Buy a Bullet: An Orphan X Story Page 5

  The whole thing had gone down in about a second and a half.

  Evan picked up his gun and started out. Though the neighboring houses were far, the noise of a firefight would carry.

  As he stepped over Claude, he noticed a yellow slip peeking from the inner lapel pocket of the laid-open jacket. Instinct halted him there above the body, told him to crouch and reach for it. He teased it out.

  A customer copy of a shipping bill, rendered on thin yellow carbonless copy paper.

  All at once the air felt brittle, as if it might shatter if he moved wrong.

  His eyes pulled to the bed. Queen-size.

  Big enough for roommates.

  He looked back at the form, taking in the data.

  Origin: Long Beach, CA

  Destination: Jacksonville, FL

  ETA: Oct 29, 11:37pm

  Distance: 5141.11 miles (8273.82 km)

  That was not the distance a package would travel by truck or plane. Not even close. That distance would be two thousand miles and change. This package was traveling down around the bottom of the continent and through the Panama Canal.

  He scanned further down the form.

  Sure enough, a twenty-foot ISO-standard container had been secured on a midsize bulk carrier called the Horizon Express. An additional port fee of $120 was to be paid upon delivery to the Jacksonville Port Authority.

  At the bottom of the form, something was written in pen, the blue ink distinct from the black dye pressed through from the other sheets. A name. And an age.

  Alison Siegler/17 yrs.

  Seeing the casual scrawl fired something at Evan’s core.

  He wondered about the seventeen-year-old girl locked inside Container 78653-B812.

  It seemed that Claude and friends had managed to fulfill one last order this morning before shutting down the assembly belt. Which meant that Evan had one last head to sever from the hydra of Contrell’s operation to put it down for once and for all.

  He had sixteen days until that container ship reached Jacksonville. He would meet the buyer there. But he didn’t plan on leaving Alison Siegler alone until then.

  Folding the yellow form in his hand, he headed out, stepping past the trio of gasoline jugs in the hall and through the front door. Jogging up the front walk, he vaulted the security gate.

  His boots had just hit the sidewalk when he heard the screech of tires.

  Two Ford Transits flew in at him, one from either side, a narrowing V. Familiar gray, no side windows. As Evan reached for his hip holster, their doors rolled open, exposing a row of eyes peering out through balaclava masks. Inside each van a line of shotguns raised in concert, like a gun turret.

  Neon orange spots floated within the dark vehicle interiors. The shotgun stocks, color-coded for less-lethal.

  Evan had a moment to think, This is gonna hurt, and then the twelve-gauges let fly. The first beanbag round hit him square in the thigh, knocking him into a 180, a volley of follow-ups peppering his right side. A rib cracked. Another flexible baton round skimmed the side of his head, a glancing blow, but given the lead shot packed inside, it was enough. No pain, not yet, just pressure and the promise of swelling.

  He spun with the blow, wheeling to round out the 360, somehow managing to draw his Wilson in the process. The black-clad men had already unassed from the vans in shooting-squad formation. These men were expert assaulters, leagues beyond Hector Contrell and his sorry assemblage of freelancers.

  An enormous man in the middle held a bizarre gun, its conical barrel flaring to accommodate a balloonlike plug. It looked like a basketball stuck in a snake’s craw.

  It discharged with a whoosh. Evan watched it unfurl at him with detached and helpless wonder. Durable nylon mesh, steel clamps weighting the four corners, the whole thing yawning open like the maw of some great beast.

  A wildlife-capture net.

  It cocooned him, his wrist smashed to his nose, one knee snapped up into his chest, his feet pointed down like an Olympic diver’s. This must have been what the Neanderthals felt like when the lava flow caught up, fossilizing them in all their awkward non-glory.

  His gun hand, pinned to his left ear, was as useless as the rest of him.

  The pavement smashed his cheek. For a split second, a dot of dancing yellow grabbed his focus—the shipping slip catching a gust of wind, riding an air current into the gutter. The last trace of Alison Siegler, whisked away.

