Prodigal Son (Orphan X #6) - Gregg Andrew Hurwitz Page 0,81
ARES frames rattling inside. “Tommy, we’re on a clock. I need you to slag these and get me new—”
But Tommy’s attention had fastened onto Joey, his worn-leather face softening. “An old Zen master once told me that high explosives are sorta like relationships. You either get too much too soon or not enough when you really need it. Either way you’re screwed—and not how you want to be.”
Evan said, “Old Zen masters are into explosives, are they?”
“Hey, you don’t gotta wear saffron robes to practice the Lotus Blossom.”
“I think that’s a Kama Sutra position.”
Tommy waved him off. “Same difference.”
Joey had moved deeper into the trailer, running her fingers across a wooden box of Chinese antitank blast mines. “How do you get all this?”
Tommy turned his focus to a set of built-in metal drawers on the starboard side. “I been pressing trigger since Lyndon Johnson was showing off his donkey cock in the Oval—”
“Uh, gross.”
“—which means I’ve earned the trust of a lotta the secret-handshake folks. I got more BATFE permits than I can shake a middle finger at. And the land-mine trade”—Tommy nodded at the Chinese crates—“has been pickin’ up lately. U.S. installations have been peppering the surrounding land with those puppies to dissuade curious lefty protestor types.” He leaned over with a groan, slid open the bottom drawer, pried a matte black ARES 1911 from a foam bed, and held it out to Evan. “I was up at stupid o’clock, so I only had time to machine you up one. I’ll get you more later.”
Evan weighed the pistol’s heft. Fierce eighteen-lines-per-inch front-frame checkering, specialized Simonich gunner grips, high-ride beavertail grip safety. Designed to Evan’s specs, it fit in his palm like an extension of his hand.
“I need new ammo, too,” Evan said. “Something soft-armor defeating.”
“Soft-armor defeating? You got some serious mugwumps after you, huh? I thought you retired.”
“So did we all,” Joey said.
“I am retired,” Evan said.
“Well, as a retirement gift, how ’bout some barrier-blind Black Hills HoneyBadgers.” Tommy toed open another drawer and produced several cartons of ammo. “Picked these puppies up at SHOT Show last year. Designed to penetrate intermediate light barriers and not break up. We’re talking windshields, doors, Sheetrock, body armor—they fly true straight through to point of aim. A hotter load’ll get you through both sides of a IIA vest. But when they hit anything gelatinous?” A whistle escaped that front-tooth gap. “They go hollow-point.” He slammed the cartons down into Evan’s arms. “You’ll be stacking bodies like they’re cordwood.”
“Appreciate it,” Evan said.
“Hey, it’s good to have an uncle in the furniture business.”
Evan loaded his magazines, slipped them into his cargo pockets, and snugged the ARES into his Kydex holster.
“I want a pistol, too,” Joey said. “I prefer a subcompact like a SIG P238, same reliability as a large frame—”
Evan said, “No.”
“You never let me do anything.”
“You’re standing in a semi-trailer filled with enough munitions to take out a Panzer division, and we’re riding off next to break into a military installation.”
“Right.” Joey popped her mouth. “Fair point.”
Evan squared to head out. “Tommy, you know anything about Creech North?”
Tommy paused, palm resting on the handle of the vault door, his face suddenly serious. “Where’d you hear about Creech North?”
“Thing I’m looking into.”
Tommy’s bird-nest eyebrows rose. “You’d best watch your taillights. We’re talking Area 6 now.”
“Area 6?” Joey said. “That like Area 51—Nevada and alien remains?”
Tommy nodded somberly. “Best way to cover a conspiracy is with a conspiracy. And 6 has long been a high-security testing site for unmanned aerial vehicles. Deep-black R ’n’ D with lots of private-sector overlap. That place doesn’t exist.”
“That’s okay,” Evan said. “Neither do I.”
“So where is Area 6?” Joey asked.
“Remote detachment northeast of the Yucca Flat test site,” Tommy said. “Right in that big expanse of bumfuckery between the 93 and the 95. Undeveloped, unincorporated, short private-jet flight to the geekdom of Silicon Valley and all that tech. You playin’ around with drones?”
“No,” Evan said. “But they’ve been playing around with me.”
“Hold up.” Tommy ambled past Evan, flattening him to a rise of crates with Hebrew lettering, and started digging through a trunk in the back. “Hold this.” He handed Joey a rocket-propelled grenade, which she admired gingerly. “And this.” Now she bobbled a white-phosphorus grenade. “Ah. Here we are.”
He walked back to Evan and pinched a thin rubber device no bigger than a money clip to the hem of his shirt. “You’re dealing with drones, you need infrared sensor protection.”