned pews. Only a dim altar lamp illuminated the interior, falling across Freeway’s shoulders, backlighting him.

  Dozens of tattooed faces swiveled to chart Evan’s progress through the nave. He didn’t bother to look for Xavier; he’d contacted him earlier and told him to make sure he wasn’t on site.

  Xavier would not survive what was about to happen.

  Evan reached the center of the church and paused. Freeway pressed one fist into the other palm, the knuckles popping one at a time.

  “Twenty-four hours,” Freeway said.

  “That’s right.”

  Freeway curled his lower lip, the piercings clinking on his teeth. “And now you’ve come to kill us all.”

  “That’s right.”

  A few of the men laughed.

  “How you gonna do that?” Freeway asked.

  “With this.” Evan reached for his cargo pocket. In the shadows countless submachine guns rose and countless slides clanked.

  Freeway held up his arms for his men to calm down. Then he nodded at Evan to proceed.

  The Velcro patch on Evan’s pocket flap gave way with a tearing noise that sounded unreasonably loud in the quiet church. Evan stuck his hand in the pocket and came out with a Snickers bar.

  There was a disbelieving silence.

  Evan peeled the wrapper and took a bite. He chewed, swallowed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten a candy bar.

  He’d taken it from Joey’s rucksack.

  One of the men cracked up, a deep rumble, and then the laughter spread.

  No amusement showed on Freeway’s face. He skewered Evan with his black stare. “This pendejo is fucking loco.”

  “We should skin him,” someone called out from the darkness.

  Freeway flicked open his straight razor. “Not you. Me.” He started down the carpeted stairs, those tattooed eyes never leaving Evan. “Big dog’s gotta eat.”

  Evan took another bite. “I’m not done yet,” he said through a full mouth.

  “You want to finish your candy bar?” Freeway said.

  Evan nodded.

  Freeway kept the razor open, but he crossed his arms, the blade rising next to the grooved ball of his biceps. “Okay,” he said. “Your last meal.”

  Evan chewed some more, then popped the last bite into his mouth. He crumpled up the wrapper, let it fall from his hand onto the floor.

  Freeway started forward, but Evan held up a finger as he cleared the caramel from his molars with his tongue. He strained his ears but heard nothing. A spark of concern flared to life in his stomach. He was out of time.

  And then he sensed it.

  The air vibrating with a distant thrumming.

  It grew louder.

  Freeway took a half step back toward the altar, his eyes pulling up to the ceiling. The other men looked spooked, regarding the church walls around them. The thumping grew louder. A few shards of stained glass fell from the high frame.

  From beyond the front door came the unmistakable sound of sniper rounds lasering through the air. Then the thud of falling bodies.

  Evan said to Freeway, “You might want to go see about that.”

  The steel front door blew open, Devil Horns sailing back through the vestibule, the top of his head blown off. A Black Hawk whoomped down at the entrance, gusting wind through the nave. Operators in balaclavas spilled out with military precision, subguns raised, firing through the doorway, dropping the first ranks of gang members.

  The inadvertent cavalry, right on time.

  As the gang members scrambled to return fire, Evan walked to the side of the church where the stolen goods were stored. Ducking behind a head-high pallet, he dumped out a booster bag, emptying a load of RFID-tagged Versace shirts onto the floor. Then he climbed into the roomy duffel and zipped himself in. The inside, lined with thick space-blanket foil, crinkled around him.

  His own miniature Faraday cage.

  It would mute the GPS signal emanating from his stomach.

  The sounds from the church nave were apocalyptic. Cracking rounds, panicked shrieks, crashing bodies, wet bellowing, splintering wood—a full-fledged urban firefight.

  Two birds, one stone.

  At last the frequency of gunfire slowed. A prayer in Spanish was cut off with a last report.

  The smell of cordite reached Evan even here, hidden in the bag. He heard heavy boots moving through the nave, and then Thornhill said, “Clear. Jesus F. Christ. Who knew we were wading into Fallujah?”

  Van Sciver’s deep voice carried to Evan. “What a shitshow. How many did we lose?”

  Candy’s voice said, “Three. I count three.”

  In the darkness of the booster bag, Evan thought, Twenty dead. Five to go.

  Van Sciver’s voice came again. “Where’s X?”

  Thornhill again. “I don’t know. The GPS signal, it vanished.”

  “Vanished? We had at least four more minutes by my count.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “How ’bout the blood trail there at the back of the altar?”

  “One of the gang members. I saw him stumble out. It wasn’t X.”

  “Get me optics on
thermal signatures in the building. Now.”

