Orphan X: A Novel

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Copyright Page

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To all the bad boys and girls, rulebreakers and vigilantes—

Philip Marlowe and Sam Spade, Bruce Wayne and Jason Bourne, Bond and Bullitt, Joe Pike and Jack Reacher, Hawk and Travis McGee, the Seven Samurai and the Magnificent Seven, Mack Bolan and Frank Castle, the three Johns (W. Creasey, Rambo, and McClane), Captain Ahab and Guy Montag, Mike Hammer and Paul Kersey, the Lone Ranger and the Shadow, Robin Hood and Van Helsing, Beowulf and Gilgamesh, Ellen Ripley and Sarah Connor, Perseus and Coriolanus, Hanna and Hannibal, the Man with No Name and the Professional, Parker and Lucy, Arya Stark and George Stark, Pike Bishop and Harmonica, Lancelot and Achilles, Shane and Snake Plissken, Ethan Edwards and Bill Munny, Jack Bauer and Repairman Jack, the Killer and the Killer, Zorro and the Green Hornet, Dexter and Mad Max, the Dirty Dozen and Dirty Harry, the Terminator and Lady Vengeance, Cool Hand Luke and Lucas Davenport, Logan 5 and James “Logan” Howlett, V and Vic Mackey, Hartigan and Marv, Sherlock and Luther, Veronica Mars and Selina Kyle

—for being so wicked that they’re good.

Ripley: What you’re doing is wrong.

Luther: Yeah, I know.

Ripley: Why do it then?

Luther: ’Cause it’s
right.

—from
Luther,
created by Neil Cross

PROLOGUE

Trial by Fire

Evan’s twelve-year-old body is stiff in the cushy passenger seat of the black sedan as he is driven in silence. His cheek is split and his temple bruised. Blood slides warmly down his neck, mixing with panic sweat. Raw skin rings his wrists where the handcuffs were. His heartbeat thunders in his chest, his head
.

He uses all his will to give nothing away.

He has been in the car only five minutes. The leather smells expensive.

The driver has given his name, Jack Johns. But nothing else.

An old guy, at least fifty-something, with a wide, handsome face. He’s built square like a catcher and has a baseball squint to match.

Jack tugs a handkerchief from his rear pant pocket, fluffs it out, and offers it across the console. “For your cheek.”

Evan looks at the fine linen. “The blood’ll stain it.”

Jack’s face registers amusement. “It’s okay.”

Evan wipes his face.

He was the smallest of the kids, the last one picked for sports. It was only through a savage set of challenges that he found his way into this seat, that he’d managed to get himself chosen.

None of them had known what to make of the Mystery Man when he first materialized at the edge of the cracked basketball courts, eyeing the boys as they’d played and fought. Hidden behind Ray-Bans, dragging his fingers along the chain-link, smoking cigarette after cigarette. He walked slowly, never in a rush, and yet every time he seemed to vanish as quickly as he’d appeared. Theories abounded. He was Chester the Molester. A rich businessman looking to adopt. A dealer in human organs on the black market. A recruiter for the Greek mob
.

Evan had been willing to take the leap.

He has been taken out of circulation as surely as if he’d been zapped off the streets by a flying saucer. Trial by fire, yes—a recruitment of some sort, but for what, Evan still has no idea.

All he knows is wherever he is heading now has to be better than what’s behind him in East Baltimore.

His stomach gives off a rumble that embarrasses him even here, even now. He glances at himself in the side mirror. He looks malnourished. Maybe where he’s going, food will be abundant.

Or maybe
he’ll
be the food.

He works up his nerve. Clears his throat. “What do you want me for?” he asks.

“I can’t tell you that yet.” Jack drives in silence for a time, then seems to realize that his answer isn’t satisfactory for a kid in Evan’s position. “I may not tell you everything right away,” he adds in a tone that stops shy of apologetic, “but I will never lie to you.”

Evan studies him. Decides to take him at his word. “Am I gonna get hurt?”

Jack drives on, looking dead ahead.

“Sometimes,” he says.

1

The Morning-Beverage Measure

After picking up a set of pistol suppressors from a nine-fingered armorer in Las Vegas, Evan Smoak headed for home in his Ford pickup, doing his best not to let the knife wound distract him.

The slice on his forearm had occurred during an altercation at a truck stop. He usually didn’t like to get involved with anything or anyone outside his missions, but there had been a fifteen-year-old girl in dire need of help. So here he was, trying not to bleed onto the console until he could get home and deal with it properly. For now he’d tied off the cut with one of his socks, using his teeth to cinch the knot.

Home would be good. He hadn’t slept in a day and a half. He thought about the bottle of triple-distilled vodka in the freezer of his Sub-Zero. He thought about a hot shower and the soft sheets of his bed. He thought about the RoamZone phone in his glove box and how it was due to ring any day now.

