Gregg Hurwitz - Prodigal Son

It took a missile between fifteen and thirty seconds to reach its target, during which they assumed he’d entered the house.

He’d survived for only one reason, and that was because he’d been held up on the patio, reading Mr. Chang-Hoon Baek’s newspaper.

Evan finally reached the covered parking garage, ducked into his low-end Nissan, and gripped the wheel. It was shaded and quiet down here. He realized he was breathing hard, his chest heaving. That his clothes were smudged with ash. That his eyes were still watering.

Eight knuckles lined on the top of the steering wheel, all of them squeezed to pale. His hands trembled slightly. He stared at them. Made them stop.

Any drone strike on U.S. soil had to have been ordered from within the deepest recesses of the government. It would be a full-black, fully deniable operation. He knew the drill: Tomorrow’s news would say it was a water-heater explosion. As if a water heater could unleash a blast wave sufficient to crush internal organs, turn a house inside out, and aerate a concrete foundation with high-velocity steel shrapnel.

When General Atomics weaponized a drone in 2001, the state of warfare had been irreversibly altered. Pilots assumed a godlike power, hovering above the fray looking down, unleashing a thunderbolt from the heavens when they saw fit. For them it was a bloodless, odorless, soundless affair, more like hunting than fighting. Drones were what the DoD had hoped would make Orphans defunct, but they’d learned soon enough that human operators were still required on the ground. Those who would bear the risk and the cost. Those willing to get close enough to feel the warmth of the blood, to hear the suck of lungs through a slit throat, to smell the wreckage of voided bowels, the last hot fumes of life expiring.

The only good news was that they’d taken their shot—a norm-destroying illicit operation on U.S. soil—and they were unlikely to risk another cover-up. There were only so many atomic water heaters they could claim in the news.

Evan wiped the sweat off his forehead, left a streak of blood and ash. He’d have to clean up at the safe house before showing his face at Castle Heights. Then he’d regroup and figure out just what the hell was going on.

He thumbed on his RoamZone and called Veronica’s prepaid phone.

She answered quickly. “Hello, Private Caller.”

“Are you trying to have me killed?”

“What? Of course not.”

Evan made out voices in the background—a dinner party? He thought he recognized the sharp timbre of former fútbol star Chancellor Matías Quiroga’s voice fussing about something.

Veronica hushed whoever it was, came back to Evan. “Why would you ask that?”

“Because I went to your guy’s house and it blew up.”

“It doesn’t help to exaggerate, dear. But I’m sorry you’re finding it troubling.” Then, sharply, her mouth off the receiver, “I said I’ll be there in a minute.” Back to Evan. “I’m doing my best to get to Los Angeles tomorrow.” She rattled off a Bel Air address. “I should be there by midday. Why don’t you come by around one? A little mother-son time.”

He could hear the smile in her voice, but he wasn’t in the mood.

“What kind of trouble is this guy in?” Evan asked. “Duran?”

“I honestly don’t know,” she said. “He was terrified when we spoke and not making much sense. All I know is that there are people after him. And that he’s scared for his life.”

Evan said, “He should be,” and hung up.

16Outsize Monikers and Well-Honed Skills

A long-term-storage shed with a roll-down orange door was admittedly an uninspired place to commit torture. But one had to work with what one had. And it was quiet enough here, with the oceanic roar of the 110 Freeway a stone’s throw away, to work on a human body without worrying about being overheard.

The space was mostly empty.

A toolkit.

A sufficiently heavy chair.

And the man zip-tied to it.

To avoid getting blood on his slim-tailored suit jacket, Declan Gentner had removed it before entering and had left it with his sister outside as she preened in her little red Corvette. Queenie could stomach a good deal of violence, but she lacked stamina for the slowly escalating infliction of pain.

While the man in the chair whimpered, Declan removed his platinum cuff links and rolled up the sleeves of his nonwrinkle royal oxford shirt. Growing up broke-ass in east Philly, he and his sister had risen through the ranks of Irish organized crime as wetwork contractors before they outgrew the operations employing them—and the city itself. They both had nicknames, as was a prerequisite for working with any self-respecting East Coast outfit. Given Declan’s sartorial proficiency and the resonance of his surname, he earned the title of “The Gentleman.” And due to Queenie’s talent for bloodletting and her penchant for the color red, they called her “The Queen of Hearts.”

Just another pair of unwanted siblings from Kensington with outsize monikers and well-honed skills. Their mercilessness drove their asking price ever skyward until they were renowned on both coasts. Now they didn’t get out their implements for a job that paid less than seven figures. This narrowed their client base to venture capitalists inclined toward creative accounting, sociopathic scions with inadequate prenups, moguls tangled in inconvenient partnerships. It had been a long climb from the gutter, but they’d arrived, shouldering up to the trough, elbow to elbow with the elite. Local kids done good.

Declan stroked the thin, meticulous lines of beard that edged his jaw. Zip-tied in the chair, Johnny “Mac” Macmanus shuddered. He wore his thinning hair scraped back tightly over his scalp, secured with a man-bun at the nape. It had the unfortunate effect of making it look as though he were wearing a hairnet. “I wish I had anything to tell you, man. Anything . And believe me I would. I don’t give a shit about him. Do I look like someone with honor?”

“He worked with you for seventeen months. He let you borrow his car.” Declan made a conscious effort, as always, to deepen his voice. He had all the musculature of a welterweight boxer, with the voice of Mike Tyson. He wet his lips, the tip of his tongue brushing the fine strip of mustache riding the bottom edge of his upper lip. “I don’t let anyone borrow my car.”

“Talk to his wife, man.” Johnny was sobbing now, drooling freely onto his matted T-shirt. “She’d know.”

“His wife despises him. They’re rarely in touch. She knows nothing.”

“And neither do I. I swear . I don’t know any more than her. Why isn’t she here instead of me?”

“I trust in the predictability of angry women,” Declan said.

He crouched and laid the fine leather toolkit open. Johnny made a moan deep in his chest, like a cow lowing.

Declan ran his fingers across the tools. Surgical steel, smoother than every last thing found in nature.

And sharper.

“There are two hundred and six bones in the adult human body,” he said. “More at birth, but of course they fuse over time.” He removed a tenpenny box nail, ideal for installing clapboard siding, and held it up to the streetlight glow creeping around the edges of the rolling door. “The smallest bone is the stapes, the third of the three ossicles in the middle ear.” Next he lifted a hammer from the toolkit. “It’s tough to get to. But we’ll manage.”

Johnny Mac dipped his head, shadow curtaining his eyes. “Oh, God.”

“The largest bone is the femur,” Declan said. “But I only got to it once. And that was with the aid of an anesthesiologist.”

He stood, hammer in one hand, nail in the other. The more sophisticated equipment he’d save for later. After all, there were 205 more bones that might need tending to. He made sure to square his posture, to pull his shoulders back. He wasn’t as tall as he’d like to have been, so he compensated consciously with ramrod posture, earning every centimeter.