“The pictures are gone,” Evan said. “No one will have to know anything.”
Anna took an unsteady step to the side and lifted a hand to the cracked stucco wall. “Eduard. He’s safe now. He’s safe.” Still working it through, thawing out of denial.
“You’re all safe.”
Anna’s face wobbled, and for a moment it seemed she might come apart entirely. “I don’t know how I can face them. Knowing what I almost did to us all. I’ll never forgive myself.”
“That’s up to you.”
She looked stung by his response. Tears clung to her lashes. She bit her lips. Her chest rose, her nostrils flaring. Deep breath. Exhale. The tears did not fall.
“You’re not to call me again,” Evan said. “Do you understand? This is what I do. But it’s all that I do.”
“Albert and Maria are okay now.” Her lips barely moved. Her voice, little more than a whisper. “Mayrig and Hayrig. And Eduard. Eduard.”
“Anna, I need you to focus. Look at me. Look at me. I have one thing to ask of you before I leave.”
Her eyes found a sudden clarity. “Anything.”
“Find someone who needs me. Like you did. It doesn’t matter if it takes a week or a month or a year. You find someone who is desperate and has no way out. Give them my number.”
“Yes, 1-855-2-NOWHERE.”
Every call was digitized and sent over the Internet through a series of encrypted virtual private network tunnels. After pinging through fifteen software virtual telephone switch destinations around the globe, it came through his RoamZone.
“Yes. You tell them about me.”
“Like Nicole Helfrich’s dad when he found me in the 7-Eleven?”
“Like that. You find someone. Tell them I’ll be there on the other end of the phone.”
That was the final step for his clients. A task, a purpose, an act of empowerment that transitioned them from victim to rescuer. Evan knew all too well that some wounds never healed, not fully. But there were ways to contain the pain, to take ownership over the scars, and this was one of them.
Anna lunged at him and wrapped him in a hug. For a moment his arms floated a few inches above her thin back. He was unaccustomed to this kind of contact. In the moonlight he could see the wine-colored streak on his forearm, the dark half-moons beneath his nails. He didn’t want Hector Contrell’s blood on her clothes, in her hair. And yet Anna’s embrace tightened, her face pressed into his chest.
He lowered his arms. She was warm. He felt the wetness of her cheek through his T-shirt. She clung to him.
Her voice came muffled. “How do I thank you?”
Evan said, “Be with your family.”
He’d meant it as the next instruction, but it struck him that it was also the answer to her question.
She stepped back to wipe her eyes, and he took the opportunity to slip away.
3
War Machine
Lurching from stoplight to stoplight, Evan dreamed of vodka. He had a new bottle tucked into the ice drawer of his Sub-Zero, waiting to greet him when he got home. From the outside his Ford F-150 pickup looked like any one of the millions on the roads of America. But with its laminate armor glass, self-seal tires, and built-to-spec push-bumper assembly, it was actually a war machine.
Up ahead, his building came into view. Branded with the inflated title of Castle Heights, the residential tower pinned down the easternmost spot on the Wilshire Corridor, giving his penthouse condo an unbroken view of downtown Los Angeles. Castle Heights was posh but dated, as easily overlooked as Evan’s truck. Or Evan himself.
Recruited out of the projects of East Baltimore as a kid, he’d spent seven grueling years training under the tutelage of his handler. To say that Jack Johns had been like a father to him was an understatement. Jack had been the first person to treat Evan like he was human.
Evan had been created by the Orphan Program, a deep-black project buried inside the Department of Defense. It had identified the right kind of boys lost in the system of foster homes, covertly culled them one by one, and trained them to do what the U.S. government could not officially do in places where it could not officially be. A fully deniable, antiseptic program run off a shadow budget. Technically, Orphans did not even exist.
They were expendable weapons.
As Orphan X, Evan had been given bursting bank accounts in nonreporting countries. His assignments spanned more than a decade. Rarely sighted, never captured, he was known only by the dead high-value targets he left in his wake and the alias he’d earned for moving unseen among the shadows.
The Nowhere Man.
At one point, though, he’d wanted out. It had cost him dearly. But it had left him with virtually unlimited money, a rare skill set, and time on his hands. And while he was done being Orphan X, he’d discovered that there was still work he should do as the Nowhere Man.
Pro bono work.
He’d lost the government designation but kept the alias given to him by his enemies.
Evan had heard that the Orphan Program had been dismantled, but last year he’d discovered that it was still operational. The most merciless of the Orphans had taken over. Charles Van Sciver. His new directive: to track down and eliminate former Orphans. According to those holding Van Sciver’s leash, Evan’s head contained too much sensitive information to remain connected to his body.
One thing had been made clear in their last bloody confrontation — Van Sciver and his Orphans would not stop the hunt until Evan was dead.
In the meantime Evan stayed off the grid and stayed vigilant.
At last he finished the gauntlet crawl through Wilshire Boulevard traffic. Turning in to Castle Heights, he whipped through the porte cochere past the valet and descended to the subterranean parking lot, drifting into his spot between two concrete pillars.
He grabbed a black sweatshirt from the back, tugged it on to cover the dried blood on his arm, and headed across the floor. He always took a moment outside the lobby door to close his eyes, draw in a breath, and ready himself for the transition into his other persona.
Evan Smoak, importer of industrial cleaning supplies. Another boring tenant.
Given the hour, the lobby was quiet, the air fragrant with the scent of lilies. Evan crossed briskly to the elevator, nodding at the security guard. “Evening, Joaquin.”
Joaquin looked up from the bank of monitors running live feeds from the building’s perimeter and hallways. Castle Heights prided itself on its security, an additional selling point to attract moneyed middle-aged tenants and flush retirees.
“Evening, Mr. Smoak. You have a good night?”
“Typical Thursday,” Evan said. “Burgers with the guys.”
Joaquin controlled the elevators from behind the high counter — another safety measure — and his shoulder dipped as he pressed the button for the car. Evan lifted a hand in thanks, noticed the flecks of dried blood beneath his fingernails, and lowered it quickly. He stepped inside, the button for the twenty-first floor already lit.
The doors were just sliding closed when he heard a familiar voice call out, “Wait! Hold the elevator, Joaquin—please.” The patter of footsteps. “I meant the ‘please’ to come first so I didn’t sound all ordery, but—”
The doors parted again, and Evan came face-to-face with Mia Hall. Her sleeping nine-year-old was slumped in her arms, his chin resting on her shoulder.
Mia’s eyes rose to meet Evan’s, and she froze.
She was rarely caught off guard, but now her mouth was slightly ajar, a flush coming up beneath the faint scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose.