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Jack’s gaze stays fixed on the book. “Thank you, Evan,” he says, in a voice even more gravelly than usual.

  The alarm goes off early the next morning. Strider is curled on the rug in the dormer room, where he now sleeps. Evan scratches behind the dog’s ears, then makes the bed. Pausing, he realizes that the sheets are tight enough to bounce a dumbbell on.

  Next time, he thinks. The two best words in the English language.

  When he gets downstairs, he expects to find Jack at the stove, readying the omelet pan, but instead he has his keys in hand and is ready to go. They drive to a Veterans Day parade in town. Evan stands at Jack’s side, and they watch the open-topped cars drive by. There are fire engines and fried dough and soldiers with empty sleeves pinned up at the elbows. There are crying moms and old men with watery eyes, their hands over their hearts. There are babies in strollers and young wives with firm tanned skin and lush curls and golden sunlight falling across them, turning the tiny hairs of their arms white. Evan feels an odd sense at his core, a blurring of himself into something greater, all these people joined in common emotion, and the fine, fine flags snap overhead, and he breathes the powdered sugar and the scent of sunscreen and feels the pulse of all these hearts beating inside his own chest. That night when he slides into bed and gazes at the slanted ceiling, he feels the pulse still moving through his body, an almost sexual ache in his cells like the swell of an orchestra on Jack’s old record player, the sound track of desire, of belonging.

  He thinks of Jack sleeping downstairs and how that makes him feel safe. Jack has cracked the world open like a geode, laying its glittering treasures bare. As long as Evan has Jack at his side, he can do anything. A sensation rolls through his body, unfamiliar and warm, and at last he is able to name it.

  It is the feeling of being given a place in the world.

  Chapter 11:

  No Longer the Same Place

  Evan came to lying flat on his chest, his mouth open against the floorboards. He shoved himself up and leaned back against the sleigh bed, letting the ache between his temples subside.

  The cart was gone. Damp spot on the floorboards where they’d been scrubbed. No sign of Chuy’s body.

  Serious room service.

  Two fingertips of his left hand were crusted. He went into the bathroom and washed his hands. Then he went to the hearth and pretended to warm himself. His busted RoamZone had fallen through the log grate. Careful to keep his back to the hidden surveillance cameras, he managed to poke beneath the flames to knock the phone into reach. The rubber casing was scorched. Smashed-to-shit bits of Gorilla Glass turned the screen into a mosaic. Holding the phone low against his belly, he thumbed it on. Miraculously, the lights flickered as it powered up. The Gorilla Glass had protected the phone from the worst of the stomping and the fire, but he could see bits of the circuit board through the cracks. The smart screen seemed unresponsive to touch.

  There’d be no dialing out.

  He examined the damage, his excitement quickly fading. He was adroit with electronics, but fixing the phone was beyond his capabilities. When he was sixteen, he’d been taught by a hacker around the same age who could’ve figured something like this out in a Red Bull-fueled minute, but that’s why she’d been the teacher and he the student.

  Keeping the phone hidden, he went back to the bed and surreptitiously shoved it between the mattress and box spring.

  On the unmade sheets, the croissant waited, cold. His stomach announced itself. He took big bites, chewed thoughtfully, his mouth dry from the sleeping gas. In the course of his training, Evan had endured halothane vapor and methoxypropane, but given the roaring fire he guessed René had gone with something less flammable, probably a halogenated ether. He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear his head, then crossed to the window and noted the sun’s position high in the sky. He’d been unconscious for a while. Despite the midday blaze, he knew not to be fooled; it was well-digger-ass cold out there.

  Movement caught his eye below, three men jogging past the barn, disappearing into the tree line. Evan hadn’t seen them before.

  Two dogs, seven guards, and Dex.

  His thoughts were scrambled, fragments of plans jabbing him from all angles, opposing directives warring in his mind.

  Well, then. As Jack used to say, If you don’t know what to do, do nothing.

  Evan went back to the bed and sat cross-legged on the unmade sheets. Closing his eyes, he took a few deep breaths. He slowed each exhalation, counting to four, letting the alpha brain waves kick in and drop him into a meditative state.

  After five minutes, or twenty, he opened his eyes and slid off the mattress. Then he made the bed carefully. He stretched and did push-ups, sit-ups, and a quick core workout, favoring his bruised rib. His muscles felt creaky from the days he’d spent unconscious. He kept all thoughts at bay, focused only on breaking a good sweat. Then he showered and changed and returned to the spot by the window. Standing in the same place with a clearer mind meant it was no longer the same place. He reviewed what little he knew.

  He now had a grasp on the time: midday.

  He’d gleaned the date: October 18.

