Prodigal Son (Orphan X #6) - Gregg Andrew Hurwitz Page 0,108
anywhere, Evan.”
For the first time, her voice had no youthful singsong element, no forced musicality. She was just a grown woman talking in her natural voice, and there was something bare and human in it.
“I don’t think I was ever gonna go through with it,” she said. “Can’t change who I am. Wherever I go, I’ll still be me.” She blotted her lower lids with the tissue, a practiced gesture that preserved her eyeliner. “Part of me didn’t know. But part of me knew all along.”
He was dumbfounded. “So why…?”
“The party?” She gave a sad little laugh. “I guess … I guess I wanted the attention.”
The sentence hung in the air between them, an ugly little confession that was also somehow graceful in its honesty. It was so revealing, so intimate, and he felt a quick counterweight pulling him to get up out of his chair, to head for Creech North, back into the mission where the rules were clear and distinct, governed by Ten Commandments handed down from on high.
And yet he fought back all those urges and remained. She was telling him something about herself, yes, but she was also telling him something about himself, something he couldn’t understand but needed to know.
“Oh, God,” she said. “I’m so ashamed. What am I gonna tell everyone?”
Evan dug deep in the quagmire of his feelings, sorting through the confusion for a single clear thought. But as always in these situations, he came up short.
He rose respectfully. She kept her gaze out the window. He walked away.
When he looked back from the elevator, she was sitting there silently staring at nothing, alone with the wreckage of her plans.
51
A Blob of Undefined Nothingness
Area 6 was literally off the grid. Even Google Earth refrained from mapping the experimental military zone. Satellite imagery all around showed the pockmarked expanse of the Nevada National Security Site, the earth punished with untold devastation, but the forbidden sector itself appeared as a blob of undefined nothingness. Ironic that the Internet’s only blind spot was a facility devoted to engineering all-seeing drones.
Creech North itself lay on the shore of Groom Lake, a two hour forge north from Creech proper. Evan chugged toward it in a well-used Honda Civic that he’d bought for cash three hours ago in Barstow. He’d adhered Hargreave’s parking sticker to the windshield, the covert laser readable hologram throwing back the midday glare. He was all but certain that surveillance drones had noted his approach over the past few miles, along with any other movement in the area.
At last a series of compounds came into view, clustered like grapes along the vine of a paved road, each with its own perimeter and security. Creech North had a solid seven-foot-high concrete wall, the better to keep out inquiring eyes. Evan had no idea what lay beyond. Signs posted everywhere warned drivers not to leave the road under any circumstances.
He pulled alongside the security entrance, confronting a solid steel gate sandwiched by barriers on either side and a guard station composed of concrete slabs. Same drill as the Veterans Reintegration Center in Fresno, but on steroids. The Military Police toted M4 carbines, their eyes invisible behind reflective blade sunglasses. One casually brought his rifle to his shoulder. No warning shots here.
Evan coasted up to the checkpoint, and an MP stepped forward with a handheld laser to verify the hologram. It took a specific input illumination to allow the encoded information to appear.
Jake Hargreave had lost his life going back to the impound lot to recover the parking sticker, a strong indication it was still active. But now, in the jaws of facility security, the First Commandment needled at Evan: Assume nothing.
The MP scanned the hologram unsuccessfully, shook the control device, and tried again.
Evan’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, the trapped heat of the desert sun amplified through the windows, reflecting off the dash, soaking into the seat. His fingers were tipped with next-gen transparent silicone composite adhesives that sported a false set of prints. At fifty microns each adhesive was thinner than a piece of hair and nearly invisible. He’d pulled the impostor fingerprints off the FBI’s IAFIS database, choosing an offender around his age with long shaggy hair, a ragged beard, the same-color eyes, and the most relevant rap sheet. Once again he’d molded chewing gum inside his cheeks and lips to alter his appearance, just enough to skew the facial-feature data points.
As the MP tried the scan once more, Evan steadied his breaths.