Hellbent (Orphan X #3)(114)

Run.

Or turn.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, heard a voice that was part Jack’s, part Evan’s, part her own.

The Sixth Commandment, it said. Question orders.

She turned.

Easing to her former position, she had a perfect vantage on the scene below.

Van Sciver in the embrace of the armored Tahoe, rifle raised. Evan hidden behind the increasingly frayed Town Car, his 1911 well out of reach on the ground.

The slewing unit of the colossal crane below squealed, the horizontal jib lurching into motion. The freelancer had climbed up into the operator’s cab and swiveled it into position directly below the orange cage of the raised platform lift.

Directly below her.

The freelancer worked the controls, getting the hang of the massive unit. The jib rotated unevenly and then halted, aligned with the Town Car. The massive steel lifting hook lowered, scooping up the carry cables of an I-beam.

The I-beam rose.

But only a few feet off the ground.

The trolley engaged, running the load out from the crane’s center. The I-beam traveled a few yards, nosing the Town Car like a rhino checking out a Jeep full of safari-goers. The Town Car tilted up onto the tires of its left side, not quite high enough to expose Evan. Then it settled back down.

The load hadn’t acquired sufficient momentum.

The crane screeched, the trolley pulling the I-beam away from the car toward the mast. It drew back and back, like the windup of a massive battering ram. The Town Car stood directly in its path, an empty can awaiting a mallet.

If you’ve got nothing worth dying for, you’ve got nothing worth living for.

Joey let the camo backpack slip from her shoulders. She stepped onto the platform lift and clicked the big red button to lower herself.

*

Evan knew what was coming, and this was not an instance where that was a good thing.

The crane hummed, its motor a low-grade earthquake that rumbled the ground. He stretched his neck, watched the I-beam reach the end of the track and pause, swaying mightily, preparing its journey back along the jib and into the side of the Town Car.

Once it went, the car would be swept away, laying Evan bare.

The I-beam stilled, readying to reverse course.

Evan calculated five possible moves, but they all ended the same way—with Van Sciver putting a tight grouping through his torso. When the time came, Evan would choose one of them. His instinct and training demanded as much.

But this time he already knew the outcome.

*

Riding the platform lift, Joey watched the I-beam dangling way below the jib. It had reached the terminus of its backswing. Her thumb jammed the DOWN button so hard her knuckle ached. She willed the orange cage to descend faster, but it kept its infuriatingly steady pace.

The freelancer was partially visible inside the operator’s cab—a downward slice of forehead and one cheek. The noise of her descent was lost beneath the roar of the motor driving the slewing unit.

The platform lift inched lower, the operator’s cab coming up below. The freelancer’s hands were locked around two joystick-like controllers.

He threw his right fist forward.

The I-beam rocketed toward the Town Car an instant before Joey’s orange cage struck the top of the cab.

It was too late.

*

Evan couldn’t see anything, but he felt the rush of a forced breeze, the air shuddering as the I-beam swept for the Town Car.

Five seconds to impact, now four.

He had to go for the backup 1911 in the trunk even if it meant getting shot by Van Sciver.

He sprang up, painfully aware of the full presentation of his critical mass, and grabbed the ARES where it lay against the carpeted cargo space. Through the holes in the raised trunk, he could see Van Sciver twenty yards away, shielded by the armored door of the Tahoe.

He expected to be staring at the full-circle scope of the rifle, the last sight he’d ever see.

But miraculously, Van Sciver wasn’t looking at him. He was aiming up at the lowering platform lift, firing round after round.

His shots sparked off the edge of the lift as it crushed into the top of the operator’s cab. The freelancer leapt out of the cabin an instant before it crumpled and gave way. As the lift continued its descent, he began monkeying down the caged rungs, staying ahead of it.

Was that Joey riding the orange cage down?

Before Evan could react, the I-beam swept in, a massive blur in his peripheral vision.

He snatched the backup gun from the trunk and whipped down out of sight.

One instant the Town Car was at his back, solid as a bulwark.

The next it was gone, Evan alone on the open stretch of dirt.

The mass of metal had hurtled close enough to him that its wake spun him around onto one knee.

He achieved a single instant of clarity.

The freelancer at the base of the tower, jumping free of the rungs, a second or two away from being able to aim his rifle.

Van Sciver twenty yards away, his SCAR rotating back to lock on Evan.

In an instant Evan would have two targets on his head from two angles, a 7–10 bowling split.

Evan got off the X, throwing himself to the side, hitting a roll, elbows locked, ARES extended before him. He had nine shots to spend—eight in the mag, one in the spout.

Upside down, Evan aimed at the space beneath the Tahoe’s door. One of Van Sciver’s rounds flew past his ear, trailing heat across his cheek.