Prodigal Son

by Gregg Hurwitz

  He listened to the footfall. Shards of glass crusted the asphalt like jewels, providing a nice crunch that broadcast the man’s position.

  Fifteen yards away.

  Now ten.

  The tight cone of the flashlight appeared at Evan’s side, a cold white beam sweeping left to right. Shadows stretched and warped as the man neared. His nervous inhalations, barely audible, sounded quick and shallow.

  Five yards.

  Two.

  Evan waited for the cone to rotate to the far side of the aisle, which required the man’s face to rotate with it. The beam illuminated the tire inches from Evan’s heel and then swept slowly away.

  Evan held until it reached the vehicles across the aisle and then rose, setting his legs and hips to generate power for the punch.

  He was standing just beyond the point of the man’s peripheral vision. The silhouette of the flashlight protruded from the guy’s mouth like an anodized-aluminum cigar.

  Evan said, “Psst.”

  As the man pivoted, Evan hammered the end of the flashlight with a palm-heel strike, his hand flexed back, fingers pointing up. The shaft rocketed back into the man’s mouth and through the soft tissue at the rear of the throat, and there was a crackle as the spinal cord gave way. Evan caught his sagging weight.

  He slid the flashlight free of the man’s ruined mouth, clicked it off, and slipped it into his thigh cargo pocket. He thought about taking the MP5 but preferred his own pistol for agility.

  The man’s glassy eyes stared up at Evan, tears running down his temples. The stink of his panic breath rose with each fading exhalation. He blinked and then blinked again.

  Evan whispered, “It’s okay, now. It’s okay.”

  The man stopped blinking.

  Evan let him pour to the ground and then was up, scooting between cars, circling the kiosk from a distance and assessing the locations of the remaining five men. The team leader had turned the Tesla around to aim it at the open front gate, ready for a getaway.

  Diaz kept a tight rotation around the kiosk, MP5 held casually, aimed outward. Still too confident.

  No sounds of approaching bystanders. No distant sirens. Just a car alarm screaming somewhere in the distance. Given the men’s kill orders, Evan hoped the lot was sufficiently isolated not to draw bystanders. Still, he didn’t want to take his time and find out.

  Creeping through the maze of cars, making his way around the kiosk, he stuck his head up at intervals to track the men’s movements around the lot. The night air chilled his throat, his lungs. He finally reached the back side of the kiosk, taking a position so it blocked him from view of the team leader’s idling Tesla.

  The other three men moved steadily through the property’s periphery, one behind Evan, the others to either side of him. Beneath the sharp ridge of the masks’ nose lines, their breath puffed through the thermal fabric.

  Evan timed Diaz’s pace as Diaz vanished around the corner of the kiosk. Counted to three. Then emerged from the cover of the damaged vehicles, bearing down on Diaz as he came back into sight.

  Approaching swiftly, Evan shot him three times in rapid succession—thigh, hip, and right shoulder. Diaz managed to depress the trigger, but given his destroyed shooting arm it was nothing more than a spray-and-pray to the side, the rounds sparking off the nearby cars before the MP5 kicked from his hand of its own volition. The bullet that had shattered his hip had also knocked the still-holstered Hi-Power clean off his belt, the Silverback round doing what it did best.

  With his left hand, Diaz ripped a KA-BAR straight-edge from a thigh sheath and swiped at Evan’s face, but Evan trapped the wrist against the wall, caught the falling knife, and slammed it through Diaz’s palm, pinning his hand to the wood.

  They were eye to eye, Diaz shoved up against the kiosk, his good leg taking his weight. He made a stuttering sound, a series of “t”s that couldn’t find a vowel.

  “Wait here,” Evan said.

  Gunfire strafed the top of the kiosk, and Evan sprinted back to cover amid the damaged cars, returning fire to hold them off. He caught a glimpse of the operators closing in, their monocular night-vision headgear turning them to cyclopes.

  The three men were hustling toward him from different vectors. A round chipped the asphalt behind him, and then his leg blew to the side, the ricochet catching his heel.