  Shuffling boots. Then Thornhill said, “There’s nothing on premises except the dead bodies, and we’ve looked under them.” A beat. “I think homeboy played us.”

  A few seconds of silence. Then Van Sciver swore loudly, the sharp syllable booming off the walls.

  Evan had not heard him lose his cool, not since their Pride House days. In his booster bag tucked behind the pallet, he stayed perfectly still.

  Van Sciver said, “Get our bodies out of here. We need to lay down a cover story. Gang violence, cartel involvement, whatever. We were never here.”

  Thornhill issued orders over a radio, and then more boots thumped in. The sounds of corpses being dragged.

  The floorboards groaned as someone drew near. They groaned again, nearer yet. Evan felt faint tremors through the foundation.

  Then Van Sciver’s voice came, no more than ten feet away. “No,” he said.

  And then, “No.”

  And once again, with an undercurrent of worry, “No.”

  A phone call.

  Van Sciver had stepped to the side of the church for privacy.

  “Okay,” he said. “We won’t. Not a trace.” A beat, and then, “I understand the Black Hawk is high-profile. We won’t use it again. This was our best shot—” Another pause. “Not very well.”

  Van Sciver took another step, so close now that Evan could hear him breathing.

  “I understand he’s the only connective tissue. But 1997 is a long ways back.”

  Evan could hear the voice on the other end of the line now, not the words but the tone. Firm and confident, with a hidden seam of rage.

  Van Sciver replied, “Yes, Mr. President.”

  The phone call terminated with a click.

  Van Sciver exhaled through what sounded like clenched teeth. He shifted his weight, the floorboards answering.

  Then his steps headed out.

  A moment later Evan heard the Black Hawk rotors spin up and the helo lift off. The sound faded. There came an instant of peace.

  And then sirens wailed faintly somewhere in the night.

  Evan unzipped himself, releasing the humidity of the booster bag. He climbed out. The air tasted of smoke and blood.

  Bodies covered the nave, folded over pews, sprawled on the floor, heaped against the walls.

  No sign of Freeway.

  The sirens were louder now.

  Bullets riddled the old wooden altarpiece. Blood painted the Virgin Mary’s forehead, an Ash Wednesday smudge. The arc of the cast-off spatter pointed to the right side.

  Evan followed, mounting the carpeted steps.

  A brief hall behind the altar led to a rear door.

  He stepped out into the crisp night. Drops of blood left a fairy-tale trail out of the back alley. Evan followed them.

  He came to the street and crossed it as a swarm of cop cars screeched up to the front of the church. A crowd had gathered, and he melted into its embrace.

  More crimson drops on the sidewalk. The transfer pattern of a handprint on a streetlamp. A red dab stained a flyer by the bodega with the plywood-covered window.

  The bodega sign was turned to CLOSED.

  Evan slipped inside. The owner stood behind the cash register, trembling.

  Evan said, “Lárgate.”

  The owner scrambled out through the front door.

  The blood drops were thicker now on the floor tiles. Evan followed them up the aisle and into the back courtyard.

  Freeway was leaning against a metal post, clutching a gunshot wound in his side. His other hand held the straight razor. He firmed his posture and held the blade to the side.

  Those black eyes picked across Evan. “You’re stupid to come here with no weapon.”

  “Maybe so,” Evan said. “But I have one advantage.”

  Freeway bared his teeth. “What’s that?”

  “I don’t have metal in my face.”

  He hit Freeway with a haymaker cross. The studs moored the skin. There was a great tearing and a drool not of saliva. The straight razor clattered to the concrete as Freeway hit his knees, the wreckage of his face pouring through his fingers.

  Evan picked up the razor from the ground, looked down at Freeway.

  “Look what I found,” he said. “A weapon.”

  70

  Negative Space

  Sitting at his kitchen island, Evan fanned through Van Sciver’s red notebook again. He stared at the scrawl standing out in relief from the pencil-blackened page in the middle.

  “6-1414 Dark Road 32.”

  He’d returned to Castle Heights to make a few arrangements, laying the groundwork for the battle to come. In light of the conversation he’d overheard in the church, he needed to check the notebook again. Staring at the words now, he sensed the puzzle piece slide into place.

  He walked past the living wall, catching a whiff of mint, and stepped through one of the south-facing sliding doors onto the balcony. He crouched before a square planter at the edge that held a variety of succulents and slid clear an inset panel. It hid a camouflage backpack, which he removed and carried inside.

  He returned to the island, the notebook page looking up at him, the scrawl rendered clear in the negative space.

