Hellbent (Orphan X #3)(30)

He took a few breaths. Juniper laced the air—bitter berry, pine, and fresh sap undercut by something meatier.

He leaned into the car, aimed at the spot where the stalk met the dashboard, and fired.

The unit’s arm nodded severely to one side. He glanced through the blood-speckled windshield, saw some of the cops’ heads snap up. They were looking around, unable to source the sound. As Evan worked the metal arm back and forth, several cops moved into the parking lot, Glocks drawn.

They were moving row by row.

The stalk proved stubborn. He sawed it back and forth harder, polyurethane foam swelling into view on the dash.

A female cop worked her way up the line of vehicles directly ahead of Evan. In a moment she’d step around the end car and they’d be face-to-face.

The unit finally ripped free of the molded plastic above the glove box. Evan backed out of the car, already powering down the GPS so it couldn’t be accessed remotely. Staying low, he reversed through the juniper. He saw the cop come clear of her row and spot the windshield an instant before the foliage wagged back into place, enveloping him.

He popped out the other side onto the sidewalk, bumping into Joey. He handed her the NeverLost, unscrewed the filter from the tip of the pistol, and dumped it into a trash can. Then he holstered his 1911 beneath his shirt, took Joey’s hand like a doting father. She understood, folding her clean fingers around his, hiding the oil smudges.

They crossed at Irving Street, blended into a throng of pedestrians, and headed for the family car.





19

More Than a Mission

November was a pleasant month in Alabama.

Van Sciver sat in a rocking chair, sipping sweet tea. On his knee rested an encrypted satphone, the screen dancing with lights even when it was at rest.

The plantation-style house wasn’t so much rented as taken over. Though relatively humble compared to some of the mansions in the region, the place still showcased classic white woodwork, a formidable brick chimney, and an impressive pair of columns that guarded the long porch like sentries. It was a National Historic Landmark. Which meant that it was under federal jurisdiction—the Department of the Interior, to be precise.

The Orphan Program had a special relationship with the Department of the Interior. When the DoD required cash for Program operations, they made use of the bureaucratic machinery of Interior, figuring correctly that this was the last place that any inquiring mind would look for Selected Acquisition Report irregularities.

The money itself came straight from Treasury, shipped immedi ately after printing, which made it untraceable. And which meant that Van Sciver could quite literally print currency when he needed it. The life of an Orphan was not without hardships, but those hardships were cushioned by secret eight-figure bank accounts sprinkled throughout nonreporting countries around the world.

When forced to leave his data-mining bunker, Van Sciver didn’t generally pull strings with Interior. But this mission was more than a mission.

It was a celebration.

So he’d made a single phone call, the effect of which had rippled outward until he found himself here, sipping sweet tea on the veranda, waiting for mosquitoes to stir to life so he could swat at his neck with a kerchief just like they did in the movies.

One of his men circled, his bushy beard and sand-colored FN SCAR 17S battle rifle out of place here among the weeping willows and lazy breeze.

“Perimeter clear,” he said as he passed, and Van Sciver raised his iced tea in a mock toast.

Jack Johns had been the number two on Van Sciver’s list. But killing him was not what had given Van Sciver his current glow of contentment. It was the fact that killing him had made Orphan X hurt.

That alone was worth the cost of a Black Hawk and six men.

Van Sciver’s history with Evan stretched back the better part of three decades to a boys’ home in East Baltimore. Their rivalry at Pride House had been nearly as vicious as it was now. Van Sciver had been a head taller, with twice the brawn. He’d been the draw, the one they’d scouted for the Program, the one they wanted.

And yet Evan had squirmed himself into position, had gotten himself picked first. Now Van Sciver held the keys to the kingdom and Evan was a fugitive. Van Sciver had played the long game.

And he had won.

Yet even here, rocking soporifically on a centuries-old porch at a mansion requisitioned on a whim through the federal government, even surrounded by ranks of trained men ready to do his bidding, even with the levers of power awaiting the slightest twitch of his fingers, he knew that it wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough.

The phone chimed, the call routing in through Signal, an encryption app developed by Open Whisper Systems. Every call, made over a Wi-Fi or data connection, was end-to-end protected, the only encryption keys controlled by app users. As he did with all security measures, Van Sciver had gone above and beyond, tweaking the code slightly, altering the protocols.

He eyed the screen, which displayed two words: ADDER LUSTFUL.

He thumbed to answer. “Code,” he said.

He heard a rustle as Orphan R eyed the words displayed on his end. “‘Adder lustful.’”

The matching code verified that the call was secure; no man-in-the-middle attack had occurred.

Van Sciver said, “Is the package in hand?”

Orphan R said, “We didn’t get her.”

“Because?”