  Evan pegged his pupil to the corner of his eye, straining to look up. A massive dark form loomed, a needle held vertically in latex-gloved hands.

  The form leaned in.

  A prick of metal in the side of the neck.

  Then searing darkness.

  Chapter 7:

  The Inevitable Gurgle

  Once again Evan is inside that underground parking lot just south of the Jefferson Monument. Parking Level 3 is his personal hell.

  Or, more aptly, his purgatory.

  It is a humid summer night in 2008, the same night he has been stuck inside for eight years and change.

  The elevator sign glows red as always, casting bloody shadows across the slumbering construction equipment. The lot is shut down for improvements. Evan waits behind a concrete pillar, scraping his boots against a bumper curb to dislodge the cherry blossoms from the tread.

  He has summoned Jack here for a midnight meet. Evan is supposed to be in Frankfurt right now, lying low after a high-profile job in Yemen, but instead he has flown back to the States, impulsive and agitated and needing to see the face of the only person in the world he can trust.

  Evan wants out.

  Jack raised him to be the finest assassin in the world. He also raised him to keep his humanity. Two trains on a collision course.

  After a decade spent operating as Orphan X, Evan knows he has to jump off before the crash, even if the jump kills him.

  He doesn’t consider that there might be worse outcomes.

  Jack didn’t want to meet. He said he was watching his movements. That he didn’t want to be drawn out, to break cover. But Evan demanded, and despite his better judgment Jack finally agreed.

  It happens as it always does.

  Jack appears from nowhere, footsteps ticktocking off the concrete walls, shadow stretched to noirish proportions across the oil-stained floor. He and Evan embrace. It has been more than two years since they’ve seen each other face-to-face. Jack appraises Evan as if he’s a son come home from grad school. A glint of pride touches Jack’s eyes. He is baseball-catcher square and rarely permits emotion to leak through the mask.

  The words spill from Evan’s mouth. “I’m out.”

  Jack answers with the words Evan has heard in a thousand renditions: “You’re never out. You know this. Without me you’re just—”

  “A war criminal.”

  The discussion intensifies as is ordained.

  Until.

  The roar of an engine and a startling burst of headlights snap their heads around to the black SUV flying down the ramp, careening onto the deserted parking level. Guns fire through the windshield, muzzle flares strobe-lighting the vehicle’s advance.

  Jack grabs Evan, yanks him behind a pillar. Evan rolls across the back of the rounded concrete, the cool surface kissing the blades of his shoulders, and pops out the other side already shooting. He Swiss-cheeses the front seats and whoever occupies them. The SUV slows to a crawl, rolls forward to brush Evan’s thighs. The would-be assassins, tilted over the dashboard, have been made unrecognizable by his well-placed hollow points.

  He braces himself for the noise he knows will come next.

  The inevitable gurgle from behind him.

  Bright arterial blood soaks the shoulder of the blue flannel. Jack’s hand, already wearing a glove of crimson, clamps the wound.

  Evan rips the flannel off to get a clean look. Needles of blood spray from between Jack’s fingers. Lingering beneath the familiar tang of iron, the sickly-sweet trace of cherry blossom churns Evan’s gut.

  Y
ears of training have stripped the panic reaction out of him, have crushed it from his cells.

  And yet.

  His face hot.

  Time moving differently.

  Grief clawing free of the lockbox in his chest, crowding his throat.

  Jack is saying things he never said, things he would never say. He is speaking not from the memory but from Evan’s heart of hearts.

  I took you in.

  Raised you as my own.

  And you killed me.

  Why?

  He raises an arm cloaked in blood, pointing out, away.

  Banishing Evan from the intimate sight of his last ragged breaths.

  Banishing Evan to a lifetime of atonement.

  Banishing Evan from himself.

  With the bloody flannel mopped around his fist, Evan runs. He runs for the darkness, because only darkness can cover the nakedness of his shame.

  Only in darkness can he be alone.

  * * *

  He came to in silk.

  Liquid sheets caressing his skin, a sea of rumpled purple darker than eggplant, a bed fit for a maharaja.

  At first he thought he was still in the dream.

