Hellbent

“The Tenth Commandment,” Evan said. “‘Never let an innocent die.’” He paused. “This is a risk.”

“I’m not an innocent,” Joey said.

He nodded. For this mission she wasn’t.

“Plus, they need me to get to you,” Joey added. “Like you said, they want to snatch me, direct the action.”

“That’s our play, but it’s still a guess. With former Secret Service in the mix, we don’t know how far this reaches. But we know what they’re willing to do.”

“I’m fast,” she said. “I’ll stay in public, keep my head on a swivel.”

“If we do this…”

“What, Evan?”

“Don’t fuck up.”

“What does that mean?”

“After what happened to Jack, nothing will stop me from getting to Van Sciver. Nothing. And no one.” His throat was dry, whether from the dry desert air or the air-conditioning, he didn’t know. “Don’t put me in a position to make that choice.”

She read his meaning, gave a solemn nod, and climbed out of the car.

66 Friction Heat

Lyle Green handed off the binoculars to his partner, Enzo Pellegrini, who raised them to his face and blew out a breath that reeked of stale coffee. They were sitting in a parked truck, focused on a particular headstone on a rolling swell of grass. It was a shade of green you only got from well-fertilized soil, which meant corpses or gardeners, and Shady Vale had an excess of both.

Enzo said, “Eyes up, south entrance.”

Lyle said, “Right, like your ‘eyes up’ on the pregnant broad or the guy with the prosthetic leg.”

“It was a limp.”

“Because that’s what you do when you have a prosthetic leg.”

“Girl, midteens.”

Lyle pulled the detached rifle scope from the console and lifted it to his face. The girl cut behind a stand of bushes and stepped into view. “Holy shit. That’s her.”

“Raise Van Sciver. Now.”

Lyle grabbed his Samsung, dialed through Signal.

A moment later Van Sciver’s voice came through. “Code.”

Lyle checked the screen. “‘Merrily dogwood.’”

“Go.”

“It’s her. It’s the girl.”

She drifted close enough that Lyle no longer required the scope. She set a bunch of flowers before the grave and paused, her face downturned, murmuring something to the earth.

“Do not approach,” Van Sciver said. “Repeat: Do not approach. Track her at a distance in case X is watching. Pick your moment and get her tagged. Let her lead us to him.”

Enzo dropped open the glove box. Inside were a variety of GPS tracking devices — microdots, magnetic transmitters for vehicle wheel wells, a vial of digestible silicon microchips.

The girl headed off, and Lyle tapped the gas and drifted around the cemetery’s perimeter, keeping her in sight. “Copy that.”

* * *

Twenty minutes later Lyle sat in a crowded taqueria, sipping over-cinnamoned horchata and peering across the plaza to where the target sat at a café patio table. Lyle had a Nikon secured around his neck with camera straps sporting the Arizona State University logo. Smudges of zinc-intensive sunscreen and a proud-alumnus polo shirt completed the in-town-for-a-game look.

He pretended to fuss with the camera, zeroing in with the zoom lens on the girl. Scanning across the patio, he picked up on Pellegrini inside the café, leaning against the bar and swirling a straw in his Arnold Palmer. A few orders slid across the counter, awaiting pickup. Pellegrini removed a vial of microchips, dumped them in a water glass, and used his straw to stir them in.

He’d just resumed his loose-limbed slump against the bar when the waitress swung past and grabbed the tray. As she carried the salad and spiked water glass over to Joey’s table and set them down, Pellegrini exited the café from the opposite side and walked to the bordering street where they’d parked the truck.

Lyle kept the Nikon pinned on the water glass resting near Joey’s elbow. From this distance the liquid looked perfectly clear, the tiny black microchips invisible. Once ingested, they would mass in the stomach, where they’d be stimulated by digestive juices and emit a GPS signal every time the host ate or drank. The technology had recently been improved, no longer requiring a skin patch to transmit the signal, which made for easier stealth deployment. But with this upgrade came a trade-off; the signal’s duration was shorter, remaining active for only ten minutes after mealtime. The microchips broke down and passed from the system in just forty-eight hours.

Van Sciver was banking on the fact that at some point within two days she’d be in proximity to Orphan X.

The girl poked at her salad, then rested her hand on the water glass. Lyle willed her to pick it up and drink, but something on her phone had captured her attention. She removed her hand, and he grimaced.

He had to put the camera down to avoid suspicion, so he took another chug of sugary horchata while he watched her thumb at her phone and not drink water.

His Samsung vibrated, and he answered.

“Code,” Van Sciver said.

Lyle checked the screen. “‘Teakettle lovingly.’”

“Update.”

“The table’s set. We’re just waiting on her to do her part.”

“Mechanism?”

“Water glass.”

“I’ll hold on the line,” Van Sciver said.