Hellbent

The money itself came straight from Treasury, shipped immediately after printing, which made it untraceable. And which meant that Van Sciver could quite literally print currency when he needed it. The life of an Orphan was not without hardships, but those hardships were cushioned by secret eight-figure bank accounts sprinkled throughout nonreporting countries around the world.

When forced to leave his data-mining bunker, Van Sciver didn’t generally pull strings with Interior. But this mission was more than a mission.

It was a celebration.

So he’d made a single phone call, the effect of which had rippled outward until he found himself here, sipping sweet tea on the veranda, waiting for mosquitoes to stir to life so he could swat at his neck with a kerchief just like they did in the movies.

One of his men circled, his bushy beard and sand-colored FN SCAR 17S battle rifle out of place here among the weeping willows and lazy breeze.

“Perimeter clear,” he said as he passed, and Van Sciver raised his iced tea in a mock toast.

Jack Johns had been the number two on Van Sciver’s list. But killing him was not what had given Van Sciver his current glow of contentment. It was the fact that killing him had made Orphan X hurt.

That alone was worth the cost of a Black Hawk and six men.

Van Sciver’s history with Evan stretched back the better part of three decades to a boys’ home in East Baltimore. Their rivalry at Pride House had been nearly as vicious as it was now. Van Sciver had been a head taller, with twice the brawn. He’d been the draw, the one they’d scouted for the Program, the one they wanted.

And yet Evan had squirmed himself into position, had gotten himself picked first. Now Van Sciver held the keys to the kingdom and Evan was a fugitive. Van Sciver had played the long game.

And he had won.

Yet even here, rocking soporifically on a centuries-old porch at a mansion requisitioned on a whim through the federal government, even surrounded by ranks of trained men ready to do his bidding, even with the levers of power awaiting the slightest twitch of his fingers, he knew that it wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough.

The phone chimed, the call routing in through Signal, an encryption app developed by Open Whisper Systems. Every call, made over a Wi-Fi or data connection, was end-to-end protected, the only encryption keys controlled by app users. As he did with all security measures, Van Sciver had gone above and beyond, tweaking the code slightly, altering the protocols.

He eyed the screen, which displayed two words: ADDER LUSTFUL.

He thumbed to answer. “Code,” he said.

He heard a rustle as Orphan R eyed the words displayed on his end. “‘Adder lustful.’”

The matching code verified that the call was secure; no man-in-the-middle attack had occurred.

Van Sciver said, “Is the package in hand?”

Orphan R said, “We didn’t get her.”

“Because?”

A hesitation spoke to Thornhill’s dread. “X showed up. Took out four of my men.”

Van Sciver found himself actually using his kerchief to mop sweat off his neck. “How many men did you have at the train station?”

“Four.”

Van Sciver had no response to that.

“We thought it was just the girl. The surveillance cameras picked up only her. Alone. We thought it’d be a quick snatch-and-dash, and then we could use her to lure him in.”

“Instead he lured you in.”

“Seems that way.”

Van Sciver leaned forward in the rocking chair, set his glass down on the uneven planks of the porch. “We have unfinished business here. I want you back.”

“Shouldn’t we stick around in case X rears his head?”

“Leave your team in place there. But you won’t find him. He and the girl are gone. You missed your shot.”

There was an even longer pause. “I’m on a plane.”

Van Sciver hung up.

He picked up his glass and tossed the remaining tea into the hydrangeas.

The time for celebrating was over.

20

Wayward Pieces

It took some doing, but Evan found a motel on par with the beauty in Cornelius. Stale cigarette smoke oozed from the bedding, the towels, even the popcorn ceiling. The toilet was missing the tank lid. A pull-chain table lamp with a yellowed shade threw off a jaundiced glow. The comforter sported a stain the color of dried blood, which Evan hoped it was, given the less appealing alternatives. He’d rented the room for three hours, which explained everything worth explaining.

Now he sat cross-legged on the floor, the Hertz NeverLost GPS unit before him. Still attached to the metal stalk, it resembled a dismembered antenna. The lookout’s wallet and Samsung were laid on the floor beside the stalk, parallel to each other, edges aligned.

Order helped him think.

Joey leaned her shoulders against the bed, her hand working what seemed to be a steroidal Rubik’s Cube that she’d produced from her rucksack. She spun it with the speed and focus of a squirrel stripping a walnut.

Evan opened the lookout’s wallet. It contained four crisp hundred-dollar bills and nothing else. All the slots and crevices were empty. He set it back in its place.