  And then the pain hit.

  Chapter 8:

  His Own Dollhouse

  When Evan lifted his head from the pillow, his ribs gave a complaint that set his teeth on edge. He took a moment to remember how to breathe. Then he threw back the silk-soft sheets and sat up with a groan. Facts pinged in at him like june bugs hitting a windshield.

  He was naked.

  Wine-red bruises splotched his right side—thigh, stomach, chest.

  His room was as spacious and luxurious as the sleigh bed unfurled beneath him.

  Through a groggy haze, he assembled his surroundings in pieces. Vaulted ceiling, exposed beams. Insulated curtains on a wrought-iron rod. Distressed-leather chair and ottoman with whipstitched edges and hammered nailheads. Mahogany counter and built-in desk without a chair. Crackling logs in a travertine-faced fireplace. The design seemed as un–Los Angeles as one could get, Ralph Lauren sprucing up the von Trapp family lodge.

  Evan allowed himself one great big moment of What The Fuck.

  Then he stood, wincing. His head swam from the drugs or too much time spent horizontal—or, most likely, both. Rustic oak plank floorboards, cool and smooth beneath his soles, brought welcome relief from the toasty hearth. He stretched, taking stock. His hands were fine. Likely a cracked rib—nothing to do there. The bruising, pyrotechnic but harmless, looked to be at least a few days along.

  All things considered, the beanbag rounds had lived up to their billing.

  He crossed to the walk-in closet. Inside hung five button-up shirts, slotted like dominoes. Jeans, T-shirts, and sweaters, folded and placed neatly in stacks, took up very little space on the long shelves. No belt. Beside the stacks he found underwear, socks, and two new pairs of high-top hiking boots in ten and a half. His size.

  What he’d been wearing prior to his collision with the wildlife-capture net was missing, his boxer briefs as long gone as his gun and folding knife.

  Well, then. First things first.

  He pulled on a pair of jeans, the denim scraping across his bruised thigh. Then he yanked a shirt from the rod, the hanger pulling out of shape. Bizarre. Freeing it, he turned it over in his hands. It was made of pipe cleaner, a pliable chenille stem twisted into the rough shape of hanger. It took his brain a second to process this oddity.

  A normal plastic or wooden hanger could be fashioned into a weapon. And they—whoever they were—wanted to make sure he had no weapons.

  However lovely the decor, Evan was no guest here.

  His gaze traced the length of the nearest laminate shelf. Bolted to the wall. He reached under it, felt the cool of the steel beneath. The hanging rod was welded in place. To get anything loose, he’d need a socket wrench or a plasma torch.

  Turning his attention to the shirt, he examined the stitching, the collar, the taper from chest to waist. The fabric slid like velvet across his skin. The fit confirmed what he’d suspected—the shirt was custom-tailored. Which raised further questions.

  He’d add them to the list.

  In the main room, he took note of the huge screws securing the leather chair and ottoman to the floor, the curtain rod welded to the wall, the drawerless face of the chairless desk. Crouching by the fireplace, he dipped his head and checked the flue. The metal hatch looked wide enough to accommodate his shoulders, but the robust flames would roast him on the way up. Just for the hell of it, he tried the suite’s main door, an oversize block of mahogany that matched the counter and desk. It was locked—surprise, surprise—but he was impressed by how little it budged in the frame.

  Next he trudged over to the bathroom. The door swung open to a new design ecosystem. Asian grays and soothing cobalts. Big interlocking bamboo tiles, as hard as stone, lined the walls. A rain showerhead protruded from the wall, unencumbered by a stall. Beneath it the floor sloped to a drain. Resting beside the drain, a single bar of unwrapped soap and a fluffy bamboo-shoot-patterned towel with scalloped edges befitting a fine hotel. No cabinets, no drawers. On the floor next to the lidless and tankless metal toilet, a trash-can liner rested in the spot where a bin might go.

  A wall mirror floated above two sinks scooped from a single slab of floating granite. Evan drew closer, eyeing not his reflection but the mirror itself. It was recessed, set behind a plate of armored glass.

