Hellbent (Orphan X #3)(100)

The downtown skyline, such as it was, rose a few blocks away. They were on the fringe of suburbia here, two blocks north of the 10 Freeway, a handful more to the 17. A tall-wall ad on the side of a circular parking structure proclaimed ARIZONA’S URBAN HEART and featured a cubist rendering of a heart composed of high-rises.

Evan and Joey had worked out a dozen contingencies and then a dozen more, charting escape routes, meet points, emergency scenarios. Because they’d driven from Los Angeles and didn’t have to concern themselves with airport security, he’d brought a trunkful of gear and weaponry, a mission-essential loadout that left him prepared for virtually anything. But at the end of the day, when you went fishing, you never knew precisely what you’d get on the line.

As if reading his thoughts, Joey said, “Okay. So if they go to grab me. What do you do?”

“Grab them.”

She shifted the bouquet of irises in her lap. “And then what?”

“Make them talk.”

“How?”

Evan just looked at her.

“Right,” she said. “And if we’re not so lucky as to have that work out?”

“Don’t fall in love with Plan A.”

The sunlight shifted, and at the peak of the hill above, the arched sign over the wrought-iron gate came visible.

SHADY VALE CEMETERY.

This was where Jack had found Joey, visiting her maunt’s grave. As she’d said, he knew how her heart worked.

Van Sciver knew, too, though not from the inside out. He understood people from a scientific remove, learning where the soft spots were, which buttons to push, where to tap to elicit a reflex.

He had kept Joey for eleven months, had trained, analyzed, and assessed her. Evan was counting on the fact that Van Sciver was strategically sharp enough to surveil a location that held this kind of emotional importance to her. Whether that surveillance took the form of hidden cameras or freelancers on site, he wasn’t sure.

For Van Sciver vulnerability was little more than a precipitating factor in a chain reaction. Joey’s maunt would lead to Joey. Joey would lead to Evan.

Evan thought about the GPS unit Van Sciver had planted in David Smith’s arm and wondered how they’d plan to tag Joey if they caught her here.

He recalled the Secret Service background of at least two of the freelancers Van Sciver had hired. Van Sciver had never drawn operators from the Service before, and it was unlikely a random choice for him to do so now. Evan’s train of thought carried him into unpleasant terrain, where the possibilities congealed into something dark and toxic.

Joey screwed in her earpiece and started to get out of the black car. Evan put his hand on her forearm to halt her. A memory flash hit him—the image of himself at nineteen years old climbing out of Jack’s truck at Dulles International, ready to board a plane for his first mission. Jack had grabbed Evan’s arm the same way.

It was the first time Evan had ever seen him worried.

Evan reminded himself that he wasn’t worried now. Then he reminded himself again. Joey was looking at him in a way that indicated that his face wasn’t buying what he was telling himself.

“What?” she said.

“The Tenth Commandment,” Evan said. “‘Never let an innocent die.’” He paused. “This is a risk.”

“I’m not an innocent,” Joey said.

He nodded. For this mission she wasn’t.

“Plus, they need me to get to you,” Joey added. “Like you said, they want to snatch me, direct the action.”

“That’s our play, but it’s still a guess. With former Secret Service in the mix, we don’t know how far this reaches. But we know what they’re willing to do.”

“I’m fast,” she said. “I’ll stay in public, keep my head on a swivel.”

“If we do this…”

“What, Evan?”

“Don’t fuck up.”

“What does that mean?”

“After what happened to Jack, nothing will stop me from getting to Van Sciver. Nothing. And no one.” His throat was dry, whether from the dry desert air or the air-conditioning, he didn’t know. “Don’t put me in a position to make that choice.”

She read his meaning, gave a solemn nod, and climbed out of the car.





66

Friction Heat

Lyle Green handed off the binoculars to his partner, Enzo Pellegrini, who raised them to his face and blew out a breath that reeked of stale coffee. They were sitting in a parked truck, focused on a particular headstone on a rolling swell of grass. It was a shade of green you only got from well-fertilized soil, which meant corpses or gardeners, and Shady Vale had an excess of both.

Enzo said, “Eyes up, south entrance.”

Lyle said, “Right, like your ‘eyes up’ on the pregnant broad or the guy with the prosthetic leg.”

“It was a limp.”

“Because that’s what you do when you have a prosthetic leg.”

“Girl, midteens.”

Lyle pulled the detached rifle scope from the console and lifted it to his face. The girl cut behind a stand of bushes and stepped into view. “Holy shit. That’s her.”

“Raise Van Sciver. Now.”

Lyle grabbed his Samsung, dialed through Signal.