Hellbent (Orphan X #3)(2)

Evan’s tense steps echoed around the seven thousand square feet of his condo. The open stretch of gunmetal-gray floor was broken by workout stations, a few sitting areas, and a spiral staircase that rose to a loft he used as a reading room. The kitchen area was equally modern, all stainless steel and poured concrete. The views up here on the twenty-first floor were dazzling, downtown Los Angeles shimmering like a mirage twelve miles to the east.

Despite all that space, Evan was having trouble breathing. He felt something wild clawing in his chest, something he couldn’t identify. Fear?

“Jack.”

The reception crackled some more, and then—finally—Jack’s voice came through again. “Evan?”

It sounded as if Jack was in his truck, an engine humming in the background.

“I’m here,” Evan said. “Are you okay?”

Through the receiver he could make out more road rolling beneath Jack’s tires. When Jack spoke again, his voice sounded broken. “Do you regret it? What I did to you?”

Evan inhaled, steadied his heart rate. “What are you talking about?”

“Do you ever wish I’d never taken you out of that boys’ home? That I’d just let you live an ordinary life?”

“Jack—where are you?”

“I can’t tell you. Dollars to doughnuts they’ve got ears on me right now.”

Evan stared out through the floor-to-ceiling, bullet-resistant Lexan windows. The discreet armor sunshades were down, but through the gaps in the woven titanium chain-link he could still see the city sparkling.

There was no version of being too careful.

“Then why are you calling?” Evan said.

“I wanted to hear your voice.”

Over the line, tires screeched. Jack was driving fast, this much Evan could glean.

But he couldn’t know that Jack was being pursued—surreptitiously, yet not so surreptitiously that Jack didn’t notice—by five SUVs in rolling surveillance. Or that a Stingray cell-tower simulator was intercepting Jack’s signal, capturing his every word. That within five minutes the thwap-thwap-thwap of rotor blades would stir the clouds and a Black Hawk attack helicopter would break through the night sky and plummet down, fanning up dust. That thermal imaging had already pegged Jack in his driver’s seat, his 98.6-degree body temperature rendered in soothing reds and yellows.

All Evan knew right now was that something was terribly wrong.

The static rose like a growl, and then, abruptly, the line was as clear as could be. “This is looking to be my ninth life, son.”

For a moment Evan couldn’t find his voice. Then he forced out the words. “Tell me where you are, and I’ll come get you.”

“It’s too late for me,” Jack said.

“If you won’t let me help you, then what are we supposed to talk about?”

“I suppose the stuff that really matters. Life. You and me.” Jack, breaking his own rules.

“Because we’re so good at that?”

Jack laughed that gruff laugh, a single note. “Well, sometimes we miss what’s important for the fog. But maybe we should give it a go before, you know…” More screeching of tires. “Better make it snappy, though.”

Evan sensed an inexplicable wetness in his eyes and blinked it away. “Okay. We can try.”

“Do you regret it?” Jack asked again. “What I did?”

“How can I answer that?” Evan said. “This is all I know. I never had some other life where I was a plumber or a schoolteacher or a … or a dad.”

Now the sound of a helo came through the line, barely audible.

“Jack? You still there?”

“I guess … I guess I want to know that I’m forgiven.”

Evan forced a swallow down his dry throat. “If it wasn’t for you, I would’ve wound up in prison, dead of an overdose, knifed in a bar. Those are the odds. I wouldn’t have had a life. I wouldn’t have been me.” He swallowed again, with less success. “I wouldn’t trade knowing you for anything.”

A long silence, broken only by the thrum of tires over asphalt.

Finally Jack said, “It’s nice of you to say so.”

“I don’t put much stock in ‘nice.’ I said it because it’s true.”

The sound of rotors intensified. In the background Evan heard other vehicles squealing. He was listening with every ounce of focus he had in him. A connection routed through fifteen countries in four continents, a last tenuous lifeline to the person he cared about more than anyone in the world.

“We didn’t have time,” Evan said. “We didn’t have enough time.”

Jack said, “I love you, son.”

Evan had never heard the words spoken to him. Something slid down his cheek, clung to his jawline.

He said, “Copy that.”

The line went dead.

Evan stood in his condo, the cool of the floor rising through his boots, chilling his feet, his calves, his body. The phone was still shoved against his cheek. Despite the full-body chill, he was burning up.

He finally lowered the phone. Peeled off his sweaty shirt. He walked over to the kitchen area and tugged open the freezer drawer. Inside, lined up like bullets, were bottles of the world’s finest vodkas. He removed a rectangular bottle of Double Cross, a seven-times-distilled and filtered Slovak spirit. It was made with winter wheat and mountain springwater pulled from aquifers deep beneath the Tatra Mountains.