Hellbent (Orphan X #3)(87)

This the boy could skip.

The cops steered Shea and Delmonico farther into the park and away from the school, but Thornhill appeared unhurried. He took a supported position against an A/C unit, his off hand braced against the housing.

“He can’t make that shot,” Joey said. “Not through the trees. Not at that distance.”

A black bulge rode the top of the gun—holographic red-dot sights. The suppressor stretched the barrel into something lean and menacing. Most common loadings for a .45 ACP kept the gun subsonic, so Thornhill could squeeze off both shots without making a sound signature loud enough for the cops to source.

Delmonico and Shea disappeared from view, temporarily lost in a cocoon of officers. They were at least two hundred yards from Thornhill. Maybe two-fifty. A few cops moved ahead, clearing the rest of the way to the police van.

Evan swept his view back across the park, the street, and up the stairs to the roof of the school. Shouldered into the A/C unit, Thornhill was so still he might have been part of the building.

Two hundred seventy-five yards, at least.

The clump of blue uniforms reached the intersecting street. Two transport officers emerged from the paddy wagon, laying open the rear doors.

The arresting cops jerked Delmonico and Shea to a rough halt and stepped forward to confer with the transfer officers. The other cops milled around, spreading out into the street.

Creating gaps.

On the roof, the .45 twitched in Thornhill’s grip.

Delmonico fell, a crimson firework painting the side of the van.

Confused, the cops crouched and ran for cover.

Having his hands cuffed at the small of his back put Shea on a half-step delay. His head was cocked with confusion, the cloud-muffled sun gleaming off his bald dome. For an instant he stood wide open there in the street, twisted around, looking in the wrong direction. The cuffs yanked his shoulders back, nicely exposing the expanse of his chest.

A dark flower bloomed on his shirt. He staggered backward, his spine striking the side of the police van. His knees were bent, tilting him into the vehicle, physics momentarily holding him on his feet.

Then his heels slipped and he fell, landing with his legs splayed before him.

Evan turned to look again at Thornhill way across on the roof and was not surprised to see Thornhill looking back.

Fifteen dead.

Ten left.

Evan gave a respectful nod.

Thornhill placed one hand on his chest and flourished the other as if to accompany a bow, accepting the compliment. He holstered the pistol and stepped back from sight.

Gone.

Pandemonium swept across the park. The cops spread out, weapons drawn, eyes whipping across rooftops and vehicles in every direction. The remaining students stampeded out of the park, trampling abandoned backpacks. Pages of dropped textbooks fluttered in the breeze. One girl stood frozen, sobbing amid the chaos, fists pressed to her ears. Parents hauled their children away, one father sprinting with his son flopped over his arm like a stack of dry-cleaned shirts. Horns blared. Brakes screeched. Fenders crumpled. A girl had tripped near the fountain and was curled up, holding a bloody knee.

David yanked on Evan’s arm. “What happened? What’s going on?”

“We gotta move,” Joey said. “Ride the chaos out of the park.”

Evan took David’s arm in his hands, turned it to show the slice. “This first.”

He sat David on the wall of the fountain and moved his thumbs along the sides of the forearm scar, pressing gently. David winced. Behind him in the fountain, the black ducks glided by, unperturbed by the commotion.

Cops moved swiftly through the park, corralling stray students. Joey vibrated with impatience, her head swiveling from the approaching officers to the surrounding streets. “We don’t have time for this.”

Evan felt nothing unusual around the scar. He ran his fingers across the unmarred flesh up toward the boy’s elbow.

Something hard beneath the flesh pressed into the pad of his thumb.

A thin disk, about the size of a watch battery.

“What is it?” David asked.

“A digital transmitter.”

“Up there?” Joey said. “How are we supposed to get it out?”

The tiny bulge was about six inches up from the incision; it had been slid up toward the elbow to conceal it. Seventy-eight percent of Orphans were left-handed. Van Sciver had inserted the transmitter on the left side, Evan assumed, so that if David noticed it and tried to cut it out, he’d be forced to use his nondominant hand to do so.

Evan said, “We need a magnet. A strong magnet.”

Two of the cops had closed to within a hundred yards of the fountain. Joey ducked behind its low wall. “We have to figure this out later.”

“As long as this is in him, Van Sciver has our location.”

Joey’s wild eyes found Evan.

His hands went to his shirt buttons, but the magnets wouldn’t be strong enough; they were designed to give way readily. He said, “Think.”

Joey snapped her fingers. “Hang on.” She reached for the purloined Herschel backpack and whipped a silver laptop out of the padded sleeve in the back. She smashed it on the lip of the fountain, dug around in its entrails, and tore out the hard drive. Gripping the drive in both hands, she hammered it against the concrete until it split open. She yanked out the spindle, revealing a shiny top disk, and then dug out a metal nugget to the side. With some effort she pried apart its two halves, which Evan was surprised to see weren’t screwed together.