  34

  Taste of Copper in the Air

  The force of the bullet spun Evan around, dumping him onto a throw of pebbled glass between two reasonably intact Town Cars. He grabbed for his leg to assess the damage. The round hadn’t in fact struck his foot but had bitten a chunk of rubber from the heel of his boot, leaving the steel shank in the sole exposed.

  Quick exhale of relief.

  The slide of his 1911 was locked to the rear, the nine rounds spent. As he hit the slide release and reached for a new magazine, bursts of gunfire from both directions riddled the Town Cars on either side of him, degrading them to the condition of the surrounding vehicles. Evan flattened to the ground, caging his head, glass raining down.

  When the barrage ceased, he shouted, “Wait!”—graveling his voice to disguise it. “We’re shooting at each other.”

  He took advantage of the momentary pause to scramble on all fours up the lane. He was still gripping the empty ARES, bits of glass sticking to his knuckles and the palm of his other hand.

  Behind him the Town Cars lit up again, rocking on their chassis. He hit a streak of oil, his arm flying out, his chest slapping the ground. The tactical flashlight rolled free from his cargo pocket but thankfully did not illuminate and give away his position.

  Rolling to his side, he reached again for the spare mag in his left inner cargo pocket, but then he made out the sound of labored breathing just beyond the neighboring row of vehicles. The sounds grew nearer, and he froze.

  Silence.

  With an MP5 in the immediate vicinity, Evan didn’t dare move, let alone wrestle out the magazine and click it home.

  A voice shouted over. “You okay, Keller?”

  “Good!” The answer came from the far side of the Mustang that Evan was sprawled behind. Six feet away, maybe less.

  The sound of heavy breathing resumed, the same anxious cadence Evan had observed from afar. The light crackle of a boot setting down. Then Keller edged into sight, his image fragmented through the Mustang’s cracked side windows. He led with the MP5, hunched over the stock. The black mask wrapped the bottom of his face, his forehead seeming to float, the night-vision lens—which looked to be a cheap Russian knockoff—lowered over one eye. Severely shadowed, he looked like an apparition of steam and iron.

  Another step brought him to the hood of the Mustang. The next would carry him into the aisle where Evan lay unfurled in plain view. The backup magazines shoved into his skin, beckoning. But by the time he ripped one free, seated it in the gun, and raised the barrel, he’d be on the receiving end of six hundred rounds per minute.

  The tactical flashlight rested three feet from his head.

  The Unofficial Eleventh Commandment: Don’t fall in love with Plan A.

  Evan strained for the flashlight. Plucked it silently from the ground.

  As Keller stepped around the car, Evan’s fist pulsed around the flashlight, the beam shooting directly up into the man’s face.

  Keller yelped and reeled back, swatting at the night-vision lens that compounded the glare into a spike of light through his eyes. Evan swept himself up off the ground, a spin kick connecting with the MP5 and knocking it free. As Keller drew his handgun, Evan laced his fist around his empty ARES and brass-knuckled it into his face. Keller’s nose cracked beneath the mask, but he didn’t drop his own pistol. Rather than back off, Evan skipped inside the hefty man’s arm span, his head parallel to the Hi-Power as it fired. Inches away, the gunshot was deafening, but he was safely inside its range. Evan ducked and swung behind Keller, slipping one arm around his neck in a rear naked choke and clamping his gun with his other hand.

&n
bsp; Keller’s head was bent forward painfully, his torso curled, leaving him bellowing into his own chest. Holding pressure on the head, Evan goosenecked Keller’s wrist, locked the elbow, and torqued his arm so the pistol was aimed sideways. Evan laced his forefinger through the trigger guard on top of Keller’s.

  The remaining operators were sprinting toward them from two offset trajectories, each about thirty yards away. Evan cranked Keller’s hefty arm upward, captured the lead man in the off-kilter sights, and fired three times. One of the rounds caught him in the face, clotheslining him, his body landing flat on the asphalt with a deadweight thud.

  Evan swung Keller’s arm thirty degrees to the right. Before he could aim at the second operator, the man opened fire, one of the rounds striking Keller in the shoulder. Spray of warmth across Evan’s cheek, taste of copper in the air, the impact sending a thunderclap through Keller’s flesh and bone. The domino effect nearly knocked Evan onto his ass, but he managed to hold on, keeping Keller’s arm captured and maintaining the choke.

