He hung up.
Joey gestured for him furiously, pointing through the gap. Crouching, he peered again through the knothole.
Candy swung through the kitchen, heading for the rear of the house. He couldn’t see her body until it filled the doorway to the backyard.
She held an M4.
She moved swiftly across the porch and strode out to recon the yard.
Joey backpedaled, her sneaker tamping down the foxtails loudly. She cringed at the noise, wobbled to avoid landing her other foot. Evan shot out a hand and grabbed her arm. She was frozen with one leg above the dead weeds. The brittle foxtails stretched all around them, an early-warning system that would broadcast to Candy any move they made.
Firming his grip on Joey’s biceps, Evan swung his head back to the fence. He peered through the knothole, now a foot away. The perspective had the effect of lensing in on the yard.
Candy, twenty yards away and closing.
With his free hand, Evan reached down and tugged his ARES 1911 from the holster. He kept his eyes locked on the knothole.
Candy passed the rusted barbecue, the bore of the M4 facing them, a full circle of black.
She swept toward the fence.
Evan lifted the pistol and aimed through the silver-dollar-size hole.
54
Illegal in Police Departments from Coast to Coast
Evan’s torso twisted, pulled in two directions, Joey’s weight tugging him one way, his drawn ARES aimed the other. He felt a pleasing burn across his chest, ribs unstacking, intercostals stretching.
If he pulled the trigger, he’d drop Candy but the sound would alert Van Sciver and his men. Then he’d be in retreat with a sixteen-year-old and eight in the mag, pursued by six trained men armed with long guns.
Not ideal.
But he’d handled not-ideal before.
Candy neared the rear fence. He sighted on the hollow of her throat. Her critical mass filled the knothole, blocking out everything else.
His finger tightened on the trigger.
“V!”
Van Sciver’s voice from the house halted her in her tracks. She pivoted, M4 swinging low at her side.
She was no more than four feet from the fence line.
The gun was steady in Evan’s hand, aimed at the fabric of her shirt fluttering across her back. He’d punch the round through her marred flesh, two inches right of her spine beneath the blade of her shoulder.
Despite Evan’s grip, Joey wobbled on her planted foot, her other arm whipping high as she rebalanced herself. In Evan’s peripheral vision, he sensed her raised boot brush the tips of the foxtails.
“We just picked up a 911 call!” Van Sciver shouted across the yard. “Armed man and a teenage girl at McClair Children’s Mental Health Center.”
“They’re one step behind,” Candy said.
“Let’s meet them there.”
Candy jogged back toward the house, her figure shrinking in the telescope lens of the knothole. As she receded, Evan released Joey’s arm. Joey eased her other foot down to the ground, the weeds crackling softly. She came to Evan’s side to watch through the fence.
At the house Van Sciver swung out of the rear door, keys in hand. Thornhill and Candy flanked him across the yard, Delmonico and Shea in their wake.
The two other freelancers had been drawn onto the back porch by the commotion.
“Hangebrauck—wipe the notebook,” Van Sciver called out to the bigger of the two, a hefty guy with an armoring of muscle layered over some extra girth.
“Yes, sir.”
“Bower, eyes on the front.”
Bower, a lanky man with sunken eyes, scratched at his neck. “Yes, sir.”
Across the yard Delmonico slid back the gate, the rusty wheels screeching. Van Sciver and Candy hopped into the Tahoe, Shea and Thornhill into the nearest Suburban, and they backed the SUVs out. The Suburban idled in the driveway, waiting on Delmonico as he closed the gate, wiping himself from view.
There was a moment of stillness, Hangebrauck’s head tilted back as he sniffed the ash-tinged air. And then he went into the house again.
Bower met him in the kitchen with a red notebook.
It looked just like the notebook Evan had found in the Portland headquarters.
Hangebrauck carried it into the kitchen. Then he placed it in the microwave. The lit carousel spun, rotating the notebook.
Joey looked over at Evan, her brow furled.
Bizarre.
As Bower disappeared once again to the front of the house, Hangebrauck walked into the living room and stared down at David Smith. The boy lay quietly, half off the tarp, his cheek smashed to the floorboards, his thin shoulders rising and falling.
Hangebrauck slung his M4 and sat on the high end of the decline bench, a bored expression on his face. He dug something out from beneath a thumbnail.
Joey leaned toward Evan, her sneakers crackling in the weeds. “There are still two of them,” she whispered.
Evan smiled.
*
Evan didn’t have a suppressor. A gunshot would alert the neighbors. He would have to use his hands.
He moved silently along the side of the house and came up on the open back door. Hangebrauck remained on the decline bench, gazing blankly through the sole uncovered rear window into the yard. A dark hall led to the front of the house and to Bower.
Evan waited.
After a time Hangebrauck stood and stretched his back, his shirt tugging up and showing off a pale bulge of flesh at the waistband. He gave a little groan. Resting his hand on the butt of the carbine, he walked to the window.
Over his shoulder Evan’s reflection ghosted into sight in the pane.
Evan’s right elbow was raised, pointing at the nape of Hangebrauck’s neck.
The big man’s eyes barely had time to widen before Evan reached over his crown, grabbed his forehead, and yanked his head back into his elbow.
The bony tip of Evan’s ulna served as the point of impact, crushing into the base of Hangebrauck’s skull, turning the medulla oblongata into gray jelly.
A reinforced horizontal elbow smash.
The man didn’t fall so much as crumple.
Evan stripped the M4 cleanly from Hangebrauck as he dropped out of the sling.
The thump made a touch more noise than Evan would have liked.
He tilted the M4 against the wall and moved quickly down the hall. He got to the entryway just as Bower pivoted into sight, rifle raised.
Evan jacked Bower’s gun to the side, the man’s grip faltering. He spun Bower into the momentum of the first blow and seized him from behind, using a triangular choke hold made illegal in police departments from coast to coast. Evan bent Bower’s head forward into the crook of his arm, pinching off the carotid arteries on either side. Bower made a soft gurgling sound and sagged, heavy in Evan’s grip.
Evan lowered him to the floor.
Thirteen down.
Twelve to go.
Evan walked back to David Smith. Crouching, he found a strong pulse on the boy’s neck. He noticed a slit on the forearm, recently sutured, but otherwise the kid looked fine. He’d probably gotten sliced during the snatch and Van Sciver had patched him up.
The room looked to have been recently cleaned, but despite that a bad odor lingered. Sporadic water spots darkened the walls, the plaster turning to cottage cheese. Scrub marks textured the floorboards. The bristles had left behind a thin frothed wake of bleach, the white edged with something else not quite the shade of coffee.
Evan knew that color.
He stepped into the kitchen. The glass plate was still spinning inside the microwave. He stopped the timer, grabbed the red notebook from inside, and shoved it into his waistband.
He went back to David Smith, slung him over his shoulder, and walked out the front door into broad daylight.
Joey had the minivan on the move already, easing to the front curb, the side door rolled back. Evan set the boy down gently inside, climbed in, and they drove off.
55
Vanished in Plain Sight
They were halfway across Richmond when the kid woke up.
Puffy lids parted, revealing glazed eyes. David Smith lifted his head groggily, groaned, and lowered it back to the bench seat of the minivan.