He set the glass down on the poured-concrete island. He walked out of the kitchen and past the living wall, a vertical garden of herbs and vegetables. The rise of greenery gave the penthouse its sole splash of color and life, the air fragranced with chamomile and mint.
He headed across the open plain of the condo, past the heavy bag and the pull-up bar, past the freestanding central fireplace, past a cluster of couches he couldn’t remember ever having sat on. He walked down a brief hall with two empty brackets where a katana sword had once hung. He entered his bedroom with its floating Maglev bed, propelled two feet off the floor by ridiculously powerful rare-earth magnets. Only cable tethers kept it from flying up and smashing into the ceiling. Like Evan, it was designed for maximum functionality—slab, mattress, no legs, no headboard, no footboard.
He entered his bathroom, nudged the frosted-glass shower door aside on its tracks. It rolled soundlessly. Stepping into the shower, he curled his hand around the hot-water lever. Hidden sensors in the metal read his palm imprint. He turned it the wrong way, pushing through a slight resistance, and a hidden door broke free from the tile pattern of the stall and swung inward.
Evan stepped into the Vault, the nerve center of his operations as the Nowhere Man.
Four hundred square feet of exposed beams and rough concrete walls, crowded from above by the underbelly of the public stairs leading to the roof. An armory and a workbench occupied one side. A central sheet-metal desk shaped like an L held an impeccably ordered array of computer towers, servers, and antennae. Monitors filled an entire wall, showing various hacked security feeds of Castle Heights. From here Evan could also access the majority of law-enforcement databases without leaving a footprint.
The door to the massive gun safe hung ajar. Beneath a row of untraceable, aluminum-forged, custom-machined ARES 1911 pistols, a slender silver case the size of a checkbook rested on a shelf.
Evan opened it.
Ten radio-frequency identification-tagged fingernails and a high-def contact lens waited inside.
The device, which Evan had taken from the dead body of one of Van Sciver’s Orphans, served as a double-blind means of communication between Evan and his nemesis.
Evan applied the nails to his fingertips and inserted the lens. A virtual cursor floated several feet from his head.
He moved his fingers in the space before him, typing in thin air: HERE.
A moment later Van Sciver’s reply appeared: EXCELLENT. ARE YOU READY?
Evan took a deep breath, wanting to hold on to these last precious seconds before his world flew apart.
He typed: YES.
*
Jack finally decided enough was enough and pulled his truck over onto a broad dirt fire road that split an endless field of cotton. Dust from the tires ghosted its way down the deserted strip of road. He couldn’t see the chopper in the darkness, but he heard it circling high overhead. He threw the truck into park, kept his eyes pegged on the rearview, and waited, his breath fogging in the winter chill.
Sure enough, SUV headlights appeared. Then another set. The vehicles parked ten yards off his rear bumper. Three more black SUVs came at him from the front. He watched them grow larger in the windshield until they slant-parked, hemming him in.
He traced his fingers absently on the driver’s window, drawing patterns. Shot a breath at the dashboard. Then, groaning, he climbed out.
The men piled out of the vehicles in full battle rattle, M4 carbines raised. A few of the men held AK-47s instead. “Both hands! Let’s see ’em.”
“Okay, okay.” Jack wearily patted the air in their direction, showing his palms.
He was still pretty goddamned fit for a man in his seventies, but he’d noticed that his baseball-catcher build had started to soften over the past few months no matter how many push-ups and sit-ups he did each morning. The years caught up to everyone.
He breathed in fresh soil and night air. The cotton stretched out forever, dots of white patterned against brown stems, like snow melting on a rocky hillside. It was Thanksgiving Day; the harvest looked to be running late.
He watched the men approach, how they held their weapons, where their eyes darted. They moved well enough, but two of them had their left thumbs pointing up on the magazine well grips rather than aligned with the AK barrels. If they were forced to switch shooting sides, the charging handles would smash their thumbs when they cycled.
Freelancers. Not Orphans. Definitely not Orphans.
But there were fifteen of them.
A few grabbed Jack, patted him down roughly, and zip-tied his hands behind his back.
One man stepped forward. His shaved head gleamed in the headlights’ glow. The plates of his skull ridged his shiny scalp. It was not a pretty head. It could have used a bit of cover.
He raised a radio to his lips. “Target secured.”
The others shifted in place, boots creaking.
“Relax, boys,” Jack said. “You did good.”
The guy lowered the radio. “You’re finished, old man.”
Jack pursed his lips, took this in with a vague nod. “He’ll come for you.” He cast his eyes across the freelancers. “With all the fury in the world.”
The men blinked uncomfortably.
The door of the closest SUV opened, and another man stepped into view. Compact and muscular. He threw his sculpted arms wide, as if greeting a long-lost relative.
“You’re a hard man to track down, Jack Johns,” he said.
Jack took his measure. “Jordan Thornhill. Orphan R.”
Surprise flickered across Thornhill’s face. “You know me?”
“Of you anyway,” Jack observed. “When you live as long as I have, son, you have eyes and ears in a lot of places.”
“You’re fortunate,” Thornhill said, “to have lived so long.”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “I was.”
The whoomping grew louder. A Black Hawk banked into view over the hillside and set down before them. Dirt and twigs beat at them. Jack closed his eyes against the rotor wash.
As the rotors spun down, a pair of geared-up men emerged. They wore flight suits and parachutes and looked generally overprepared. Three more men and the pilot waited inside the chopper.
Jack shouted, “A bit of overkill, don’t you think?”
Thornhill shouted, “We owe a debt of gratitude to helicopters this week!”
Jack didn’t know what to make of that.
“Well,” he said, “let’s get on with it, then.”
The two men in flight suits took Jack by either arm and conveyed him over to the helo. The others hauled him in. As they lifted off, Jack caught a bird’s-eye view of Thornhill vanishing back into the SUV as smoothly as he’d appeared. Two freelancers headed to search Jack’s truck, and the others peeled off to their respective vehicles and drove away.
The helo rose steeply and kept rising. Black Hawks have an aggressive rate of climb, and the pilot seemed intent on showing it off. This wasn’t gonna be a joyride. No, this trip had another purpose entirely.
Jack had done more jumps than he could count, so he knew how to roughly gauge altitude by the lights receding below.
They passed ten thousand feet.
Fifteen.
Somewhere north of that, they stopped and hovered.
One of the men donned a bulky headset and readied a handheld digital video camera.
Another slid open the doors on either side.
Wind ripped through the cabin, making Jack stagger. Given his cuffed wrists, he couldn’t use his arms for balance, so he took a wide stance.
The cameraman shouted, “Look into the camera!”
Jack did as told.
The cameraman listened to someone over his headset and then said, “What are your current protocols for contacting Orphan X?”
Jack shuffled closer, the wind blasting his hair, and squinted into the lens. “Van Sciver, you can’t honestly believe this will work on me.”
The cameraman listened again and then repeated his question.
Jack’s shoulders ached from his hands being cinched behind his back, but he knew he wouldn’t have to bear the pain much longer.