  Steering Keller from behind, Evan kicked his Achilles tendon. Keller jerked his foot forward with a zombie step and grunted, lips fluttering wetly beneath the mask. Then Evan kneed the back of Keller’s other leg, manipulating the big man like a doll, force-walking him around the front of the Mustang for cover. Keller tried to rear up, but Evan slammed his forehead down onto the hood, denting the metal and cracking the Tiffany-blue paint job. He kept his grip on Keller’s arm, fighting their shared gun hand up and over to aim.

  The operator was still coming, rounds sparking off the body of the Mustang, one of the tires going with a pop, air hissing angrily through the puncture. Keller was screaming into the hood. Evan wrenched the Hi-Power over another inch and fired, fired, fired, finally clipping the operator’s cheek.

  The guy halted at last, the MP5 tumbling from his hands. Evan took a moment to sight carefully and shot him through the forehead.

  There was a single instant of quiet, powder smoke stratified in the air.

  Then, somewhere behind the kiosk, the Tesla hummed to life, headlights sweeping the perimeter fence as the team leader whipped the car around to charge into the fray.

  Keller was sobbing, his words muted given Evan’s ringing ears. “—my friends, made me shoot my friends—”

  His neck was slick with blood, making it harder for Evan to maintain the rear naked choke. Keller tried to twist his gun hand free, but Evan kept his hold, pulling the Browning inward and forcing it up, up, the muzzle nearing Keller’s face. Evan’s biceps strained, his forearm burning. The Hi-Power trembled in their shared grasp. Keller was stronger, his arm so much meatier than Evan’s; if this went on much longer, Evan would lose the battle.

  Halfway across the lot, the Tesla fishtailed into sight around the kiosk, headlights blazing, and rocketed toward them.

  With his last ounce of strength, Evan ripped the pistol inward one final inch, the muzzle coming parallel to Keller’s temple. His forefinger overrode Keller’s, forcing him to pull the trigger.

  A dry click.

  Evan had lost track of the rounds.

  Inexcusable.

  Keller’s hoarse gagging sounded like a laugh. He stomped Evan’s foot, twisting away. Evan released the pistol and jammed his thumb into the mandibular angle under Keller’s ear behind the lower jawbone, the tender intersection of three major nerves.

  The Tesla was closing, city lights cascading across its windshield.

  Keller lurched away from the pressure point, screeching.

  The Tesla accelerated. Close enough now that Evan could make out the team leader inside, readying his sidearm, aiming straight over the steering wheel so he could fire through the windshield.

  The hiss of the electric motor crescendoed.

  Keller bucked violently, setting his weight, Evan’s hold weakening.

  The Tesla’s headlights bore down.

  Digging his thumb even harder into the pressure point, Evan swung Keller in the opposite direction from what the big man would have expected.

  Out into the open lane and directly into the path of the looming Tesla.

  Keller shook loose from Evan’s hold. The high beams caught them both in the face, bleaching them white, freezing them as if against the wrath of an atomic bomb.

  For an instant it was certain they’d both die.

  Keller raised his functional arm in front of his face, bracing for the collision. But Evan knew something he did not.

  That the Tesla Model S featured the finest automatic braking system on the market.

  The brakes stutter-clamped to slow the vehicle, smoke shooting from the tire wells. The squeal was earsplitting, the reek of burned rubber shooting forward on a pressure wave of air, hitting them in the face.

  The Tesla swiveled left and then right, finally centering as it came to a steaming halt no more than a foot in front of Evan and Keller.

  Keller was stooped, his arm swaying from the wrecked shoulder, foam flecking his lips. He coughed out a single note of relief.

  The team leader had been tossed forward into the wheel, his handgun thrown onto the dash. He pried himself back, met Evan’s eyes, reached for his pistol.

  Evan took hold of Keller’s ruined limb, twisted it into an arm bar, dropped his full weight into the joint lock, and swung the man down and around, tripping him as they fell.

  Their shared momentum accelerated Keller’s face as it slammed into the Tesla’s grille.

  The air bag deployed, the gun inside the car giving a muffled pop.