  The next priority was figuring out where he was.

  His gaze swept the walls low, just above the baseboards. Nothing. He moved to the built-in mahogany desk. The backing floated an inch or so off the wall, no doubt to leave room for appliance plugs. He put one eye to the dark sliver but could make out only darkness. Then he crawled into the space where a chair should be and flattened his cheek to the wall. The power outlet floated a few inches away in the gap between desk and wall.

  It had only two holes, designed to fit round pins.

  Clearly not built to receive an American plug.

  Evan popped to his feet and headed briskly into the bathroom. After scanning the walls, he dropped onto a knee and found a wet-room outlet tucked beneath the floating granite slab housing the sinks. This one took a three-pin plug—two round, one grounding.

  That was helpful, too.

  He searched the bathroom for a hidden surveillance camera but found none. With the stark stone and tile, there were scant hiding places. He had to assume that the mirror was a one-way and that a pinhole camera was positioned inside the ceiling vent as in the bedroom, but he couldn’t be certain. That still left him a blind spot beneath the sink and in the corner by the toilet.

  He needed to create a blind zone in the bedroom as well. Pausing in the doorway, he searched the crack in the frame, careful not to be obvious. There it was, a pencil-eraser-size circle of metal nestled back in the wood like a dug-in pinworm. He walked over to the hearth and ran his fingertips across the caulking between the travertine tiles but felt nothing. The vent camera he’d spotted earlier and the bathroom doorframe unit gave them eyes on three-fourths of the bedroom. He looked for a spot that would pick up the remaining quarter.

  The corner above the closet where the walls met the ceiling. He flicked a gaze quickly in that direction, noting that the point of blackness there was slightly more pronounced than in the other corners.

  Solid tradecraft.

  What was the best way to play this?

  Evan put himself in René’s shoes and thought for a time before settling on the next step. It was a gamble, but everything was a gamble.

  Back in the bathroom, he thumbed the remaining paste off the rubber toothbrush where it had been squirted between the bristles. He added a drop of water and worked it between his thumb and forefinger until it gummed up into a gooey mortar.

  He smeared it over the crack in the frame outside the bathroom. That knocked out their view of half the bed and the sliding glass door. Then he worked up more paste and went to the corner of the room by the closet. Bracing his bare foot against the closet hinges, he put his back to the wall and squirmed his way up off the ground like a rock climber until he could reach the ceiling. He put his face big in the hidden camera, went for a smug smirk. A few swipes and he’d obscured the tiny lens, eliminating René’s visuals on
the fireplace.

  He dropped back to the floor and wiped his hands on his jeans, acting satisfied with himself. He’d left them the most essential camera, the one in the heating vent that captured half the room, including the door to the hallway. The one they’d need to discern his position before they entered the room. The one that was filming him right now, acting as though he’d just put one over on them.

  If René was smart, he’d hit Evan with sleeping gas again and reposition the cameras he’d knocked out. But if he was really smart, he’d concede the ostensible defeat, let Evan believe he was surveillance-free in the room, and use the remaining camera to observe what Evan got up to when he thought no one was looking.

  Head lowered, Evan paced the rustic oak planks, doing his best to construct the chessboard mentally, to anticipate René’s counter and plan several moves ahead.

  A knock came at the door once again.

  He was about to find out how well he was playing the game.

  Also by Gregg Hurwitz

  Orphan X

  The Nowhere Man

  The Tower

  Minutes to Burn

  Do No Harm

  The Kill Clause

  The Program

  Troubleshooter

  Last Shot

  The Crime Writer

  Trust No One

  They’re Watching

  You’re Next

  The Survivor

  Tell No Lies

  Don’t Look Back

  About the Author

  Gregg Hurwitz is the New York Times bestselling author of numerous thrillers, including You’re Next and Orphan X. Critically acclaimed, Hurwitz is a two-time finalist for ITW’s Best Novel prize and a finalist for CWA’s Steel Dagger. In addition to his novels, Hurwitz is a screenwriter, TV producer, and comic book author. The first book in the Evan Smoak series, Orphan X, has been sold in twenty-one countries. Hurwitz, who lives in Los Angeles, is writing the screenplay adaption of Orphan X for Warner Bros. and Bradley Cooper. You can sign up for email updates here.

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Buy a Bullet

  Excerpt from The Nowhere Man

  Also by Gregg Hurwitz

  About the Author

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  BUY A BULLET. Copyright © 2016 by Gregg Hurwitz. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  Excerpt from The Nowhere Man copyright © 2017 by Gregg Hurwitz

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  Cover photograph © Silas Manhood Photography

  Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at [email protected].

  eISBN 9781250141286

  First Edition: October 2016