Joey took note of the man. “The lookout?”
“Yes.”
Evan hustled her away from the commotion and into an employee parking lot shielded from view by a flank of the building.
“Is the car this way?” she asked.
“No. I parked it a block to the south.”
“Then why are we here?”
He stopped by a canary-yellow Chevy Malibu.
“Evan, this isn’t the time to swap cars again. We can’t drive out of here anyways. You saw the exits.”
Dropping to his back, he slid under the Malibu. He unscrewed the cartridge oil filter and jerked it away from the leaking stream.
He wiggled back out from under the car.
She saw the filter and said, “Oh.” And then, “Oh.”
He shook the filter upside down, oil lacing the asphalt at his feet. Then he examined the coarse threading inside. “Give me your flannel.”
She took it off. He used it to wipe oil from the filter and then his hands. It wasn’t great, but it was the best he was going to do. Holding the filter low at his side, he stepped over a concrete divider onto the sidewalk and started arcing along the street bordering the station, threading through rubberneckers.
“Why are we risking this?” Joey asked. “Right now?”
“Given their response time, these guys have some kind of headquarters in the area. We saw at least seven more men at your apartment building, including the Orphan. We find the HQ, we get answers.”
“You think the guy’s just gonna tell you? This place is swimming with cops. It’s not like you can beat it out of him.”
“Won’t have to.”
They came around the fringe of the parking lot. The lookout’s car was up ahead, backed into its spot, the trunk pressed to a row of bushes. The majority of cops were at the main exits or across the lot at the station proper, scurrying around, gesticulating and talking into radios.
Evan removed his slender 1911. He knew that the threading of the oil filter would be incompatible with the threading of the barrel, so he tore a square of fabric from the flannel, held it across the mouth of the filter, and snugged the gun muzzle into place.
A makeshift suppressor.
They skated behind a group of looky-loos who had gathered by the main entrance and vectored toward the rise of juniper hemming in the parking lot.
Evan said, “Wait here.”
He sliced through the bushes. Three powerful strides carried him along the driver’s side of the sedan. The lookout picked up the movement in the side mirror and lunged for a pistol on the passenger seat. Evan raised his 1911 to the window, held the oil filter in place at the muzzle, and shot him through the head.
The pop was louder than he would have hoped.
Between the flannel patch, the oil, and the muzzle flash, the filter broke out in flames. Evan dumped it onto the asphalt and stomped it out.
He squatted by the shattered window and watched, but no one seemed to have taken notice.
He opened the door, releasing a trickle of glass. The lookout was slumped over the console. Evan wiggled the guy’s wallet and Samsung Galaxy cell phone from his pocket. Then he lifted his gaze to the object of his desire.
The Hertz NeverLost GPS unit nodded from a flexible metal stalk that was bolted to the dashboard.
Evan tried to snap it off, but the antitheft arm required a crowbar.
He sank back down outside the car, reshaped the flattened cartridge oil filter as best he could, and firmed it back into place over the muzzle. The sound attenuation of the first shot had been far from spectacular, and he knew that a makeshift suppressor degraded with every shot. But he was short on time and short on crowbars.
He took a few breaths. Juniper laced the air — bitter berry, pine, and fresh sap undercut by something meatier.
He leaned into the car, aimed at the spot where the stalk met the dashboard, and fired.
The unit’s arm nodded severely to one side. He glanced through the blood-speckled windshield, saw some of the cops’ heads snap up. They were looking around, unable to source the sound. As Evan worked the metal arm back and forth, several cops moved into the parking lot, Glocks drawn.
They were moving row by row.
The stalk proved stubborn. He sawed it back and forth harder, polyurethane foam swelling into view on the dash.
A female cop worked her way up the line of vehicles directly ahead of Evan. In a moment she’d step around the end car and they’d be face-to-face.
The unit finally ripped free of the molded plastic above the glove box. Evan backed out of the car, already powering down the GPS so it couldn’t be accessed remotely. Staying low, he reversed through the juniper. He saw the cop come clear of her row and spot the windshield an instant before the foliage wagged back into place, enveloping him.
He popped out the other side onto the sidewalk, bumping into Joey. He handed her the NeverLost, unscrewed the filter from the tip of the pistol, and dumped it into a trash can. Then he holstered his 1911 beneath his shirt, took Joey’s hand like a doting father. She understood, folding her clean fingers around his, hiding the oil smudges.
They crossed at Irving Street, blended into a throng of pedestrians, and headed for the family car.
19
More Than a Mission
November was a pleasant month in Alabama.
Van Sciver sat in a rocking chair, sipping sweet tea. On his knee rested an encrypted satphone, the screen dancing with lights even when it was at rest.
The plantation-style house wasn’t so much rented as taken over. Though relatively humble compared to some of the mansions in the region, the place still showcased classic white woodwork, a formidable brick chimney, and an impressive pair of columns that guarded the long porch like sentries. It was a National Historic Landmark. Which meant that it was under federal jurisdiction — the Department of the Interior, to be precise.
The Orphan Program had a special relationship with the Department of the Interior. When the DoD required cash for Program operations, they made use of the bureaucratic machinery of Interior, figuring correctly that this was the last place that any inquiring mind would look for Selected Acquisition Report irregularities.
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.