Prodigal Son (Orphan X #6) - Gregg Andrew Hurwitz Page 0,123

man,” Andre said, now warming to a prankster’s grin that Evan was simultaneously glad for and enraged by. “Denial is the first stage.”

All the gazes around him were warm, accepting, which somehow made Evan feel even more exposed. The perceived threat made his training kick in, his senses revving to high. The cold metal of the chair beneath him. The dry warmth of the air. The symphony of the trapped flies.

One of the auditory notes had a vaguely jangling element to it, the faintest clink of metal against glass. Time slowed down, Andre and the others fading from consideration. Evan turned his head, looking over his shoulder at the hopper window to the side.

A fly at the window caught the ambient light from a passing car, giving off a metallic glint.

Evan’s chair screeched on the tile; he’d risen abruptly.

He checked the front and back stairwells—doors still closed.

Quick strides to the window, plucking a saddlebag purse from the chair beside the pantsuited woman, everyone watching him in puzzlement. He rose on tiptoes and slammed the purse to the glass. A few flies buzzed free, but several fell against the sill.

He picked one up by a shiny glassine wing.

Carbon-fiber thorax, copper electrodes threaded through the membranous wings, tiny stamp of the Mimeticom M on the dorsal surface. And riding the front of the convex head, the pinpoint dot of a camera.

A surveillance drone.

Evan swung around. He had the full attention of the room. “Sorry,” he said, handing the woman back her purse. “I hate flies.”

Andre was on alert, all signs of joking gone.

The room, Evan imagined, had witnessed some odd displays like this. The attendees moved on without ceremony, grabbing their belongings and rising. Evan headed quickly to Andre, took him by the biceps, and pivoted to the front stairs.

Declan “the Gentleman” Gentner stood in the doorway, wearing a blue herringbone suit and a satisfied grin.

59

A Burst Seam

As the others milled about in the wake of the meeting, they blocked Declan Gentner momentarily from view. Everyone oblivious, clustering in smaller groups, putting away the chairs or going for the exits.

Holding tight to Andre, Evan didn’t want to draw his pistol and cause a stampede.

Keeping the crowd between them and Declan, Evan pivoted to the rear stairs—no sign of Queenie—and hustled Andre toward them.

Declan started forward, nodding a few hellos and slicing through the herd.

Evan reached the back stairwell, slung Andre behind him, and flung the door open hard enough to strike whoever might be lying in wait.

Empty.

Tugging Andre up the stairs, he let his other hand ride his holstered gun. Andre stumbled, caught his footing. “Is that … that’s them, right?”

Evan didn’t answer.

They reached the top landing. Shoving Andre to the side, Evan shouldered through the door into the rear lobby.

A few after-hours workers lingered at the reception desk, Evan nearly drawing at the sight of them. Instead he turned back and beckoned Andre forward. He rushed out, panic-breathing, shallow jerks of the chest.

They jogged across to the rear door, ignoring the workers’ greetings.

As they neared, the stairwell door behind them clicked open again, and Evan 180ed, expecting to see Declan emerging.

Instead an older guy with baggy eyes trickled out into sight, leading a stream of attendees.

Evan swung back around just as Andre, fueled by fear, pushed out through the back door. “No—wait!”

But Andre cleared the threshold into the alley before he registered Evan’s voice and froze, framed for an instant just beyond the doorway.

A shape materialized at his side, an arm swinging upward at his chin, a fist topped with nine inches of carbon steel.

Evan lunged forward, the fingers of his right hand splayed, his arm supinated to guard Andre’s face.

His forearm caught the fixed combat blade.

It impaled him, rising straight through the meat to the side of his radius, flesh and skin bowed off the bone like slit neoprene.

He’d stopped the tip of the blade inches from Andre’s chin.

Queenie had released the knife in her surprise, and they stood there for a suspended moment, a trio just beyond the doorway.

She wore a red cold-shoulder shirt, circles of pale flesh showing at her deltoids. Aggressive scarlet lipstick, fitted jeans, red Converse shoes—like a vampire glowing in the semidarkness.

A pistol rode a holster on her right hip, but she hadn’t reached for it; she’d wanted to get it done quietly in the alley.

Sound rushed back into Evan’s head—Andre’s screech of a gasp, the whisper of Queenie’s arm against her ribs as she reached for her gun, the pounding of Evan’s own heartbeat,