Prodigal Son (Orphan X #6) - Gregg Andrew Hurwitz Page 0,13

not exist.

There was only one complication: Jack had raised him not just to be a killer but to remain human.

At a certain point, Evan had to choose.

And just as he’d once escaped the foster-care system, he’d left the Orphan Program behind, going off the grid, hunted by the very government that had created him.

He’d turned his skills to a new venture, one more aligned with the ethics embedded in him by Jack. As the Nowhere Man, Evan remained on call 24/7 for people who were being terrorized, people who found themselves under the heel of a crushing predicament, people with nowhere left to turn. After a decade and change spent leaving a trail of dead high-value targets across six continents, he figured he owed something to the universe.

He also figured he owed something for getting out where others had not. Out of the foster system. Out of East Baltimore. Out of the Program.

But recently he’d been ready to discharge his duty as the Nowhere Man and the awful, awesome responsibilities that came with it. He’d reached a tentative truce with no less an authority than the president of the United States. She’d granted him an unofficial pardon—but made clear that it would be withdrawn the instant he conducted any extracurricular activities as the Nowhere Man. It wasn’t just that what he did on behalf of his clients was illegal; it was that he was too sensitive an asset to have his operational capabilities put on display. If he didn’t wish to be neutralized, he had to remain on the shelf.

So he’d agreed to leave his work as the Nowhere Man behind.

He was ready to try to lead an ordinary life, whatever that was. A life he’d never thought he could have, never thought he deserved. One without knife wounds and concussions. Without a threat around every corner, the reek of death one wrong turn away.

People would have to go about helping themselves the ways they had before he’d come along. Or the ways they hadn’t.

The RoamZone should have stopped ringing with any more missions. And yet he’d received a series of calls from the same number.

The first time, he’d picked up and found a woman on the other end. She’d addressed him by name.

And claimed she was his mother.

He’d hung up immediately, figuring her for a lure designed to draw him out.

And yet—who’d sent her?

How did she know his name?

What did she want?

Her voice was unfamiliar, of course, and yet something about it had tugged the thread of a memory. No, not a memory, exactly. More like a wisp of a forgotten dream.

Evan. It’s your mother.

After severing the connection, he’d stared at the phone in his hand, a box of silicon chips, amplifiers, and microprocessors that had conveyed the feminine voice across two continents.

It was an effective little ploy, sinking a hook into the soft part of his heart, jabbing a vulnerability he didn’t even know he had. An uncomfortable sensation, like he’d been ensnared by a strand of a much bigger web. The feeling had proved hard to shake.

He wasn’t sure why.

He’d dealt with his share of psychopaths and tyrants. This was just another variation on the theme; the woman was either delusional or conniving.

Or perhaps both.

Refocusing his thoughts, he arrived at his residential high-rise, Castle Heights, and left his truck in its spot between two concrete pillars on the subterranean parking level.

In the lobby he detoured to the bank of mailboxes and confirmed that his was empty; one of the great benefits of not existing was receiving no junk mail.

He crossed the marble floor, clearing his throat to awaken Joaquin, who’d dozed off in his chair behind the reception console.

Joaquin snapped to, smoothing down the front of his guard uniform. “Mr. Smoak. I was just resting my eyes.”

“Good technique to lure the bad guys into a false sense of security.”

Joaquin smiled sheepishly and thumbed the button to summon the elevator. “Fun night, huh?”

“Took some clients out to dinner.” Here at Castle Heights, Evan was known as a bland importer of industrial cleaning supplies.

“Late dinner.”

“They wanted to go clubbing. What adults want to go clubbing?”

Joaquin said, “You’d be surprised.”

“I was.”

The elevator arrived with a ding, and Evan stepped aboard. The PENTHOUSE button was already lit, and he rode up, enjoying the silence.

His condo, seven thousand square feet of concrete and glass, was sparse and spotless. The workout stations were buffed to a high sheen, unmarred by fingerprints. The brushed-nickel kitchen appliances gave a catalog-clean sparkle, even in the semidarkness.