  He took advantage of the mirror to check his bruised ribs more thoroughly. The needle prick at his neck looked to be healed and gone, but a crimson dot in the crook of his elbow showed where a line had been inserted. They’d kept him out, all right, feeding who knew what drugs into his system.

  A prison toothbrush rested between the sinks. Prepasted, with a stubby handle made of flexible rubber. The mint tasted chalky but did the trick, scrubbing the medicinal coating from his teeth.

  He splashed cold water over his face and then leaned against the jamb, regarding the well-appointed bedroom. His own holding pen in his own dollhouse.

  It struck him that this was precisely the kind of situation that other people called him for.

  The inconvenience of this mystery detour made him angry. It was costing him time better spent tracking down Alison Siegler, who was currently trapped inside Container 78653-B812, as terrified as it was possible for a seventeen-year-old girl to be.

  He strode across the room and threw back the heavy curtains. The sight beyond the balcony made the breath snag in his throat. The view, segmented by welded steel bars at the balustrade, showed mountains blanketed with white pines.

  It took a moment for the shock to subside. When he twisted the lock and shoved open the sliding glass door, cold air cut straight through his clothes. Rain turned to snow at around thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit, and the temperature was flirting with that now, the flitting drops hard and angry, hungry for transformation.

  He wasn’t just “not in L.A.” He was nowhere near L.A.

  Wherever he was, it was on the floor of a valley. The sun, a blurred splotch of gold, hovered above a ridge to the left. Dusk? Dawn?

  He stepped out toward the bars that were celling in his balcony, the view yawning wider. Standing here gave him a vantage, however slight, to see part of the massive building in which he was imprisoned. From what he could make out, it looked to be a rambling stone-and-wood chalet. Above one of the visible A-frames to his right, black smoke poured from a stone chimney. Gauging the distance to the ground and then to the eaves, he guessed he was on the third of four floors.

  Movement caught his eye below. Two men wearing night-vision goggles jogged into view, hunched against the cold, Doberman pinschers at their sides. Evan made a mental note of each man’s build, posture, and gait before they disappeared into a bright red barn a quarter mile away from the house.

  He thought, Two dogs, two guards, and counting.

  The rolling barn door boomed shut, and then the gray diorama
beyond the balcony reclaimed the same desolate quality it had before. Evan swept his gaze up the looming rise of the valley but saw only trees and more trees, not a single other residence in sight.

  Who wanted him badly enough to stage such an elaborate snatch? Who had the resources, the operational skill?

  Charles Van Sciver and the remaining Orphans, certainly, but this didn’t seem to match their modus operandi. Van Sciver would have little interest in keeping Evan comfortable, let alone in luxury.

  Over the years Evan had killed a lot of people, disrupted innumerable operations, and left behind countless mourning relatives. Was this the work of a tribal warlord bent on vengeance? A Saudi billionaire with a jihadi son whom Evan had dispatched? Or maybe a foreign agency wanting to come to terms with a lost U.S. asset?

  Judging by the accommodations, they planned for him to be kept.

  For what?

  It dawned on him that he was shivering, so he stepped back inside and secured the door. He gave the walls and ceiling beams a quick scan, deciding where he would place security cameras if the equation were flipped. He walked around so he could watch the light strike the surfaces at different angles. A dot-size glint caught his eye in a heating vent out of reach on the sloped ceiling. Okay, then. That gave them a view of roughly half the room, including the door leading to the hallway. He searched for where additional pinpoint cameras might fill out the picture. A crack in the doorframe above the bathroom looked promising. If it were up to him, he’d have sunk something in the caulking between the travertine tiles of the hearth as well.

  He was just starting to consider how the bathroom might be wired when he heard the knock at the door.

  Chapter 9:

  Our Lady of Holy Death

  Standing in the middle of the room, Evan squared to the sound of the knock and braced himself. There came a click as the door unlocked.

  An honest-to-God room-service cart wheeled in. White linen, stainless-steel dome plate covers, basket of bread, French press. The only thing that didn’t match the Ritz-Carlton presentation was the guy pushing it.