Prodigal Son (Orphan X #6) - Gregg Andrew Hurwitz Page 0,65
vastly increase the chances of hitting something vital. A downside of the expansion was that they didn’t always defeat soft body armor, which called for precision shooting—throat, head, pelvic girdle. But he preferred them in situations with noncombatants present, since he didn’t want his rounds going through walls into the next room or through the intended target into a no-shoot.
Right now he would have taken something with more penetrating power. An assault team this well coordinated would come with body armor.
He stared at his Ford F-150 through the gate and across the street. The job of his pistol was to get him to that truck, because the locked vaults in the bed held World War III. But within seconds the Teslas would be between him and it.
Outnumbered. Less-than-optimal ammo. Cut off from a munitions upgrade.
This would go down very fast, one way or another.
He ran a quick tap-and-tug on the ARES to quadruple-check that the magazine was full. Taking a high, firm grip on the pistol to disengage the grip safety, he snapped off the manual safety with his thumb and swung up to peek over the hood of the Bronco, tracking the vehicles over the barrel. He liked a narrow front-sight blade and a lot of light around the blade in the rear-sight notch. The Teslas breached the front gate, flashing into the lot—one, two, three.
Evan ducked back down. Andre was looking at him as if he’d never seen him before.
“Are these guys here to kill me?”
Evan said, “Probably.”
“What are you gonna do?”
“Ascertain whether they are. And if so, kill them first.”
Andre’s mouth gaped a bit.
Behind them headlight beams strobed through myriad shattered windshields, the vehicles nearing.
Evan head-tilted at the Ferrari backed into the space next to them, the maw of the front trunk low and beckoning and reinforced with bullet-resistant carbon-fiber. “I need you to get in.”
“What? There’s no fucking way I’m gonna—”
Still crouching, Evan grabbed Andre in a wrist lock, forced the joint to urge him off the ground, and flipped him into the trunk.
“Stay here. Don’t move.”
Andre blinked up at him as Evan slammed the lid. It wedged shut with a grinding of metal.
Staying low, Evan pivoted back to the Bronco and peered through the side windows.
The Teslas neared the dark kiosk, spreading out.
Driver and passenger doors opened in concert. Two men spilled out of each car.
Gym-burly, dark polo shirts, black Polartec masks covering the lower halves of their faces—everything about these men screamed private military contractors.
Down to their slung MP5s and the Browning Hi-Power clones on their hips.
The six men fanned out, forming a semicircle around the kiosk.
Raised their submachine guns.
And aerated the kiosk.
The sound was thunderous. Glass shattering, wood splintering, the flimsy paneling yielding under the barrage until the kiosk sagged to one side.
No concern about being heard or seen—they were here to neutralize Andre at any cost and kill anyone else who got in the way.
One of the men—the team leader?—moved to the door and kicked it open. Surveyed the interior. Shook his head. Backed out.
His voice carried to Evan. “We need the scene completely cleaned. Witnesses and—if need be—first responders.” He nodded at his partner. “Diaz, hold center position at the kiosk. Go.” He gave a quick circle of his upturned finger, a command to search and destroy, and then climbed into his Tesla and got on the phone. Reporting back.
The other five operators pivoted to the rows of cars, spreading out, each taking a different corridor through the wreckage. Evan flattened to the ground, praying that Andre would stay silent.
The Bronco was high enough that he could roll beneath it to note the men’s positions. The heftiest operator and the two heading to the darker outskirts of the lot flipped down monocular night-vision headgear for hands-free. The two staying nearest the kiosk held tactical LED high-lumen flashlights; the tallest shoved his Polartec mask down around his neck, holding the flashlight between his teeth so he could wield his MP5 with both hands. The team leader waited in the Tesla, his form visible behind the windshield, phone pressed to his cheek.
Outnumbered six to one, Evan would have to delay giving away his position as long as possible. And determine who to pick off first.
Jack’s voice came to him as a memory-whisper: The Ninth Commandment: Always play offense.
Evan gauged the men as they started to disperse, watching their chests and the mist pattern through the Polartec masks to assess their breathing. The hefty guy sweeping the aisle on the north side of the