Prodigal Son (Orphan X #6) - Gregg Andrew Hurwitz Page 0,110

Humvees held position by the guard station, exhaust spiraling from their tailpipes.

At this point he was on borrowed time and had to move quickly. As he aimed the microphone on the buildings below, he let his Steiner binocs pick across the windows.

A jumble of voices came off the different panes.

“—supply chain clusterfuck getting in the way of our agile combat-support capabilities—”

“—issue for the VA. You’re gonna have to contact your wife’s doctor to—”

“—rather eat MREs than this shit. Smell this? You think that smells like beef stew?”

He zeroed in on the center building. Shaped like a hockey puck or—more aptly—a UFO. Dark windows along the curved exterior and not a lot of them. He could pick up only a few faint vibrations from the glass:

“—better encryption—”

“—in-flight repair—”

“—improved guidance algorithm for automated collision avoidance—”

That was the place.

He zipped up an air-force-blue Windbreaker over his shirt, dumped the surveillance device beneath the tarp of a pickup parked beside him, and checked his false fingerprints. He crossed to the north-facing edge of the structure, stepped over the rail, swung himself out and down to the concrete ledge of the next level. A tricky bit of parkour that hurt his ankles and knees, but it wasn’t backbreaking.

Repeat to the second floor. And then the first.

He wound up winded on the packed sand behind the structure. Out of sight of the guard station and the waiting Humvees, positioned to face the stairs and bank of elevators. Peering around the corner, he waited until the foot traffic thickened along the path ahead. Then he swift-walked out to join it, circumventing the guard station, not daring to look behind him.

Walking rapidly now, the afternoon heat raising sweat across the small of his back. He neared the disk of the center building. Unlabeled like the others, the front doors a wall of tinted glass, black as obsidian.

He slowed his walk, timing his approach with a cluster of engineer types nearing the building, sipping coffee from plastic cups. In succession they held their electronic access cards to the panel, the doors unclicking electronically as they filed in.

Evan queued up behind them, tapping his hand to the sensor as if presenting a card, and caught the handle before the door resealed.

He entered.

A loud hum hit him immediately, the sound of a concealed server farm working overtime. The front lobby space was bathed in warmth from various vents suctioning air from a vast sunken area that constituted the building’s inner core. A row of curved interior windows looked down and in, but Evan wasn’t close enough to see what lay below.

He passed through a security metal detector, tossing his keys and the vape pen into a plastic dish. The MP running security pulled him aside and wanded him from head to toe, checking every last zipper and metal eyelet on his boots. Joey had warned him to forgo the digital contact lenses for precisely this reason; they would have alerted beneath the metal detector.

The MP handed him back the dish with a smirk—smoking devices were clearly not in vogue at Creech North—and waved him through.

As Evan moved toward the rounded bank of windows, a giant lab three stories below drew gradually into view. The scope of the space was breathtaking—part factory floor, part Hieronymus Bosch painting. Uniformed airmen and white-coated scientists scurried insectlike between computer stations and lab benches. Robotic entrails and dissected drone parts lay scattered across virtually every surface. Banks of monitors blinking with code, UAVs hovering above test-launching pads, airmen in Operational Camouflage Pattern uniforms huddled around diagrams, in heated discussions with bespectacled engineers.

Signs indicated that the elevator bank waited to the left, but as Evan arced around the curve, he saw with dismay that two armed MPs were inspecting credentials before letting anyone on. Even worse, the lift wasn’t summoned by button; it required an electronic access card for entry.

There was no way for Evan to even board the elevator, let alone get the vape pen within twenty meters of the data stations below.

That’s when he sensed a flare of movement overhead and heard the three-note bugle of his Laser Warning Receiver playing Taps.

He’d been lit up.

52

Dogpile

Overhead a diminutive quadcopter drone zipped around, holding its laser on Evan. He could only hope that it was unarmed, strictly for interior surveillance.

No time to delay.

He’d be in custody within seconds.

Already the MPs from the security checkpoint had alerted to him.

Evan ripped off his Windbreaker, releasing a miasma of marijuana fumes, and cast it aside. He shouted, “Drones can’t hear