Hellbent

He thought of Jack stepping out of that Black Hawk, riding the slipstream, spinning through darkness.

He moved her hand off his chest and walked out.

* * *

The Mara Salvatrucha contingent outside the church had been beefed up, no doubt in anticipation of Evan’s return. At 9:59 P.M. he emerged from the shadows and walked up to the crew of waiting men.

The handguns came out quickly, ten barrels aimed at Evan’s face. He halted a few steps from the doors.

Devil Horns said, “Spread your arms. We need to make sure you ain’t jacketed up like some Mohammed motherfucker.”

Evan obeyed.

Two younger MS-13 members came forward and patted him down roughly from his ankles to his neck. Puzzled, they looked back at the others and shrugged. “He’s clean.”

Devil Horns smiled, shaking his head as he reached for the reinforced door. “You play one crazy-ass fool.”

The hinges squealed as the door swung open. It seemed the rest of the gang was waiting inside, scattered among the overturned pews. Only a dim altar lamp illuminated the interior, falling across Freeway’s shoulders, backlighting him.

Dozens of tattooed faces swiveled to chart Evan’s progress through the nave. He didn’t bother to look for Xavier; he’d contacted him earlier and told him to make sure he wasn’t on site.

Xavier would not survive what was about to happen.

Evan reached the center of the church and paused. Freeway pressed one fist into the other palm, the knuckles popping one at a time.

“Twenty-four hours,” Freeway said.

“That’s right.”

Freeway curled his lower lip, the piercings clinking on his teeth. “And now you’ve come to kill us all.”

“That’s right.”

A few of the men laughed.

“How you gonna do that?” Freeway asked.

“With this.” Evan reached for his cargo pocket. In the shadows countless submachine guns rose and countless slides clanked.

Freeway held up his arms for his men to calm down. Then he nodded at Evan to proceed.

The Velcro patch on Evan’s pocket flap gave way with a tearing noise that sounded unreasonably loud in the quiet church. Evan stuck his hand in the pocket and came out with a Snickers bar.

There was a disbelieving silence.

Evan peeled the wrapper and took a bite. He chewed, swallowed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten a candy bar.

He’d taken it from Joey’s rucksack.

One of the men cracked up, a deep rumble, and then the laughter spread.

No amusement showed on Freeway’s face. He skewered Evan with his black stare. “This pendejo is fucking loco.”

“We should skin him,” someone called out from the darkness.

Freeway flicked open his straight razor. “Not you. Me.” He started down the carpeted stairs, those tattooed eyes never leaving Evan. “Big dog’s gotta eat.”

Evan took another bite. “I’m not done yet,” he said through a full mouth.

“You want to finish your candy bar?” Freeway said.

Evan nodded.

Freeway kept the razor open, but he crossed his arms, the blade rising next to the grooved ball of his biceps. “Okay,” he said. “Your last meal.”

Evan chewed some more, then popped the last bite into his mouth. He crumpled up the wrapper, let it fall from his hand onto the floor.

Freeway started forward, but Evan held up a finger as he cleared the caramel from his molars with his tongue. He strained his ears but heard nothing. A spark of concern flared to life in his stomach. He was out of time.

And then he sensed it.

The air vibrating with a distant thrumming.

It grew louder.

Freeway took a half step back toward the altar, his eyes pulling up to the ceiling. The other men looked spooked, regarding the church walls around them. The thumping grew louder. A few shards of stained glass fell from the high frame.

From beyond the front door came the unmistakable sound of sniper rounds lasering through the air. Then the thud of falling bodies.

Evan said to Freeway, “You might want to go see about that.”

The steel front door blew open, Devil Horns sailing back through the vestibule, the top of his head blown off. A Black Hawk whoomped down at the entrance, gusting wind through the nave. Operators in balaclavas spilled out with military precision, subguns raised, firing through the doorway, dropping the first ranks of gang members.

The inadvertent cavalry, right on time.

As the gang members scrambled to return fire, Evan walked to the side of the church where the stolen goods were stored. Ducking behind a head-high pallet, he dumped out a booster bag, emptying a load of RFID-tagged Versace shirts onto the floor. Then he climbed into the roomy duffel and zipped himself in. The inside, lined with thick space-blanket foil, crinkled around him.

His own miniature Faraday cage.

It would mute the GPS signal emanating from his stomach.

The sounds from the church nave were apocalyptic. Cracking rounds, panicked shrieks, crashing bodies, wet bellowing, splintering wood — a full-fledged urban firefight.

Two birds, one stone.

At last the frequency of gunfire slowed. A prayer in Spanish was cut off with a last report.