Gregg Hurwitz - Prodigal Son

They lifted from the field, taking flight invisibly, unnoticed among their larger brethren.

They were programmed to carry out orders without requiring a human in the decision loop, so one of them hacked into the DMV registration database, determining that the Civic had been purchased at a used-car lot in Barstow at 11:57 A.M. on December 12.

Zipping west, the others had joined the virtual pursuit, determining that the new-owner registration had been faked. The pawnshop across the street had a Web-connected surveillance camera that partially captured the entrance to the used-car lot. The drones’ computerized brains dug through the archived memory to zero in on vehicles that had entered the lot in the minutes preceding 11:57 A.M.

The images of the drivers were imprecise, but the side-angle view of shadowed torsos and arms had enough nodal points to match the buyer of the Civic to a man who’d arrived in a Ford F-150. The truck’s license plate led to another dead end, but the microdrone used its Aircrack-ng Wi-Fi cracking software to perform a deauth attack on the network of the automated license-plate-recognition system that continuously recorded and stored scans of passing cars from sensors embedded in the light bars of police cruisers.

The Ford’s license plate didn’t record a lot of hits, indicating that it had likely been changed recently, but the preponderance of pings occurred in Greater Los Angeles, concentrating further around the Wilshire Corridor.

The four dragonflies flew across state lines in tight formation and arrived in the targeted zone on December 21, spreading out to monitor traffic. On the morning of the 22nd, they switched strategy, focusing on the residential buildings within a five-block stretch. They pulled blueprints and building permits from online city records to determine vulnerabilities in the apartments that could be exploited—load-bearing walls and water heaters and gas lines. And they started moving window to window.

Now it was only a matter of time.

73A Little Tiny Part

The lobby of Castle Heights sported a bunch of new decorations courtesy of Peter’s Crayolas: obese snowmen and misshapen reindeer proliferating across the walls. There was also what appeared to be a Buddha floating in the clouds, which at second glance proved to be baby Jesus swathed in blankets. Over the mail slots, a banner spelled out MERRY CHRISTMAS EVE with alternating red and green letters, except for the R ’s in “Merry,” which were both red, no doubt a spelling mishap set right. The “Eve” was on its own printout, ready to be removed in the morning. Peter was an amazing kid when he wasn’t busy being rotten.

Since the raid on Creech North, Evan had barely left his penthouse, nursing himself back to health, eating well, stretching, meditating, and indulging more cautiously than before in the occasional jigger of vodka.

Lorilee entered just after Evan, shopping-bag handles riding both arms like bracelets. “Just a little retail therapy!” she proclaimed chirpily as Joaquin flashed his standard-issue smile behind the security desk and called the elevator.

She and Evan boarded together, riding up in silence. A new perfume had been applied liberally, puffing out from her with each small movement. She wore a merry red blouse in keeping with the season.

He remembered her sitting in the chair in the lobby, despondent over her non-move, how she’d delicately dabbed at her eyes so as not to ruin the made-up face she presented to the world.

Bearing down mentally, he tried to sort the logic of small talk.

He started to speak, lost his nerve, then steeled himself and tried again. “Is that a new blouse?”

She melted. “Yes. I bought it yesterday. I thought it was fun for the holidays.”

They reached the third floor, the doors parting to let her out.

Evan said, “It looks nice.”

She turned back, beaming, her face colored with delight. “Thank you.”

In the aftermath of her departure, he breathed her lingering perfume and thought about how little it had taken to impart that much joy. She’d felt noticed. At the end of the day, maybe that was all anyone wanted.

The penthouse button was lit up, his bedroom beckoning. But he reached out and thumbed the button for the twelfth floor.

He strode down to 12B and rang the bell. When Mia opened the door, her face was flushed from cooking. A rush of warm scents drifted out at him—gravy and fresh-baked bread and a sweet citrus tinge. The prenegotiated Christmas tree rose in the corner of the living room, trimmed to exhaustion.

“Sorry I’ve been MIA,” Evan said. “Work stuff.”

He sensed her gaze snag on the bruise on his cheek, the bandage wrapping his forearm.

She said, “Is that so?”

Peter poked his head up from the kitchen table. “Evan Smoak! Come in. I’m making clove oranges.”

Mia tugged at his good arm, pulling him inside. Peter was shoving cloves into an orange, his jaws mashing on chewing gum energetically enough to be heard across the room. A few oranges already studded with cloves rested by his elbow, exuding a delightful holiday scent. He wore a pale yellow dress shirt this time, cuffed sleeves dangling from his elbows.

“I’m gonna make five of ’em, and I’m gonna put ’em in a bowl for the security desk so Joaquin can have them there and the lobby’ll smell all Christmassy.”

Evan said, “That’s—”

“And I hafta show you this video that’s super gnarly. This YouTube guy? He lets himself get stung by, like, scorpions and stuff.”

Mia crossed her arms. “When did you—”

“Oh! Stick your fingertip in your ear. Like this. Now wiggle it up and down. Sounds like Pac-Man, right? Right?”

Evan said, “I’m not really a video-game—”

“And wait! Watch this!” Peter swigged from a glass of Martinelli’s sparkling apple cider. The bottle next to him looked mostly empty, the sugar rush no doubt accounting for his octane-powered patter. He tilted his head back and gargle-sang. It took a moment for Evan to register that he was performing “Drummer Boy.”

Peter threw his arms wide for a carbonated pa-rum-pum-pum-pum .

“Stop that,” Mia said. “Not with gum! You’re going to—”

Peter choked, coughing cider all over the table, drops splattering the front of Evan’s shirt.

As Evan looked down in dismay, Mia sank her face into her hands. “Apologize to Mr. Danger. And go to your room for a time-out.”

“Sorry,” Peter said, wiping his chin.

He scampered off, and Mia sank into a chair. After a moment Evan joined her.

“Some days I think that the main job of a parent is to keep your kids from having fun,” she said.

“Or to keep them from killing themselves.”

“That, too.” Fanning herself with one hand, she shoved her curls up off her face. When she released them, she left streaks of flour in her hair.

“You have—”

“What?”

He reached over and brushed it off.

“You’re smiling,” she said. “Didn’t know your face was capable of that.”

“Oh, come on, I smile.”

“No, you smirk ,” she said.

They looked at each other, amused.

She said, “I assume you stopped by so I could invite you to dinner tonight with my brother and his wife.”

“Actually, I stopped by to talk to Peter. But now you’ve excommunicated him.”

“He can come out in—” She glanced past Evan through the doorway into Peter’s bedroom and shouted, “Don’t put your gum there !” Returning to Evan, who’d jerked back in his chair at her shift in tone. “Sorry. Does that mean no to dinner?”

“I’d love to join you for dinner.”

“Really?” She smiled now, that full, radiant grin he felt in his spine.