Prodigal Son (Orphan X #6) - Gregg Andrew Hurwitz Page 0,35

The bottles stood in perfect parallel on the shelves like cartridges on an ammunition belt. Through the wall of exterior glass, a thousand pinpoint lights glistened in Century City, the world at bay for the moment.

He started to reach for the Guillotine Vodka but hesitated, his fingertips brushing the cool glass.

This was not a formal mission—and he was retired. He deserved to relax, take the night off, and resume in the morning. He’d offered to look into Andrew Duran for Veronica, but that didn’t mean he had to devote himself to it with his usual fervor. It had already nearly cost him his life and had the potential to cost him his unofficial presidential pardon.

Whatever Duran knew, it was dangerous enough that they were willing to bring a Hellfire down on his head.

“So what?” Evan asked the chilled bottle.

He thought about the next step. When he got back on Duran’s trail in the morning, Evan would make sure not to wear a hat so the eyes in the sky wouldn’t mistake him again for the target and convert him into pink mist.

But the longer he waited, the more at risk Duran was.

Evan thought back to Veronica’s voice over the phone. All I know is that there are people after him. And that he’s scared for his life.

“This isn’t my concern,” he said.

“I don’t owe her anything,” he said.

The bottle did not respond. The liquid gazed demurely back at him, delightfully clouded, impatient. He didn’t know what was more pathetic, that he was picking a fight with vodka or that he was losing.

He shoved out of the freezer, cursed, and headed for the front door.

19

End of the Line

Sitting in the back of the police car, Evan watches the free world roll by outside his window. His cheek is swollen. Blood works its way down his slender neck, mingling with panic sweat. He feels sticky all over. His clothes cling. In his twelve years, he has never known this kind of terror, this kind of total dislocation.

As they drive, the cops up front banter, arguing about how much the Orioles suck. Another day, another bust.

But for Evan it’s the end of the line.

And yet it makes no sense. Why go to all this trouble for a simple frame-up? The puzzle pieces don’t fit no matter how many ways he turns them in his head.

They pull off the interstate at a deserted rest stop, and he assumes one of the cops has to take a leak. But then the rear door opens and he’s yanked out onto the curb. The bigger cop sidles behind him, hands low.

“Wait,” Evan says, panic rising. “Wait.”

But the cuffs fall free with a clink. A knee bumps his kidneys, and he stumbles onto the little patch of browning lawn beside the restrooms.

The cop circles back to the driver’s side, and the squad car takes off.

Evan stands there alone, a breeze cooling the sweat on his back. The air smells of cleaning solution, exhaust, and sewage. Blood hardens on his cheek. He watches the cars zoom by on the interstate below and has absolutely no fucking idea what to do next.

A familiar dark sedan turns off and climbs the slow arc of road to where he stands. The windows are tinted. All of them.

It stops before him.

The passenger window slides down, accompanied by an electronic purr.

Evan cannot see the driver, not across the passenger seat and the dark interior.

The voice that calls across is as smoky as a pilfered swig of bourbon from Papa Z’s liquor cabinet.

“My name is Jack,” it says. “Are you ready to begin?”

20

Bad Company

Duran’s old apartment complex had gone to hell in the months since he’d laid eyes on it. He lurked in the darkness beneath the sagging carport of the meth house next door, a black wave of guilt roiling through him. How could he let his Sofia live like this? How could his ex-wife not have told him how bad the neighborhood had gotten since he’d left?

He knew the answer to that already.

Because he was unreliable. Because he hadn’t shown up. Because he couldn’t do much to help aside from mail most of his measly paycheck to her every month.

Because he wasn’t good for much and never had been.

It was colder than L.A. had any right to be, even at night, even in December.

He stared at the window of Bri’s apartment. A halogen floor lamp illuminated the living room, giving him a decent vantage through the security screens. That old-timey travel poster of