He moved silently along the side of the house and came up on the open back door. Hangebrauck remained on the decline bench, gazing blankly through the sole uncovered rear window into the yard. A dark hall led to the front of the house and to Bower.
Evan waited.
After a time Hangebrauck stood and stretched his back, his shirt tugging up and showing off a pale bulge of flesh at the waistband. He gave a little groan. Resting his hand on the butt of the carbine, he walked to the window.
Over his shoulder Evan’s reflection ghosted into sight in the pane.
Evan’s right elbow was raised, pointing at the nape of Hangebrauck’s neck.
The big man’s eyes barely had time to widen before Evan reached over his crown, grabbed his forehead, and yanked his head back into his elbow.
The bony tip of Evan’s ulna served as the point of impact, crushing into the base of Hangebrauck’s skull, turning the medulla oblongata into gray jelly.
A reinforced horizontal elbow smash.
The man didn’t fall so much as crumple.
Evan stripped the M4 cleanly from Hangebrauck as he dropped out of the sling.
The thump made a touch more noise than Evan would have liked.
He tilted the M4 against the wall and moved quickly down the hall. He got to the entryway just as Bower pivoted into sight, rifle raised.
Evan jacked Bower’s gun to the side, the man’s grip faltering. He spun Bower into the momentum of the first blow and seized him from behind, using a triangular choke hold made illegal in police departments from coast to coast. Evan bent Bower’s head forward into the crook of his arm, pinching off the carotid arteries on either side. Bower made a soft gurgling sound and sagged, heavy in Evan’s grip.
Evan lowered him to the floor.
Thirteen down.
Twelve to go.
Evan walked back to David Smith. Crouching, he found a strong pulse on the boy’s neck. He noticed a slit on the forearm, recently sutured, but otherwise the kid looked fine. He’d probably gotten sliced during the snatch and Van Sciver had patched him up.
The room looked to have been recently cleaned, but despite that a bad odor lingered. Sporadic water spots darkened the walls, the plaster turning to cottage cheese. Scrub marks textured the floorboards. The bristles had left behind a thin frothed wake of bleach, the white edged with something else not quite the shade of coffee.
Evan knew that color.
He stepped into the kitchen. The glass plate was still spinning inside the microwave. He stopped the timer, grabbed the red notebook from inside, and shoved it into his waistband.
He went back to David Smith, slung him over his shoulder, and walked out the front door into broad daylight.
Joey had the minivan on the move already, easing to the front curb, the side door rolled back. Evan set the boy down gently inside, climbed in, and they drove off.
55
Vanished in Plain Sight
They were halfway across Richmond when the kid woke up.
Puffy lids parted, revealing glazed eyes. David Smith lifted his head groggily, groaned, and lowered it back to the bench seat of the minivan.
Joey peered down from the passenger seat, concerned. “He’s up. Pull over.”
Evan parked across from a high school that stretched to encompass the entire block. He killed the engine and checked out the surroundings. On the near side of the street, magnolias fanned up from a verdant park, their crooked branches bare and haunting. A man-made river drifted beneath the low-swooping boughs, white water rushing across river stones to feed an elaborate fountain at the center. There were speed walkers and young couples and dogs chasing Frisbees — a good amount of activity to get lost in.
Evan leaned around the driver’s seat to peer back at the boy.
“You’re okay, David,” he said. “You’re safe now.”
The boy blinked heavily. “That’s not my name.”
“We know it is. We know you were trained by Tim Draker, that you had to go on the run, that Jack Johns hid you in that mental-health center until you were kidnapped yesterday.”
“Is this another mind game?” the boy asked.
“What?”
“You know, like SERE stuff. You take me, mess with my head, see what I’ll give up.”
Evan said, “Not even close.”
A bell warbled, and kids started streaming from the school, pouring down the front steps, zombie-mobbing the minivan on their way to the park. The added movement was good, even easier to blend into.
Joey pointed to the sutured slice on the back of David’s left forearm. “What happened there?”
The boy regarded the cut and his arm as if he’d never seen them before. “I don’t… I don’t remember.”
He tried to sit up, wobbled, finally made it. His face was pale, his lips bloodless. He shook his head. “I don’t feel so good.”
“Let’s get him some fresh air,” Evan said, already stepping out into the sea of high-schoolers.
He slid back the side door, and Joey helped David out.
“Off the street,” he said, and she nodded.
They joined the current of kids flowing through the magnolias and across the park. Kids clustered to take phone pics and compare the results. Braying laughter, deafening chatter, a cacophony of ringtones. Evan led Joey and David, cutting between cliques. They stopped at the fountain. Students rimmed the encircling concrete. The air smelled of chlorine, hair spray, the skunky tinge of pot. A family of black ducks paddled across the still water at the fountain’s edge. Buried treasure glimmered beneath, copper wishes waiting to be fulfilled.
No one took note of the three of them; they’d vanished in plain sight.
Color crept back into David’s cheeks, his lips pinking up. He sat on the rim of the fountain, poked at the sutures.
“Looks like you were drugged,” Joey said.
His head bobbled unevenly. “But why? I woulda done whatever.”
To one side a crew of girls crowded around a ringleader with gel nails and green-and-white Stan Smiths. “Loren’s totally gonna uninvite her from her sweet sixteen, because — get this — she posted a pic of herself with Dylan in his backseat. They were just sitting there, but still. Hashtag: trashy.”
This doubled the girls over. Leaning on each other, weak with laughter, retainers gleaming. Their sneakers matched. Their haircuts matched. Their backpacks were mounded at their heels, different shades of the same Herschel model.
Joey regarded them as one might a herd of exotic animals.
“Where’s that guy?” David asked. “The big guy?”
Joey refocused. “We got you from him.”
“But he was gonna put me in that program. The one Tim was training me for.” David’s gaze sharpened. “Wait — where’s Tim? What happened to him?”
Evan said, “They killed him.”
David’s mouth opened, but no noise came out.
Evan crouched and set his hands on David’s knees. “We’re gonna make sure you’re taken care of.”
“Evan,” Joey said. “Evan.”
She’d clocked something at the park’s perimeter. He picked up her gaze, spotting a black Suburban flickering into view behind clusters of students and the skeletal branches of the magnolias. It turned at the corner, creeping along the front of the high school.
Shea at the wheel, Delmonico in the passenger seat, Jordan Thornhill in the back, bouncing his head as if to music.
Joey somehow had one of the Herschel backpacks at her feet, unzipped. She’d already taken out an iPhone hugged by a rubber Panda case. She tapped in 911. When she put the phone to her ear, her hand was trembling.
They watched the Suburban prowl.
Evan popped the bottom two magnetic buttons of his shirt, creating an unobstructed lane to his hip holster. The breeze riffled the fabric, tightened his skin. Thornhill and the two freelancers would try to flush Evan, Joey, and David from the park. Presumably Candy and Van Sciver were in the surrounding blocks somewhere, lying in wait.