Forging west through gridlocked Beverly Hills, he entered the embrace of the Wilshire Corridor, a stretch of residential towers that in Los Angeles qualified as high-rises. His building, the flamboyantly named Castle Heights, was the easternmost in the run, which gave the higher floors a clean line of sight to Downtown. Unrenovated since the nineties, it had an upscale dated vibe, with gleaming brass fixtures and salmon-tinged marble. Neither posh nor trendy in a city that revolved around both, Castle Heights suited Evan’s needs precisely. It drew the old-fashioned well-to-do—surgeons, senior partners, silver-haired retirees with long-standing memberships at country clubs. A few years back, a middling point guard for the Lakers had moved in, bringing with him fifteen minutes of troublesome press, but he’d soon been traded away, allowing the residents to settle back into their cushion of quiet, low-key comfort.

Evan pulled through the porte cochere, gesturing to the valet that he’d park himself, then turned down the ramp leading beneath the building. His pickup slotted neatly into his space between two concrete pillars, shielded from much of the floor and the glow of the overhead fluorescents.

In the privacy of his truck, he untied the sock tourniquet from his forearm and eyed the cut. The edges were nice and clean, but it was a sight. Blood had caked in the faint hairs, and the cut itself hadn’t fully clotted off. The damage was superficial. Six sutures, maybe seven.

He retrieved his cell from the glove box. The RoamZone was constructed of hardened black rubber, fiberglass casing, and Gorilla Glass. He kept it within earshot.

Always.

After checking the rearview to make sure the garage was empty, he got out and changed into one of the black sweatshirts he kept stashed behind the seat. The pistol suppressors were shoved into a paper grocery bag. He tossed the bloody shirt and sock on top of them.

After checking the RoamZone battery (two bars), he slid it into his front pocket and took the stairs up one level.

Outside the lobby door, he allowed himself a deep breath, readying for the transition from one world to another.

Thirty-two steps from door to elevator, a quick ride up, and he was clear.

He stepped into the lobby, the cool air scented of fresh-cut flowers. His shoes chirped against the tiles as he threaded through the bustle, smiling blandly at the residents moving to and fro with their shopping bags and cell-phone conversations. He was in his mid-thirties and quite fit, though not so muscular that he stood out. Just an average guy, not too handsome.

Castle Heights prided itself on its security measures, not least of which was that the elevator was controlled by the security desk. Evan gestured at the guard reclining before a bank of screens behind the high counter.

“Twenty-one, please, Joaquin,” Evan said.

A voice came from behind him. “Just say ‘penthouse,’ why don’t you? It
is
the penthouse level.” A clawlike hand closed over his injured forearm, squeezing, and Evan felt a surge of burning beneath his sweatshirt.

He turned to the stubby, wizened woman at his side—Ida Rosenbaum of 6G—and produced a smile. “I suppose that’s right, ma’am.”

“And besides,” she continued, “we have our Homeowner Association meeting in the conference room on
ten.
Starting right now. You’ve missed the last three, by my count.” To compensate for hearing loss, her volume was prodigious, acquainting the entire lobby with Evan’s attendance record.

The car arrived with a ding.

Mrs. Rosenbaum’s grip intensified. She fixed her imperious stare on Joaquin. “He’ll go to the HOA meeting.”

“Wait! Hold the elevator!” The woman from 12B—Mia Hall—hip-checked her way through the glass front door, heavy purse swinging in one direction, her son in the other, iPhone pinched between her cheek and shoulder.

Evan released a weary breath and gently twisted his arm free of Mrs. Rosenbaum’s grasp as they stepped into the elevator. He felt the blood running again, causing the sweatshirt fabric to cling.

As Mia hustled toward them, dragging her eight-year-old by his arm, she finished singing into the phone in double time: “Happy late birthday to you, happy sorry-my-car-broke-down-and-I-went-to-the-mechanic-who-told-me-I-needed-new-brake-disks-for-an-arm-and-a-leg-and-so-I-missed-picking-Peter-up-from-school-and-he-had-to-go-to-a-friend’s-which-is-why-I-forgot-to-leave-you-a-message-earlier biiirrrtthday, happy birthday to you.”

She lifted her cheek, letting the phone drop into her capacious purse. “Sorry! Sorry. Thanks.” Rushing into the elevator, she called across, “Hi, Joaquin. Don’t we have an HOA meeting right now?”

“Indeed we do,” Mrs. Rosenbaum said pointedly.

Joaquin raised his eyebrows at Evan—
Sorry, brother
—and then the doors were closing behind them. Ida Rosenbaum’s perfume, in close quarters, was blinding.