Hellbent (Orphan X #3)(111)

Van Sciver’s gaze snagged on the side of the under-construction building, the platform lift waiting by the top floor. “He’s there,” he said.

“We would’ve picked up thermal, sir,” the freelancer said.

Van Sciver pointed at the mounted platform’s lift control. Thornhill jogged over to the base of the building, keeping his eyes above, and clicked to lower the lift.

Nothing happened.

The bottom control mechanism had been sabotaged.

All five freelancers raised their SCARs in concert, covering the building’s fifth floor.

Van Sciver said, “Get me sat imagery.”

Keeping his rifle pointed up, one of the freelancers shuffled over and passed a handheld to Van Sciver, who remained wedged behind the armored door of the Tahoe. Van Sciver zoomed in on the bird’s-eye footage of the building, waiting for the clarity to resolve.

Stiff, canvaslike fabric was heaped a few feet from the open edge of the fifth floor.

“He’s hiding beneath a Faraday-cage cloak,” Van Sciver said. “The metallized fabric blocked your thermal imaging. It’s not distinct enough to red-flag on the satellite footage unless you know to look for it.”

“He’s holding high ground,” Candy observed. “And we’ve got no good vantage point.”

Van Sciver stared at the concrete wall framing the 10 Freeway. Posting up on the fifth floor was a smart move on X’s part. The open top level was in full view of the freeway and the buildings across from it. They couldn’t come at him with force or numbers without inviting four hundred eyewitnesses every second to the party.

“What’s he waiting for?” one of the freelancers asked through clenched teeth.

“For me to step clear of the armored vehicle and give him an angle,” Van Sciver said. “But I’m not gonna do that.”

With a gloved hand, the freelancer swiped sweat from his brow. “So what are we gonna do? We can’t get up there.”

Van Sciver’s lopsided stare locked on Thornhill. An understanding passed between them. Thornhill’s smile lit up his face.

Van Sciver said, “Fetch.”

Thornhill snugged his radio earpiece firmly into place. Then he sprinted forward, leaping from a wheelbarrow onto the roof of a porta-potty. Then he hurtled through the air, clamping onto the exposed ledge of the second floor. The freelancers watched in awe as he scurried up the face of the building, frog-leaping from an exposed window frame to a four-by-four to a concrete ledge. He used a stubbed-out piece of rebar on the third floor as a gymnast high bar, rotating to fly onto a vertical I-beam holding up the fourth story.

Mere feet from the edge of the fifth floor, he paused on his new perch, shoulder muscles bunched, legs bent, braced for a lunge. He turned to take in the others below, giving them a moment to drink in the glory of what he’d just done.

Then he refocused. His body pulsed as he slide-jumped up the I-beam’s length. He gripped the cap plate with both hands and readied for the final leap that would bring him across the lip to the top of the building.

But the cap plate moved with him.

It jerked free of the I-beam and hammered back against his chest, striking the muscle with a thud.

One of the high-strength carriage bolts designed to secure the cap plate to the I-beam’s flange sailed past his cheek.

The other three bolts rattled in their boreholes, unsecured.

He clasped the cap plate to his chest, a weightless instant.

His eyes were level with the poured slab of the fifth floor, and he saw the puddle of the Faraday cloak there almost within reach.

The cloak’s edge was lipped up, a face peering out from the makeshift burrow.

Not X’s.

But the girl’s.

She raised a hand, wiggled the fingers in a little wave.

“It’s the girl,” Thornhill said. His voice, hushed with disbelief, carried through his radio earpiece.

He floated there an instant, clutching the cap plate.

And then he fell with it.

Five stories whipped by, a whirligig view of construction gear, Matchbox cars drifting through fourteen lanes of traffic beyond the concrete wall, his compatriots staring up with horrified expressions.

He went through the roof of the porta-potty. As he vanished, one sturdy fiberglass wall sheared off his left leg at the hip, painting the dirt with arterial spray.

A moment of stunned silence.

Van Sciver tried to swallow, but his throat clutched up. One of his finest tools, a weaponized extension of himself as the director of the Orphan Program, had just been splattered all over an outdoor shitter.

Candy moved first, diving into the Tahoe. Van Sciver’s muscle memory snapped him back into focus. Raising his FNX-45, he set his elbows in the fork of the armored door and aimed upslope. He said, “It’s another decoy.”

The freelancers spread out, aiming in various directions—up the partially constructed building, across the valley, at the freeway wall.

The lead man squeezed off a few shots, nicking the edge of the fifth floor to hold Joey at bay.

The wind reached a howl in the bare beams of the structure.

“Fuck,” Van Sciver said. “Where is…?”

Twenty yards away the trunk of the white Lincoln Town Car popped open and Evan burst up in a kneeling stance, a Faraday cloak sloughing off his shoulders.

He shot two freelancers through the heads before they could orient to the movement. The third managed to and took a round through the mouth.