Prodigal Son (Orphan X #6) - Gregg Andrew Hurwitz Page 0,8

the Marshals Service office downtown.

Dispatch answered, a woman with a pack-a-day voice who sounded not entirely awake.

“Yeah, hi,” he said. “I was given a phone number by a deputy who … uh, might not have been a deputy. If I read it to you, can you tell me if … uh, if it’s real?”

“I can’t disclose any phone numbers of federal employees,” she said.

“Right. I get that. I’m giving you a number.” He rattled it off quickly, before she could cut him off. “I just need to know if it’s someone impersonating one of you guys. Before I give up any classified information.”

She grunted. Said nothing.

But he could hear the keyboard rattling away.

In the ensuing pause, a set of headlights swept into the lot way across the maze of wrecked cars, throwing wild shadows over the twisted metal. He couldn’t see the vehicle, not directly, just the refracted beams needling through the gloom.

He felt his heartbeat kick up a notch, fluttering the side of his neck. The vehicle crept toward the heart of the yard.

“I’m sorry, sir, but that number isn’t registered to the Service,” the woman said. “And it’s not listed in the database as a personal number for any of our—”

He hung up. Sucked in a lungful of frigid night air.

The headlights eased toward the kiosk. Halted. A dinging announced an open door.

Duran edged out from a row of cars and peered up the makeshift aisle.

A Prius was parked by the wrecked Bronco. The driver’s door was open, the dome light throwing a globe of yellow. At first Duran didn’t see anyone.

Then a movement brought his attention to the Bronco. A broad-shouldered guy—Hargreave?—had ducked through the passenger door of the truck and was leaning over the dashboard.

“Hey!” Duran shouted. “Hey!”

The guy slid out of the Bronco, took a few steps in front of the Prius, and stood backlit by the headlights’ glow, a perfect black cutout. His hands were at his sides, his head cocked with either curiosity or concern.

Duran jogged a few steps toward him. “You should get out of here. These guys are after you. They fooled me—I’m sorry, but—”

The faintest hum reached his ears. About thirty yards away from Hargreave, safely back from the throw of light from the kiosk, Duran halted.

Hargreave turned, half his silhouette catching the headlights’ blaze, a vertical seam splitting his body.

The hum grew louder, rising in pitch.

Hargreave twitched once, violently.

There was the briefest moment of calm.

And then a jet spurted from his neck, two feet high.

It took Duran a moment to assemble what he was seeing, to make the pieces fit.

Blood.

Carotid.

As if Hargreave had been jabbed by a scalpel.

Except there was no scalpel. And no hand to hold it.

Hargreave clamped a palm to the side of his neck. His fingers trisecting the jet, three streams spraying through.

His knees buckled.

He sagged to the ground.

He curled up in a loose fetal position. His knees twitched on the asphalt once, twice, and then stilled. A wet circle dilated beneath his head, as mesmerizing as an oil slick. The headlights laid a blanket of light over his hunched form.

No one had been near him.

Nothing had touched him.

There’d been no gunshot, no projectile, no pop of a mini-explosion.

It was impossible, and yet Duran had seen it with his own eyes.

He was the only person in the lot. He was the only person on the security footage. Which meant he’d be the only person to blame.

From the darkness he stared at the limp form, his flesh prickling. It was incredible how quickly a life could be extinguished.

A jerking inhale shuddered through him. His senses had revved into overdrive. His skin on fire. The breeze chilling the wetness in his eyes. Even at thirty yards, he swore he could smell blood, taste the iron in the air. He pictured the two fake deputies with their well-dressed confidence, how the security monitors had fritzed out in perfect concert, a display of tech genius or dark magic.

And now Hargreave lay emptied out on the ground thirty yards away, felled by an invisible hand.

Duran could barely hear the humming over the white-noise rush in his ears, but he sensed it clearly, a vibration in his teeth. It was still present in the air, thrown like a ventriloquist’s voice, hovering over Hargreave’s body, then buzzing around the kiosk. And then, inside, a faint sound amplified between the tight walls.

Searching.

Searching for him.

He took a step forward. Crumpled the piece of paper in his fist, his palm slick with sweat. The next few