Hellbent (Orphan X #3)(64)

He took a deep breath, let it burn in his lungs. All his impeccable training, living his cover, becoming his legend. Never a skip, a stutter, a false move. And here he was.

Undone by Target.

“It’s a weird situation,” he conceded.

“Indeed.” Mia’s glare softened only when she looked over at Joey. “Hi, honey. I’m Mia.”

Joey came over and shook her hand. “Joey.”

“Super-cool girl name,” Peter said.

Mia’s ringtone sounded—the theme to Jaws, which signaled a call from her office. She said, “Gimme a sec,” and stepped away to answer.

Peter blinked up at Joey and Evan. “I was in class today? And Zachary had an egg-salad sandwich? And he took it out right before lunch, and it totally smelled like someone farted, and it was on my side of the classroom, so everyone was looking at me, and what am I gonna say? Like, ‘I didn’t fart’? I mean, who believes that?”

Joey looked over at Evan. “Does it have an off button?”

Standing a few paces away, Mia paused from her call to glance across at Evan, her displeasure clear.

Was she mad at him for having a sort-of niece? For being at Target? For not introducing her to Joey right away?

Peter had cornered Joey against the choo-choo ride. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Matte black,” Joey said.

“What do you like to play?”

“I don’t.”

“What do you like to play with?”

“The entrails of children.”

“What’s an entrails?”

“Guts.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Peter processed this behind his charcoal eyes. “Really they’re the guts, or really that’s what you like to play with?”

Evan cleared his throat. “Time we get going.”

Mia wrapped up her phone call and stepped back over, ruffling Peter’s hair.

“Mom,” Peter said, “Evan Smoak’s niece person is awesome.”

“I’m sure she is,” Mia said. “It was nice to meet you, sweetheart.”

She shot Evan a look that seemed to code for murderous rage, put her arm around Peter’s shoulders, and disappeared through the automated glass doors.

Evan exhaled a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

“Well played,” Joey said. “Orphan X.”

Evan started for his truck, not caring if she kept up.





43

Grown-Man Problems

Evan crouched gargoyle-still at the edge of the crack-house roof, peering through the shattered stained-glass window into the church next door.

Freeway sat on the carpeted steps leading to the altar, a king on his throne. A series of kids entered, each slinging a giant zippered bag at his feet. They looked no older than Evan had been when he was taken from the Pride House Group Home.

Indoctrination—best started early.

The boys entered the church with swagger, but all signs of confidence evaporated by the time they reached the altar. They kept their heads lowered, afraid to meet Freeway’s stare.

It was a hard stare to meet.

He cast his solid black eyes over his spoils, giving a faint nod to dismiss each child in turn.

Evan scanned the other gang members clustered in groups around the tipped-over pews, searching for Benito’s son. But just like this morning, there was no sign of Xavier. Evan had left Joey in the Vault, hard at work reassembling his hardware. The thought of her in his sanctuary unattended, pulling cords and handling his possessions, caused a discomfort that was physical, insects running beneath his skin. He couldn’t think about it right now and keep his focus.

And given that he was surveilling the deadliest gang in the world, he needed to keep his focus.

A commotion at the front door drew his attention. A group of women were corralled into the vestibule. Bright makeup, torn stockings, stiff hair. One was missing the heel on one of her red pumps.

Evan was surprised to see that the men who had brought them were not yet visibly tattooed. Lowly initiates, given the lowly task of gathering the street girls.

As the newcomers shuffled through the sporadic falls of light from the overheads, Evan caught a glimpse of a young man in the back. Xavier. He helped herd the women through the nave toward the altar. He wore a flannel shirt with the sleeves ripped off, the gym-toned muscles of his shoulders rippling.

The women rotated before Freeway, handing over wads of crumpled cash that he eyed and then handed to one of his lieutenants. None of the women met Freeway’s eyes. Several seemed to hold their breath until they scurried away to gather by the bags of stolen goods.

The last woman in the group, the one with the broken heel, stepped forward and offered up a few tattered bills. Freeway examined them, clearly unimpressed, then let them fall to the floor.

He stood up.

The effect was momentous.

All the gang members went on point. The woman started trembling, shaking her head. Evan couldn’t hear her beg, but he knew that she was.

Freeway gripped her chin, squeezing her cheeks. He flicked out a straight razor, which gleamed in the low lights from the altar.

She cowered, her back to Evan, blocking his view. Freeway towered over her. Evan saw his hand rise and move across her face, two strokes, each punctuated with an artistic flair of the wrist. Her shriek was clear, even above the wind rushing over the rooftop.