Hellbent (Orphan X #3)(106)

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.