Hellbent (Orphan X #3)(51)

An image came to him unbidden, the wind tearing through the Black Hawk, fluttering Jack’s shirt, his hair. He’d taken a wide stance, steady against the elements.

Always steady against the elements.

Evan lifted the glass halfway to his mouth, set it back down.

His cheeks were wet.

“Goddamn it, Jack,” he said.

He closed his eyes and dropped into his body. Became aware of its shape from the inside. Felt the pressure of the floor against the soles of his boots. The coolness of the counter beneath his palms. He stayed with his breath, feeling it at his nostrils, in his windpipe, his chest. Drew it into his stomach, belly-breathing a count of ten.

Right now, in this moment, there was no Nowhere Man mission, no Van Sciver, no sixteen-year-old stashed in a safe house. There was no past or imagined future, no bone-deep ache of grief, no figuring out how to live in a world without Jack.

There was only the breath. Inhale, exhale. His body doing what it did twenty thousand times a day, except this time he was mindful of it.

And this time.

And this time.

The brief meditation and the vodka sent warmth through his veins. He felt decontaminated.

He opened his eyes and headed to the Vault.





33

A Lot of Variables

Benito Orellana.

That was the name of the man who had called the Nowhere Man for help, the man Evan was to meet tomorrow at noon.

At least that’s what the caller had claimed his name was.

Evan approached each pro bono job with the same meticulous mission planning with which he’d once plotted the assassination of high-value targets. The First Commandment: Assume nothing.

Including that the client is who he says he is.

Or that he might not be planning to kill you.

Evan had parked himself behind his sheet-metal desk in the Vault, sipping vodka in the pale glow of the monitors neatly lined up before him. From here he could access hundreds of state and federal law-enforcement databases. This required only a single point of entry: a Panasonic Toughbook laptop hooked to the dashboard of any LAPD cruiser. Because officers rotated through a squad car with every shift change, the laptop passwords were generally straightforward, often simply the assigned unit number: LAPD_4012. Over the years Evan had broken into various cruisers from various stations and uploaded a piece of reverse-SSH code into their dashboard laptops. Firewalls face out to keep people from breaking in. They don’t regulate outgoing traffic. When Evan needed to access the databases remotely, he initiated his hidden code, prompting the police computer to reach out through its firewall to him. Then he could sail right through the open ports and browse wherever he liked.

He’d already learned much about Benito Orellana.

An undocumented worker from El Salvador, he’d received amnesty in 1986 under the Immigration Reform and Control Act. His tax records showed Benito holding down three jobs—a dishwasher at an Italian restaurant downtown, a valet parker, and an Uber driver. Over the years he had diligently reported cash tips. If the information Evan was collecting was real, it revealed an honest, hardworking man.

Benito’s wife had died in February. Medicaid test results from last year showed black spots on a chest CT scan, and the L.A. County death certificate listed lung cancer as her cause of death. It had been fast. Benito had one son, Xavier, who had taken a few courses at East Los Angeles College and then dropped out around the time of his mother’s diagnosis. No other information on Xavier was to be found. Benito’s financials seemed to be clean until recently; he’d racked up debt in the form of credit-card charges to Good Samaritan Hospital. The house in Pico-Union was leveraged, a second mortgage with a predatory lending rate gaining momentum by the month.

Evan looked over at Vera II. “The guy seems legit.”

Vera II said nothing.

Evan took the last expensive sip of vodka, fished out what was left of the ice cube, and rested it in her serrated spikes. An ice cube a week was all the watering the fist-size aloe vera plant required.

He removed the Samsung cell phone from his pocket—the one he’d stolen from Van Sciver’s man in Portland—and turned it on. No messages. There was a single coded contact. Push the button and it would ring through to Van Sciver. That would prove useful at some point. Evan turned the phone back off and charged it.

He started to get up, but Vera II implored him.

“Okay, okay,” he said.

He called up feeds from the hidden security cameras in the Burbank safe house.

He found Joey at the wooden table, chewing on a Twizzler, tapping at the keyboard. She had her own laptop set up next to the Dell now, connected with a cord. After a time she got up, fished in her rucksack for something, and retreated to the couch.

He couldn’t see what she was staring at.

Finally she shifted, and he caught a vantage over her shoulder. She was reading the Thanksgiving card again, tracing her finger across the handwriting as if it were braille.

She looked forlorn there on the couch, leaning against the arm, her legs tucked beneath her.

Evan glanced at Vera II.

“Fine,” he said.

He called Joey’s burner phone. He watched her start, and then she crossed to the table and picked up.

“X?”

“How are you doing?”

She glanced at the laptops. “Making headway.”

She’d misunderstood what he was asking about. It seemed awkward to backtrack now.