Gregg Hurwitz - Prodigal Son

He’d betrayed all three.

This mission—from Veronica to Danny to Andre—reached back to that youngest part of Evan. It had found the red-hot center of his vulnerability, the scarred-over wound that made him afraid to hope or belong or have dreams of his own.

He needed to go into the bathroom and set it right.

And yet his feet stayed rooted. His legs didn’t obey.

He glared at Andre. Andre glared back, his chest heaving. “And what the fuck are you ?” he said. “Always on the lookout for someone to save. You need it, feed off it. Other people’s weaknesses. It’s the only thing that defines you, ’cuz you don’t have anything else. Deep down you know you’re nothing on your own. Just like me.”

Evan felt his heartbeat fluttering the skin at his temple. His breath stretching his intercostals. The low simmer of rage waiting for an excuse to bubble over.

He thought about what he’d been through, from the Buenos Aires Provincial Police to the Hellfire missile, from Kern Prison to the ambush at the impound lot, from Molleken’s battle lab to the battering he’d taken at Creech North.

Andre wasn’t worth it. Whatever duty-bound sentiment had pulled Evan out of retirement wasn’t worth it. Even Veronica and the mysterious wisdom she might or might not hold wasn’t worth it. The anger welling inside him felt fresh and pure, fueled with all the vitality of youth, untempered by age or wisdom.

“You don’t care about me,” Andre said. “This is just some favor for Ms. LeGrande.”

Evan just breathed. Fresh air in. Stale air out. Holding himself at bay.

Andre scowled at him. “I never asked for your help.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Like I said, leave me the fuck alone.”

Evan took a step forward. Filled the doorway of the bathroom. Andre recoiled in fear, and Evan was ashamed at the twinge of satisfaction that gave him.

He stared down at Andre, cringing against the toilet, filthy and pathetic and lost.

“Gladly,” he said, and moved from the squalor down the stairs and out into the clean night air.

55Lost Cause

As Evan blazed across the city to Bel Air, his RoamZone rang. He smacked to answer, and Joey’s voice came through the Bluetooth. “We have to talk.”

“Not a good time.”

“I’ve been combing through the code from Molleken’s battle lab and the stuff from that Pixel phone you stole, but it wasn’t the full picture. I’m getting my head into the Creech North databases now, and looks like Molleken’s running most of their engineering initiatives. He’s got whatever clearances he needs pertaining to”—and here Joey paused to put on her Important Voice—“remotely piloted, unmanned, and autonomous weapons systems.”

“Joey—”

“Dude’s got cray-cray access to do what he wants under the guise of training or R ‘n’ D and the database access to cover it up. Like take a Predator out for a spin or assess the high-value-target list or overwrite commands. Which means it’s looking way worse for Andre than we thought.”

“I don’t care.”

A confused pause. “What?”

“I’m aborting the mission.”

“Why?”

“Because the guy is self-destructive. I can’t help him.”

“You’re just gonna let them kill him?”

“It’s not my business anymore,” Evan said. “He never asked for my help. He never wanted my help. He’s made that clear.”

“What about your mother?”

“She’s not my mother. You should understand that.”

“Fine, okay.” Joey’s tone was, for once, accommodating, conciliatory. She was backpedaling and sounded unsettled, maybe even rattled. “But, like, you promised her you’d—”

“One week after she gave birth, she dumped me into the system. She left me there all those years until Jack saved me. Since she’s reared her head, I’ve almost gotten killed at every turn. And for what? For her ? I don’t owe that woman a goddamned thing. And I’m going to tell her that.”

“But Andre—”

“Joey. It’s over .”

A stunned beat.

“This isn’t you,” she insisted, her voice little-girl brave.

“Maybe you don’t know me,” Evan said.

For the first time he recalled, she couldn’t find words. As he screeched up in front of the Bel Air mansion, he severed the connection.

Storming up the walk through the iron gate, palm trees throwing jagged shade. In the river the swans were tucked into themselves, neat origami packages of white floating beneath bowing fronds. He banged the ridiculous greyhound door knocker, the yappy dogs exploding to life inside.

A minute later the architectural door opened, a split in the towering façade of the house. Veronica stood in the gap, heeling the dogs back, a gin and tonic bubbling in hand.

“Evan, I’m just visiting with a friend.” She took in his face, the bruises, the scowl, her gaze sharpening. “Are you—”

He brushed past her into the house, the dogs scrabbling across the concrete stepping blocks, barking their high-pitched barks and barely avoiding tumbling into the dark-tiled pool.

Moving through the kitchen he said, “Off,” and they dispersed with great agitation and shot away into various halls.

Veronica hurried to catch up, and they entered the sunken living room together. A handsome woman around Veronica’s age was sitting at the bar, leafing through a wedding album and draining the last of her G&T. She wore heavy makeup and looked—as least from this distance—to have been nipped and tucked with admirable subtlety.

“Oh, hello,” she said.

At Evan’s elbow Veronica said, “Janet, this is my—” She hesitated. “My son.”

The word hung there, lead-heavy.

“Oh? I didn’t know you had…” Janet trailed off.

An uncomfortable silence proceeded.

Evan cut through it. “Can you give us some privacy?”

“Oh.” For Janet that seemed to be the start to every sentence. She gave a nervous chipmunk laugh, short and stuttering, a rock skipping across water. “I was just showing your … mother … photos from my grandson’s wedding.”

Evan said nothing. Veronica drifted to the bar and freshened up her own gin and tonic. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly to Janet.

Her friend gathered the thick album to her chest like a shield and strode out, her head held high, a skilled practitioner of the dignified exit.

Veronica sat at a barstool, turned mostly away from Evan. “What’s wrong?”

“What the hell are we doing here? You and I? Do you really care about Andre? Why did you throw me in with him?”

“I beg your pardon.” She seemed to be only a few drinks in, still fresh-faced, though her cheeks were starting to flush with emotion.

“Let’s call it what it is. Andre’s a lost cause. Some people are just broken.”

“Is that what you believe?”

“He convinced me.”

The lines in her neck tensed. “Stern words from a professional assassin.”

“Yes. And you found me . You asked for my help.”

“And you have been helping him. In other ways, right? God, maybe I thought in saving him you could save yourself, too. It’s not just about killing people.”

“No. It’s not. I choose to help people who deserve it, to keep them safe. I eliminate obstacles between me and that goal. Sometimes those obstacles are very dangerous people. And if that’s horrifying to you, feel free to crawl back into whatever luxurious hole you’ve been living in these past sixty-some years.”

“Sixty- two ,” she objected, with an amused purse of her lips, though it faded as quickly as it had arisen. “I’d imagine that someone with your background has kept company with a wide spectrum of people. What is it about Andre you find so personally repulsive?”