  Joey came down from the loft, ready to go. She paused and took him in sitting over the notebook.

  “You know what it means now,” she said.

  He nodded absentmindedly.

  “You gonna share?”

  Evan shut the notebook as if that could somehow contain the problem within. “Yeah. (202) 456-1414 is the main switchboard for the West Wing,” he said.

  She processed this. “And ‘Dark Road’?”

  “A code word. Presumably to kick the caller to a security command post in the White House.”

  “And the 32,” she said. “That’s an extension.”

  He nodded again.

  “That goes to who?” she asked.

  He looked at her.

  “Holy hell,” she said.

  “Indeed.”

  “Why?” she said. “Why would he be involved?”

  Evan rubbed his face. Again he pictured Jack dropping him off at departures at Dulles back when Evan was a nineteen-year-old kid. Jack’s hand on his forearm, not wanting to let him go.

  Evan said, “When I was in that booster bag, I heard Van Sciver reference 1997.”

  “And?”

  “That was the year of my first mission.”

  “What was it?”

  “I can’t tell you that,” he said. “But in 1997 President Bennett was the undersecretary of defense for policy at the DoD.”

  “And the Orphan Program existed under the Department of Defense’s umbrella,” Joey said slowly, putting it together.

  All at once the rationale for the shift of the Program’s aim under Van Sciver’s leadership came clearer. So did the sudden push to exterminate Orphans—Evan most of all.

  He didn’t just know where the bodies were buried. He’d buried most of them himself.

  Joey said, “So Bennett greenlit your first mission.”

  “Yes. And as the leader of the free world now, he wants to clean up any trace of his involvement in nonsanctioned activities. Any trace of me.”

  Joey set her elbows on the island and leaned over, her eyes wide. “Do you get what this means? You’ve got dirt on the president of the United States.”

  Evan spun back in time to his twelfth year, riding in Jack’s truck, Jack describing the Program to him for the first time in that ten-grit voice: You’ll be a cutout man. Fully expendable. You’ll know only your silo. Nothing damaging. If you’re caught, you’re on your own. They will torture you to pieces, and you can give up all the information you have, because none of it is useful.

  “I know the who,” Evan said. “But not the what.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know what I did in ’97. But I don’t know anything else. Or how it connects to Bennett.” He looked
down at the red notebook as if it could tell him something. “But someday when this is all over, I’m gonna find out.”

  “When what’s all over?”

  “Come and I’ll show you.” He shouldered the camo pack, grabbed the keys, and started for the door.

  * * *

  The Vegas Strip rose from the flat desert earth like a parade, a brassy roar of faux daylight. Evan kept on the I-15, let the bombastic display fly by on the right-hand side, Joey’s head swiveling to watch it pass. For a few minutes, it was impossible to tell that it was nearly four in the morning, but as the glow faded in the rearview and the stars reasserted themselves overhead, it became clear that they were driving through deepest night.

  Joey worked her speed cube without looking. Whenever Evan glanced over, he saw that she was once again spinning it into patterns from memory. The clacking of the cube carried them across the dark miles.

  Once the grand boulevard was far behind them, Evan pulled over and wound his way through back roads. The pickup rumbled onto a dirt road that narrowed into a sagebrush-crowded trail. At last he pulled over at a makeshift range. Tattered targets fluttered on bales of hay beneath the moonlight, Monet gone bellicose. When they stepped out of the truck, shell casings jingled underfoot.

  “What are we doing here?” Joey asked.

  “Planning.”

  “For what?”

  “For the next time I eat something and light up the GPS in my stomach.”

  “Now Van Sciver’ll know it’s a trap,” she said.

  “Right.”

  “So he’ll spring a trap on our trap.”

  “And we’ll spring a trap on the trap he’s springing on our trap.”

  She squinted at him through the darkness. He felt a flash of affection for this girl, this mission that had blown through his life like an F5 tornado. He thought of his words to Jack in their final conversation—I wouldn’t trade knowing you for anything—but he couldn’t make them come out of his mouth now, in this context. They stopped somewhere in his throat, locked down behind his expressionless stare.

  Far below, a solitary set of headlights blazed through the night. Evan and Joey watched them climb the dune, disappearing at intervals on the switchbacks. Then a dually truck shuddered up beside Evan’s F-150, rocking to a halt.

  The door kicked open, and Tommy Stojack slid out of the driver’s seat and landed unevenly. His ankles were shot from too many parachute jumps, as were his knees and hips. The damage gave him a loose-limbed walk that called to mind a movie cowboy.