  Keller slid off the hood and slumped to the ground, his arm striking the asphalt with a moist slap.

  A hissing sound issued from the air bag as it deflated, speckled with grit and white powder, a firework burst of crimson across the sturdy nylon. Evan stayed on his knees, panting as the air bag diminished further, revealing the team leader slumped back in the driver’s seat, mouth ajar as if he were sleeping. The air bag’s explosion had propelled the gun upward, causing him to shoot himself in the face.

  The autobrakes had delivered him to Evan.

  And the air bag had done the rest.

  Evan’s ribs ached. His right side was doused in Keller’s blood. The close-range gunshot had reduced his hearing to a ringing whine, and cotton filled his head. Enough adrenaline had dumped into his bloodstream to make him light-headed.

  He allowed himself the luxury of three full breaths. Then he pulled himself upright, his lower back aching.

  No bystanders. No sirens. Not yet.

  First step, he told himself. Secure your weapon.

  He trudged over behind the Mustang, the blown-out heel of his boot lopsiding his gait. The metallic rasp of the exposed shank against the asphalt accompanied every other step. He picked up the ARES where he’d dropped it and slotted a fresh magazine in. Heading back to the kiosk, he staggered a bit but then regained his balance.

  Next in the gear checklist was the RoamZone. Not surprisingly, it had cracked in the brawl, turning the screen into a mosaic. As he moved through the labyrinth of cars, he placed both his thumbs over the fault lines and applied pressure, the self-repairing polyether-thiourea knitting itself back together before he reached the clearing.

  Diaz was right where Evan had left him, pinned to the wall by his hand, his weapons on the ground just out of reach. Fighting the pain in his impaled palm and quaking on his intact right leg, he strained to reach the MP5.

  There was no way.

  Evan approached, the steel shank click-click-clicking on the ground. As he neared, Diaz gave up, sagging back against the wall. He’d tugged the Polartec mask down around his neck, pained breaths huffing in the cold air. A bib of drool sheened his chin. The damage to his hip was severe, arterial blood snaking down his leg. It wouldn’t be long.

  Diaz looked down, tried to stem the bleeding with his good hand.

  “You’re a private military contractor,” Evan told him.

  “… did good, too…” Diaz’s chest juddered as it rose. “… eve
ryone thinks … bad … but we’re the ones … call in when they need … demine a field in Mosul … Kurmal…”

  “That doesn’t interest me,” Evan said. “Who do you work for?”

  Diaz licked his lips, his eyes halfway gone. “Every cleared mine a saved life or … Every one.… I’m not bad … not bad…”

  “Who do you work for?” Evan asked again.

  “We come back here.… What are we s’posed to do…?”

  His head lolled, his hand slipping from the ragged wound on his hip, the life running out of him, pooling in his boot.

  Evan stepped forward, gripped Diaz’s chin, lifted his face. “Who do you work for?”

  The dark lashes parted sluggishly. “… don’t know … call him … the doctor … All I know.” He was crying now. “I’m not all bad … helped people, too … help me now … help me.…”

  “You were willing to kill witnesses,” Evan told him. “Cops.”

  Diaz’s large brown eyes held a depth of sorrow that seemed bottomless. “… not all bad.”

  “Okay,” Evan said. “I understand.”

  Diaz slumped forward, his good leg giving out, his body sagging from the impaled hand. An ignoble pose, even grotesque.

  Evan stared down at the top of Diaz’s head. Then he ripped the KA-BAR free of his hand, Diaz’s body spilling to the ground. His lips were tensed in a crooked scowl, eyes glossed with a lifeless film. Evan reached down and closed his lids.

  Then hustled across the lot, trying not to limp.

  He reached the Ferrari and pried up the lid of the trunk. Andre roared something unintelligible, swinging and kicking wildly.

  Evan stepped back, none of the blows landing. “You’re safe. We need to move.”

  Andre came back into himself and nodded, his neck tensed, the hollow of his throat glistening with sweat. He offered a hand, and Evan clamped it and tugged him out.

  They cut through the next aisle, passing the tall man’s body, his mouth gaping where the flashlight had been rammed through, front teeth chipped.

  Andre’s voice came out strangled. “Were you … trying to kill him?”