Prodigal Son (Orphan X #6) - Gregg Andrew Hurwitz Page 0,135

coming from the building itself. Way, way above, the ceiling irised open in the center, a growing spot of night sky blooming.

A flight path up and out.

Evan shouldered to the edge of a desk and peered around the corner.

Now he had a clear view of the giant contraption they’d been readying, and the sight of it stole his breath. He took it in, disbelief rolling through him.

It was wider and taller than unrolled gymnasium bleachers, but each step was as narrow as the slat of a venetian blind. A massive swarm of dragonflies perched on the slats, filling the entirety of the bleachers. These were the drones that Molleken had threatened him with in the battle lab, the glowing eyes that had risen before him in the darkness like a wall of menace.

The next-gen dragonflies were a more wicked-looking design than the one that had killed Jake Hargreave. Needlelike stilettos protruded from their faces, gleaming menacingly. In addition, each had a square box strapped to its thorax.

A bigger version of the backpack worn by the robotic bee that had blown a hole straight through the head of a mannequin.

Explosives.

At the base of the shelving unit, a jumble of empty rugged black Seahorse crates with the Mimeticom M emblazoned on their sides had been discarded. They were wheeled, their twist-lock latches released to show the scored charcoal foam inside.

Several of the contractors unpacked the dragonflies from the last crate, setting them equally spaced on the top slat of the shelving unit. The swarm was nearly assembled.

One of the men stared at someone out of Evan’s view behind the head-high server racks. “Hey, Doctor, are you ready to set ’em loose?”

Brendan Molleken stepped into sight, palm-heeled a button on the control panel, and a thousand yellow-green eyes glowed to life on the bleachers.

66

A Nightmare Symphony

A menacing hum filled the air, rising in pitch, the predatory howl of the swarm. Evan ducked back behind the desk, breathing hard, digging for the gear in his pocket.

The humming intensified. The Yubico key was slippery in Evan’s hand. He slid it into the port of the nearest hardware tower and tapped the trigger. The screen lit up. Authentication granted.

He already had the Hak5 USB Rubber Ducky set to go. He jammed it home.

Code whipped across the screen, a progress bar filling segment by excruciating segment as the hacked code uploaded.

Molleken’s voice carried to him. “Target: Andre Duran.”

A gruff voice, one of the hired guns. “Check.”

Molleken said, “Set to locate and destroy.”

“Should we widen target parameters to include any witnesses?”

“Yes,” Molleken said. “Loosen collateral-damage restrictions on the ethical adapter. We’ll need to cover our tracks on that front. Leave no trace of the temporary adjustment.”

The progress bar was half filled.

Evan brought his nose within inches of the monitor, urging it to hurry.

Now two-thirds.

It reached the last bit and stalled.

Squatting at the desk to keep his head low, Evan glared at the screen.

Molleken’s voice came once again. “Initiate encrypted kill-order sequence.”

“Check. We are cleared hot to launch.”

Evan’s jaw clenched, a nerve line burning in the side of his neck.

The progress bar clicked to completion and vanished.

The humming decreased and then quieted.

Molleken said, “What the hell happened?”

Only then did Evan’s muscles untense. Air eased through his teeth, his jaw letting go, like he was deflating with relief.

The gruff voice: “I don’t know. Looks like the encrypted kill order has been wiped.”

“Wiped?” Molleken said. “How is that possible?”

Evan braced his legs, readied his ARES.

“Looks like … looks like a zero-day vuln bashed the system.”

“A zero-day attack? For Andre Duran? Who the fuck is this guy?”

Evan rose and spun around the corner into sight. All six men in view before the bleachers. Visual acquisition, safety off, finger taking the slack out of the trigger—on target, on trigger.

His voice came loud and clear. “He’s my brother.”

All six heads swiveled to take him in.

Time slowed to a virtual stop as it always did when he was locked in.

Evan sensed Molleken diving behind the server racks, the other men reaching for their sidearms, everything happening with painful slowness.

He swung the sights in a smooth ninety-degree arc right to left to encompass all five heads, not even slowing as he delivered shots at sporadic intervals. Jack’s voice spoke in his ear, countless hours of coaching branded on his prefrontal cortex: Front sight, clean press, reset trigger, front sight, clean press, reset trigger …

For a moment everything remained as it was, the five mercs standing there, guns in hand, not yet aware that they had holes