Orphan X

38 A Shield of Killers

The sound of a woman sobbing never failed to get under his skin.

Danny Slatcher remained one hall over from the empty office where Candy had secured Katrin White, but still the whimpering carried. They’d set up in an unrented and seemingly unrentable building off the 101 near Calabasas. The isolated structure, situated back behind a big, empty parking lot, had an impractical V-shaped design. The two long halls led to various offices, the meeting rooms tacked onto the rear, facing a scrubby hillside.

A kitchen-atrium, suffused with the reek of dead ferns, was wedged gracelessly in the junction, caught in the throat of the building.

Standing now in the miasma of rotting plants, Slatcher wore the RFID-tagged press-on nails and the fully pixelated contact lens seated on his right eyeball.

The blinking virtual cursor finally turned from red to green.

Top Dog texted a single symbol:?

Slatcher’s fingers moved in a flurry through the air. WE’VE SECURED HER. WILL USE HER TO LURE HIM IN.

TD texted, HOW IS ORPHAN V PERFORMING?

TD loved the code names, the pedigree.

Slatcher typed, FINE.

THE FREELANCERS?

NOT SO FINE.

RUNNING THROUGH THEM, AREN’T YOU?

THERE’S A REASON THEY’RE FREELANCERS, Slatcher typed. WE NEED THEM TO CORRAL THE TARGET.

TD texted, ORPHAN X IS SMARTER THAN THE AVERAGE BEAR.

YES, SIR. HE IS.

The cursor converted back to red.

TD wasn’t big on sign-offs.

Danny peeled off the comms gear, placed it back in its slender metal box, and left the stink of the forsaken atrium, heading down the hall toward the sobs.

The cluster of new hires had gathered in the lobby. With their squared-off heads and PED-swollen muscles, they were all military-gone-bad, though this didn’t bother Slatcher in the least. He’d long ago learned that the dishonorably discharged were often the meanest and sharpest assaulters. Slatcher wanted a shield of killers in place around Katrin White and Candy McClure until Orphan X lay dead at his feet.

The conversation ceased as Slatcher cut through the men and headed down the adjoining hall. The door to the utility office was ajar. Candy squatted inside the dank concrete rectangle of a room, lovingly checking her plastic jugs of hydrofluoric acid concentrate. She stepped out to join Slatcher as he kept on.

“Should we tell her?” Slatcher asked.

Candy nodded. “Let’s tell her. It’ll motivate her to behave.”

They entered the last office on the left. Katrin, blissfully quiet at last, remained where they’d left her, shackled to a desk. Beside her, an untouched bag of McDonald’s. The window that looked out onto the hill was nailed shut. Sweat matted Katrin’s sleek bangs to her forehead, and her face was swollen from crying. Slatcher’s backhand had ballooned her left cheek, a red-wine spill creeping into her eye.

“You’re not gonna eat?” Candy asked.

Katrin’s eyes barely lifted. “I’m not hungry.”

Slatcher crouched over her. “Sam is alive and well,” he said. “We needed to scare you. We needed you to cry real tears. In front of Evan.”

Katrin’s lips parted, but she made no sound. “No,” she said. “No. You’re lying. You’re lying to me.”

“We did what we had to do to get Evan where we needed him. Emotionally. We needed him reckless. Willing to take more risks.”

Katrin’s eyes were running. Her thin arms shook uncontrollably. “You did that to me just to convince him … to convince him…”

“Look at me. Look at me.” Slatcher’s huge hand clamped down over Katrin’s chin. He jerked her face to his. “If you cooperate fully with us, Sam will live. Do you understand me?”

Katrin nodded in his viselike grip, her tears dampening his knuckles. “I just want it all to be over.”

“It’ll be over when Evan is dead.”

Slatcher released her, and Katrin’s muscles went slack. She melted to the floor, her cheek pressed to the thin carpeting. Grease spotted the fast-food bag by her face, the smell turning her stomach.

As Slatcher came off his haunches, he seemed to keep rising and rising.

He exited.

Candy remained behind, leaning back on the desk and examining her nails, her pert pretty face wearing a look of mild boredom.

Katrin sucked in one shallow breath after another but couldn’t seem to find any air.

“Shitty Russian hit men,” Candy said, “focus on destroying dentals. Then they chop off their victims’ fingertips and put them in a glass of beer to erase the prints. But me? I’m not a shitty Russian hit man. I don’t go for that penny-ante crap.” With a fluid motion, she pulled herself off the desk, her body seeming to roll forward onto her feet. Her boots planted themselves delicately in front of Katrin’s face, and then she leaned down, bringing a waft of girly perfume. “I prefer to erase the entire person. We may not have done that to Sam yet.” She nestled her lips against Katrin’s ear. “But I’m dying to.”

She stood over Katrin, those shapely legs sturdy and spread, Colossus of Rhodes with a bleach job. “So please,” she said, “don’t cooperate.”

Even after she walked out, Katrin couldn’t catch her breath.