“That’s right.”
“Or you.”
Evan nodded. “Or me.”
“Bye, Evan Smoak.”
“Bye, Peter Hall.”
Peter flipped to the beginning of his DNA report and started reading.
Evan stood and started for the door. Mia ducked down and peered out the pass-through at the paper bag in his hand. “Finally got that vodka, huh?”
“I did.”
“Ready to celebrate tonight?”
“A version of that.”
“Made your resolutions yet?” she asked.
“Not yet.”
“You don’t have much time.”
“No,” he said. “Guess not.” He paused. “Happy New Year, Mia.”
She brushed back her hair, bit her lip. “Happy New Year.”
That Post-it remained, stuck to the side of the pass-through right in front of him. “Treat yourself as if you were someone you are responsible for helping.”
Evan wondered if maybe now he had an inkling of what that meant.
Once he got back upstairs, he worked out hard, then cleaned around his sutures. He took a hot shower and read for a while. Sometime before midnight he poured a few fingers of the Kauffman over ice. Standing behind the sunscreens, he let the vodka warm his mouth, his throat. Silky texture, clean aftertaste.
Sporadic fireworks ushered in the New Year, distant bursts on the horizon. Sipping his vodka, he watched the splendid cascades of fire and light. When nothing remained but the clinking of cubes, he rinsed out his glass in the kitchen sink.
A flash from the fireworks illuminated a child-size palm mark on the Sub-Zero. He pictured Peter the last time he was here, leaning against the fridge and huffing his breath to fog the stainless steel. Evan stepped to the side, bringing the handprint into relief.
He decided to leave it there.
He walked down the long hall, past the blank spot where the katana used to hang. After getting ready for bed, he sat on the edge of the Maglev platform and donned the high-def contact lens and radio-frequency-identification-tagged fingernails as he had each of the past nine nights.
The cursor blinked red, red, red.
Relieved, he peeled off the gear and put it in its silver case for the morning.
Turning off the light, he lay floating in the dark, detached from others, from the world, from the very floor beneath him. Adrift in the possibilities of a fresh year, he closed his eyes.
He counted down from ten and had just dozed off when a distinctive alarm sounded. Wearing a faint smile, he opened his eyes. Reaching across to the remote on his nightstand, he silenced the alarm. There was no need to check the monitors.
Rising, he clicked on the light and crossed to his window. Against the pane a balloon floated, bearing two words messily Magic Markered in a child’s hand.
NEXT TIME.
He opened the window, corralled the balloon inside, and cut the kite string with a replacement Strider knife, one that hadn’t yet been used to stab him. Letting the balloon bump along the ceiling, he got back into bed. Reaching to turn on the lights, he paused. His hand hovered over the silver case.
One more try.
He donned the gear again. The cursor appeared in its virtual float a few feet off his face. It blinked red, red—
Green.
Evan stared at the live connection for a few moments, his heart making itself known in his chest. He made no move to type, and no text appeared. Ten seconds passed, then thirty. Finally, with careful movements, he powered down the device. He removed the nails and the lens.
Carrying the silver case as gingerly as an explosive, he entombed it in the Vault and went to bed.
EPILOGUE
Loss
In a desolate stretch of the snowy Allegheny Mountains, a fire burns in a cabin, smoke spiraling from the chimney. Through the single-pane windows carries the sound of grunting. Inside, a three-hundred-pound water-filled heavy bag hangs from a ceiling joist. A scrappy twelve-year-old boy beats at it with all his might — fists, forearms, knees. A stocky man stands behind him, holding a stopwatch.
The boy’s blows become weak and infrequent, and finally the man clicks the stopwatch. The boy keeps his feet, panting.
“Albuquerque, molecular, thirty-seven, Henry Clay, grand slam, X-ray, loss, nineteen, Monaco, denoted,” the man says. “What is item nine?”
The boy’s thin chest heaves. “Monaco.”
“Item two?”
“Molecular.”
“The sum of items three and eight?”
“Fifty-six.”
A series of low beeps draws the man’s attention. He walks over to the counter where a blocky satphone rests. He ratchets up the stubby antenna, pointing it through the roof, and clicks to pick up.
“Jack Johns,” he says.
The voice comes through, scratchy with static. “He’s in the wind again.”
“Safe?”
“Yes. For now.”
Jack closes his eyes, lowers his head, exhales. Reaching over the top buttons of his flannel shirt, he scratches at the silver dollar of taut, shiny skin near his shoulder. This many years later and still it itches like sin in the winter.
The voice squawks through again. “You copy?”
“Copy,” Jack says.
He removes the battery, then tosses the phone into the fireplace.
The boy is at his side, sensing the shift in emotion.
“Did I say to stop?” Jack asks.
“No, sir.” The boy returns to his post by the heavy bag behind Jack.
On top of the burning logs, the phone blackens and melts. Jack keeps his eyes on the dancing flames. He has to clear his throat twice before he can continue the test. “Item seven?” he asks.
“Loss,” the boy answers.
Acknowledgments
It takes a village to launch a book. To launch a new series, it takes a small municipality. Given that, I’d like to acknowledge:
— Sensei Brian Shiers, for teaching me mixed martial arts. I attained much wisdom on the receiving end of his various choke holds, eye jabs, and leg sweeps. My primary-care physician and I thank you.
— Billy S____, shadow serviceman and master armorer. If ever there’s a man who fills the combat boots, it’s you. Thanks for lending me your brain and your weapons.
— Jeff Polacheck and the delightful Pearl Polacheck, for giving me a behind-the-scenes look at high-altitude living on the Wilshire Corridor. Thanks for braving my questions as I poked around back halls and crawl spaces, figuring out how to build Evan his Fortress of Solitude.
— Geoffrey Baehr, Knower of Arcane and Invasive Technologies. Thanks for teaching Evan how to creep unnoticed through the virtual universe.
— Professor Jordan Peterson of the quoted proverbs. Thanks for giving Mia a road map for how to raise her son and for giving me a road map for how to raise myself.
— Melissa Little, Queen Restorer of Vintage Movie Posters, for showing me the tricks of the trade when it comes to forged art and documents.
— Melissa Hurwitz, M.D., and Bret Nelson, M.D., for patching up my injured characters or permitting them to expire with the dignity of verisimilitude.
— My editor, Keith Kahla of the keen eye and tireless ethic, for helping hammer Evan Smoak into shape. The rest of my team at Minotaur Books — Andrew Martin, Kelley Ragland, Paul Hochman, Jennifer Enderlin, Sally Richardson, Hector DeJean, and Hannah Braaten — for giving him a home.
— Caspian Dennis of the Abner Stein Agency, and Rowland White and his fine team at Michael Joseph/Penguin Group UK for taking care of Orphan X on his OCONUS operations.
— The unimprovable Lisa Erbach Vance, as well as Aaron Priest, John Richmond, and Melissa Edwards of the Aaron Priest Agency.
— My superb crew at Creative Artists Agency — Trevor Astbury, Rob Kenneally, Peter Micelli, and Michelle Weiner for giving Evan a sensational boost.