Gregg Hurwitz - Prodigal Son

Right now he would have taken something with more penetrating power. An assault team this well coordinated would come with body armor.

He stared at his Ford F-150 through the gate and across the street. The job of his pistol was to get him to that truck, because the locked vaults in the bed held World War III. But within seconds the Teslas would be between him and it.

Outnumbered. Less-than-optimal ammo. Cut off from a munitions upgrade.

This would go down very fast, one way or another.

He ran a quick tap-and-tug on the ARES to quadruple-check that the magazine was full. Taking a high, firm grip on the pistol to disengage the grip safety, he snapped off the manual safety with his thumb and swung up to peek over the hood of the Bronco, tracking the vehicles over the barrel. He liked a narrow front-sight blade and a lot of light around the blade in the rear-sight notch. The Teslas breached the front gate, flashing into the lot—one, two, three.

Evan ducked back down. Andre was looking at him as if he’d never seen him before.

“Are these guys here to kill me?”

Evan said, “Probably.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Ascertain whether they are. And if so, kill them first.”

Andre’s mouth gaped a bit.

Behind them headlight beams strobed through myriad shattered windshields, the vehicles nearing.

Evan head-tilted at the Ferrari backed into the space next to them, the maw of the front trunk low and beckoning and reinforced with bullet-resistant carbon-fiber. “I need you to get in.”

“What? There’s no fucking way I’m gonna—”

Still crouching, Evan grabbed Andre in a wrist lock, forced the joint to urge him off the ground, and flipped him into the trunk.

“Stay here. Don’t move.”

Andre blinked up at him as Evan slammed the lid. It wedged shut with a grinding of metal.

Staying low, Evan pivoted back to the Bronco and peered through the side windows.

The Teslas neared the dark kiosk, spreading out.

Driver and passenger doors opened in concert. Two men spilled out of each car.

Gym-burly, dark polo shirts, black Polartec masks covering the lower halves of their faces—everything about these men screamed private military contractors.

Down to their slung MP5s and the Browning Hi-Power clones on their hips.

The six men fanned out, forming a semicircle around the kiosk.

Raised their submachine guns.

And aerated the kiosk.

The sound was thunderous. Glass shattering, wood splintering, the flimsy paneling yielding under the barrage until the kiosk sagged to one side.

No concern about being heard or seen—they were here to neutralize Andre at any cost and kill anyone else who got in the way.

One of the men—the team leader?—moved to the door and kicked it open. Surveyed the interior. Shook his head. Backed out.

His voice carried to Evan. “We need the scene completely cleaned. Witnesses and—if need be—first responders.” He nodded at his partner. “Diaz, hold center position at the kiosk. Go.” He gave a quick circle of his upturned finger, a command to search and destroy, and then climbed into his Tesla and got on the phone. Reporting back.

The other five operators pivoted to the rows of cars, spreading out, each taking a different corridor through the wreckage. Evan flattened to the ground, praying that Andre would stay silent.

The Bronco was high enough that he could roll beneath it to note the men’s positions. The heftiest operator and the two heading to the darker outskirts of the lot flipped down monocular night-vision headgear for hands-free. The two staying nearest the kiosk held tactical LED high-lumen flashlights; the tallest shoved his Polartec mask down around his neck, holding the flashlight between his teeth so he could wield his MP5 with both hands. The team leader waited in the Tesla, his form visible behind the windshield, phone pressed to his cheek.

Outnumbered six to one, Evan would have to delay giving away his position as long as possible. And determine who to pick off first.

Jack’s voice came to him as a memory-whisper: The Ninth Commandment: Always play offense .

Evan gauged the men as they started to disperse, watching their chests and the mist pattern through the Polartec masks to assess their breathing. The hefty guy sweeping the aisle on the north side of the lot and the tall man with the flashlight in his mouth were both jerking in breaths, not quite panicked but not far from it either. The team leader’s partner, Diaz, was circling the kiosk. He looked dead calm, like he’d done this too many times with a positive result, cocky enough to let his guard slip. The other two with monocular night-vision displayed good combat breathing, shuddering intakes, slow exhalations. Appropriately alert but not too nervous.

They’d be the most dangerous.

Evan rolled out from under the Bronco, darting low through the next row of cars, threading past a jagged bumper, and planting himself along the trajectory of the tall operator with the readied MP5 and the flashlight clenched between his teeth. Evan sank low behind a Pathfinder with half its hood sheared off.

He listened to the footfall. Shards of glass crusted the asphalt like jewels, providing a nice crunch that broadcast the man’s position.

Fifteen yards away.

Now ten.

The tight cone of the flashlight appeared at Evan’s side, a cold white beam sweeping left to right. Shadows stretched and warped as the man neared. His nervous inhalations, barely audible, sounded quick and shallow.

Five yards.

Two.

Evan waited for the cone to rotate to the far side of the aisle, which required the man’s face to rotate with it. The beam illuminated the tire inches from Evan’s heel and then swept slowly away.

Evan held until it reached the vehicles across the aisle and then rose, setting his legs and hips to generate power for the punch.

He was standing just beyond the point of the man’s peripheral vision. The silhouette of the flashlight protruded from the guy’s mouth like an anodized-aluminum cigar.

Evan said, “Psst.”

As the man pivoted, Evan hammered the end of the flashlight with a palm-heel strike, his hand flexed back, fingers pointing up. The shaft rocketed back into the man’s mouth and through the soft tissue at the rear of the throat, and there was a crackle as the spinal cord gave way. Evan caught his sagging weight.

He slid the flashlight free of the man’s ruined mouth, clicked it off, and slipped it into his thigh cargo pocket. He thought about taking the MP5 but preferred his own pistol for agility.

The man’s glassy eyes stared up at Evan, tears running down his temples. The stink of his panic breath rose with each fading exhalation. He blinked and then blinked again.

Evan whispered, “It’s okay, now. It’s okay.”

The man stopped blinking.

Evan let him pour to the ground and then was up, scooting between cars, circling the kiosk from a distance and assessing the locations of the remaining five men. The team leader had turned the Tesla around to aim it at the open front gate, ready for a getaway.

Diaz kept a tight rotation around the kiosk, MP5 held casually, aimed outward. Still too confident.

No sounds of approaching bystanders. No distant sirens. Just a car alarm screaming somewhere in the distance. Given the men’s kill orders, Evan hoped the lot was sufficiently isolated not to draw bystanders. Still, he didn’t want to take his time and find out.

Creeping through the maze of cars, making his way around the kiosk, he stuck his head up at intervals to track the men’s movements around the lot. The night air chilled his throat, his lungs. He finally reached the back side of the kiosk, taking a position so it blocked him from view of the team leader’s idling Tesla.