Prodigal Son (Orphan X #6) - Gregg Andrew Hurwitz Page 0,134
as they jogged toward him and waved them to hurry. “Move it! The base perimeter’s been compromised. We gotta alert the transport team.”
The MPs arrived as the elevator dinged open. “Who are you?”
“I’m an engineer in the microdrone division.” Evan stepped onto the car. “Come on, come on.”
The MPs entered and stood on either side of him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. The big guy breathed down at him from the right. “Microdrone division?”
Evan stared straight ahead, the elevator descending, taking him ever closer to a half dozen armed adversaries.
“That’s right.”
A third of the way down now, the lab floor drawing ever nearer. He thought about the stapled gash in his right arm, carefully wrapped beneath his long-sleeved shirt but still vulnerable. Anything he did from here on out, he’d have to be careful not to tear flesh through metal.
A radio gave with a bit of static, and the MP on Evan’s left turned up the volume. “—repeat: We have a breach. Any uncredentialed personnel should be detained and questioned. Copy, Tanner?”
Evan sensed the men’s faces swivel to him from either side.
He took a swift step back, setting his braced ankle outside the big guy’s foot, palming the side of his head, and accelerating it into the wall as he tripped him. The guy’s ear slammed into metal, and he crumpled.
To Evan’s left, Tanner had almost cleared leather with his SIG Sauer, but Evan grabbed it and yanked it the rest of the way out, goosenecking the wrist. He twisted the sidearm free, dropped the mag, jacked the slide to send the chambered round spinning, and emptied the rounds with fifteen quick flicks of his thumb.
Mouth gaping, Tanner stood watching the brass rain down on the tips of his boots.
The SIG spun in Evan’s hands as he disassembled it, the pieces dropping, a two-second breakdown. Keeping the slide, he asked politely, “May I cuff you to the railing?”
Tanner nodded.
Evan dug a flex cuff from a cargo pocket, zipped it around the MP’s wrist and the handrail. He did the same for the big guy, who was still unconscious, then plucked up his pistol. As Evan’s hands took the second SIG apart in similar fashion, he looked over at Tanner, who’d recoiled against the wall.
“He’s had a pretty bad concussion, but he’ll be okay.”
Tanner nodded, his eyes wide.
The doors opened, and Evan smacked the emergency stop button to stall the car. “I’m gonna have you guys wait here a sec,” he said, dropping the SIG Sauer slides and the men’s radios through the dark gap between the elevator and the lowest floor. “You’re gonna want to stay quiet. I’m not the bad guy here.”
Tanner nodded once more, his Adam’s apple jerking in his throat.
Evan drew his ARES and stepped out onto the lab floor.
It was football-field vast, the sight lines blocked by benches, walls, and workstations. Cautiously he picked his way through a labyrinth of test gear toward the OpsCenter and the crew of mercenaries beyond.
ARES 1911 drawn, pistol tucked close to his chest in a two-handed retention position, finger indexed on the frame, not the trigger, thumb on top of the safety—precautions to avoid shooting someone who didn’t need shooting, like a wayward engineer. The Tenth Commandment: Never let an innocent die.
Once he acquired visual on the threat and decided to deliver projectiles, he needed less than one-tenth of a second to disengage the safety and pull the trigger. He preferred a heavier press, 4.5 pounds with a little creep, which gave him more travel once he took up the mechanical slack in the trigger. So much precision training, so many minuscule adjustments to make sure he was operating as close to perfection as was humanly possible.
Voices carried back to him. The clanking of gear. He crept forward through the maze of workstations, pulse pounding, eyes darting from threat area to threat area. Jack’s voice whispered in his ear, a mantra of competence: Off target, off trigger. On target, on trigger.
A long table strewn with disassembled motor parts. A pallet of propellers. Two soldering benches. A pony wall built of stacked electronics crates. The gasoline stink of epoxy glue.
Finally he reached the OpsCenter. Crouching to keep his head low, inching toward the nearest hardware tower.
Now the voices were louder.
“—first swarm, quick and quiet, before any oversight—”
“—cannot memorialize this launch in any way—”
“—hang on, hang on, need to fire them up—”
A rumbling filled the air, and Evan flattened to the floor, taking a moment to realize that the sound was