Prodigal Son (Orphan X #6) - Gregg Andrew Hurwitz Page 0,30

sidewalk, keeping tight to the storefronts, tucked beneath awnings.

He imagined the Predator ten or fifteen thousand feet up, watching bodies streaming around the accident site in real time, trying to locate which one was Evan.

And that’s when it occurred to him.

They hadn’t been aiming at Evan.

With his hat pulled low, his long-sleeved shirt, and his average build, he resembled Andrew Duran. They’d been watching the house from above, waiting on Duran’s return. And the instant he’d surfaced, they hadn’t been willing to delay to deploy an assassin for a controlled neutralization. They were willing to risk tens of thousands of dollars and a massive cover-up just to take Andrew Duran off the chessboard.

Which prompted the question, what the hell did that guy know?

They’d no doubt watched Evan circle the house earlier and disappear beneath the roof of the back porch.

It took a missile between fifteen and thirty seconds to reach its target, during which they assumed he’d entered the house.

He’d survived for only one reason, and that was because he’d been held up on the patio, reading Mr. Chang-Hoon Baek’s newspaper.

Evan finally reached the covered parking garage, ducked into his low-end Nissan, and gripped the wheel. It was shaded and quiet down here. He realized he was breathing hard, his chest heaving. That his clothes were smudged with ash. That his eyes were still watering.

Eight knuckles lined on the top of the steering wheel, all of them squeezed to pale. His hands trembled slightly. He stared at them. Made them stop.

Any drone strike on U.S. soil had to have been ordered from within the deepest recesses of the government. It would be a full-black, fully deniable operation. He knew the drill: Tomorrow’s news would say it was a water-heater explosion. As if a water heater could unleash a blast wave sufficient to crush internal organs, turn a house inside out, and aerate a concrete foundation with high-velocity steel shrapnel.

When General Atomics weaponized a drone in 2001, the state of warfare had been irreversibly altered. Pilots assumed a godlike power, hovering above the fray looking down, unleashing a thunderbolt from the heavens when they saw fit. For them it was a bloodless, odorless, soundless affair, more like hunting than fighting. Drones were what the DoD had hoped would make Orphans defunct, but they’d learned soon enough that human operators were still required on the ground. Those who would bear the risk and the cost. Those willing to get close enough to feel the warmth of the blood, to hear the suck of lungs through a slit throat, to smell the wreckage of voided bowels, the last hot fumes of life expiring.

The only good news was that they’d taken their shot—a norm-destroying illicit operation on U.S. soil—and they were unlikely to risk another cover-up. There were only so many atomic water heaters they could claim in the news.

Evan wiped the sweat off his forehead, left a streak of blood and ash. He’d have to clean up at the safe house before showing his face at Castle Heights. Then he’d regroup and figure out just what the hell was going on.

He thumbed on his RoamZone and called Veronica’s prepaid phone.

She answered quickly. “Hello, Private Caller.”

“Are you trying to have me killed?”

“What? Of course not.”

Evan made out voices in the background—a dinner party? He thought he recognized the sharp timbre of former fútbol star Chancellor Matías Quiroga’s voice fussing about something.

Veronica hushed whoever it was, came back to Evan. “Why would you ask that?”

“Because I went to your guy’s house and it blew up.”

“It doesn’t help to exaggerate, dear. But I’m sorry you’re finding it troubling.” Then, sharply, her mouth off the receiver, “I said I’ll be there in a minute.” Back to Evan. “I’m doing my best to get to Los Angeles tomorrow.” She rattled off a Bel Air address. “I should be there by midday. Why don’t you come by around one? A little mother-son time.”

He could hear the smile in her voice, but he wasn’t in the mood.

“What kind of trouble is this guy in?” Evan asked. “Duran?”

“I honestly don’t know,” she said. “He was terrified when we spoke and not making much sense. All I know is that there are people after him. And that he’s scared for his life.”

Evan said, “He should be,” and hung up.

16

Outsize Monikers and Well-Honed Skills

A long-term-storage shed with a roll-down orange door was admittedly an uninspired place to commit torture. But one had to work with what one had. And it was quiet enough