Gregg Hurwitz - Prodigal Son

“I’m sure I’ll figure something out,” Candy said. “Will you be on site?”

“Hell no,” Tommy said. “I ain’t raiding no military base. Hell, I probably sold ’em half the gear they’re gonna be looking to train on your sorry asses.”

Candy’s eyes found Joey. “How about you?”

“She’s a minor,” Evan said. “She’s staying right here with her laptops. She can handle everything remotely.”

“It’s my fate,” Joey said. “Behind every man are badass women doing all the work.”

“I heard a rumor that someone’s looking to retire,” Candy said. “Maybe us badass women should lead the charge after this outing.”

“I keep suggesting that,” Joey said. “But shockingly, he doesn’t listen.”

Tommy stroked his biker mustache and shot a jet of tobacco juice out through the gap between his front teeth, enough to make a tapping sound when it hit the dirt. “Ain’t enough bourbon in my house for me to understand the lengths you all go to to help folks who don’t pay you a red cent.” He side-eyed Evan. “That was a hint.”

Evan pulled three tight rolls of hundreds from his cargo pocket and handed them over to Tommy. Tommy thumbed one of the edges, breathing in the scent of money. Then he started to lumber back to his driver’s seat. He paused. Then swung back around, leaning on his side mirror to look at Evan.

His baggy eyes held concern, though he was never one to give voice to softer emotions. He started to say something, thought better of it, spit again, and cursed softly at the wind.

“I’ll be okay,” Evan said.

Beyond the dunes the coyotes were at it again, singing their death song.

“Wear the brown pants,” Tommy said, turning away once more. “You’re gonna need ’em.”

65Darker Darkness

Evan steered the Honda Civic over the bumpy dirt road through the ruinous landscape of the Nevada National Security Site, the night sky thick enough to hide the recce drones. Joey had made clear she could manipulate the surveillance feeds through a signals intercept, erasing Evan’s vehicle and heat signature. She’d yet to make a boast she’d been unable to back up; even so, as he neared the base, his back prickled with sweat when he thought about the invisible firepower drifting overhead.

At last the solid perimeter fence of Creech North came visible in the night, a seam of darker darkness.

He gave the front security gate a wide berth, peeling off down a side road. Signs at regular intervals urged EXERCISE EXTREME CAUTION. STAY ON THE ROAD. Having seen the rabbit disassembled by a land mine on his last visit, Evan minded the instructions.

He had his radio earpiece in, bone-conduction technology that sent and received audio signals through the walls of the skull, bypassing the outer ear and leaving it open to sounds in the immediate environment. He shared an encrypted channel with Joey and Candy.

Joey had used one of Creech North’s own surveillance drones to watch Molleken’s delivery arrive—two SUVs with tinted windows bookending a black box truck. The convoy had arrived five minutes ago, drifting into the compound easily and driving to the central lab building Evan had infiltrated yesterday. She’d zoomed in with night vision, close enough to identify their weapons, and sent the images to Evan’s RoamZone. Just like the crew sent to take out Andre at the impound lot, the six contractors wore dark polo shirts and carried MP5s and Browning Hi-Power clones. But conducting semilegitimate business here, they’d forgone the black Polartec masks. Nonetheless, they’d be easy enough to differentiate from whatever base personnel remained.

Careful to hold to the road, he pulled near one of the rear gates. There was no guard station here, just a massive solid steel gate braced by concrete barriers.

He stopped in the middle of the road, killed the engine and then his lights. He’d have a few minutes before someone spotted him and came to ask questions.

He hoped that was enough time for Candy.

The Jeep careened up to the checkpoint, windows down, country music blaring, Chely Wright singing about a single white female lookin’ for that special lover.

Two MPs manned the station, one emerging swiftly, M4 carbine at the ready, giving the driver vigorous hand signals to stop. The Wrangler skidded to a halt, and Candy spilled out, a weighty tote bag swinging from her elbow. “Goddamn it, I’m all turned around. I’m supposed to meet the girls for a bachelorette party at Caesar’s Palace, and my GPS says the Strip’s no more than an hour from here, but it keeps glitching.”

“Ma’am, please back up.” He wore the navy-blue beret, sage-green combat boots, and the Airman Battle Uniform with slate-blue incorporated into the camo design. The embroidered name tape read MOORE. Shoulders pinned back in rail-straight posture, dimples in his cheeks, wide jaw. He looked good and liked looking good, and she would use that vanity to crush him.

She’d left the door open, the radio wailing, She just might be your dream come true .

“Goddamn it, it’s hot for December.” She took a wide stance, her stockinged legs shapely above the boots, hips cocked to one side, and lifted the hair from the base of her neck with both hands, a gesture that pushed her chest out and upward.

Moore’s focus moved where she knew it would, and she stepped forward again, letting her hips swing, her body transformed into a hypnotist’s pocket watch. The second MP came out from the guard station because—how could he not?—and said, “Ma’am, this is a classified base. You can’t—”

She pretended to trip, tumbling forward into Moore, her chest pressed to his, her face in his shoulder. Surprised, he caught her under her arms, the M4 sandwiched between them.

A quick glance past him showed the guard station’s door open, the monitors providing a panoramic view of the base perimeter, all that hardware safely ensconced behind the concrete-slab walls.

She giggled—“My gosh, thank you”—untangling but keeping his right arm, clutching it at the triceps so it pulled straight, the elbow locking, her forearm flexing the joint the wrong way. The second MP was stepping closer, and she brought her cheek to Moore’s, whispered, “I’m sorry,” and dislocated the shoulder. As he fell, she stripped the M4 from him, guiding the sling neatly over his head and torso, and wound up holding the carbine aimed directly at the other man’s chest.

Her purse remained slung over her shoulder, tight against her hip.

It held a gaggle of zip ties and the portable EMP weapon.

Moore curled at her feet. To his credit he neither cried nor reached for his backup pistol, but he was breathing hard enough to stir the dirt beneath his mouth.

The MP in front of her kept his arms raised like a good little boy, gloved fingers spread.

“Well,” Candy said with a wink, “aren’t you gonna invite me in?”

Evan felt the movement in the ground first, a deep rumble rising through the worn tires of the Honda Civic, and then the rear access gate parted.

He drove onto the base.

Abundant testing fields lay ahead, resting for another day. They were sleek from a recent rain, moonlight shining through silver puddles, seeming to bore into the earth itself. Carving through them, he clung to a narrow dirt path worn down with Humvee tracks. No signs of life. Eventually hangars rolled past him on either side like barns rising from farmland. A trio of MQ-9 Reapers slumbered beneath a steel overhang, $50 million taking a break. Light tactical vehicles were lined like dominoes in several outdoor parking zones, waiting for war games.

The base was light on personnel as promised, ghost-town desolate. The security breach, which would present as a power-grid glitch, hadn’t roused anyone yet.