Orphan X

45 Human Hive

Slatcher’s voluminous form was crowded between the metal plates high above the ground. Though the hum of electricity filled his head, the phone connection remained pristine, an earbud receiver collecting Evan’s voice.

Evan had been breathing hard when he’d picked up, as if he were rushing somewhere. Slatcher had made it clear that he was controlling the board now, telling Evan where he needed to rush to.

“Universal CityWalk,” Slatcher said. “The plaza by the movie theaters.”

“Nice choice,” Evan said. “Hard to imagine a more crowded location.”

Slatcher spoke using a microphone patch over his larynx that pulled his voice directly through the skin, filtering out all ambient noise. “Thank you. I assume you’re close enough to make it by midnight.”

“I can make it by midnight.”

That was good. Slatcher wanted to provide Evan with enough time to case the area. But not too much time.

“Good. I’ll take you to Katrin from there.”

“It’s not gonna go down that way,” Evan said. “I will approach you once I’ve made sure I’m safe. In the plaza you will show me FaceTime footage of Katrin — proof of life in real time. On your cell phone, I will watch your men release her in a public place. Then I’ll go with you.”

“You’re willing to die for her?”

“I am,” Evan said.

Slatcher felt a grin tug at his mouth. “That’s what it’ll take.”

“Unless I kill you first.”

“Sorry, Orphan X. You’re not that good.”

“We’ll find out,” Evan said. “I have one condition: no field teams. Just me and you. That’s the rules. If I see that you brought anyone—and you know I’ll identify them — I’m in the wind. You’ll miss your shot. And I will not surface again.”

“I thought you said you were willing to die for her.”

“I didn’t say I was willing to commit suicide for her.”

Neon flashed dizzyingly all around Slatcher’s face. He hoisted his bolt-action Remington M700, manipulating it carefully in the claustrophobic space, and checked the Leopold variable power scope. Too much light for the night-vision attachment. “Fair enough,” he said.

“Talk to you soon.”

Click.

But Slatcher wasn’t planning on talking. From his roost inside the two-story-high guitar outside the Hard Rock Cafe, he was planning on ending the conversation before it began.

The clamor of the crowd rose up to him, a continuous mob streaming past, pouring in and out of restaurants, bars, and nightclubs, queuing for the Cineplex, tracing glow bracelets through the air. From this height he could hear the clacking of roller coasters in the amusement park behind.

He stuck the tip of the rifle through the sound hole of the giant suspended guitar, peering through the scope up the length of CityWalk. With its escalators and leaping fountains, tourists and street performers, brewhouses and sing-along piano bars, it hummed with movement, a human hive and grand temple of capitalism. Enough flashing signage bathed the monstrosity of a promenade to shame Times Square. One block down, a glowing blue King Kong hung off the side of a building. Beyond the iMax line, a teenager fluttered above a giant fan in a sky-jumping tube as his friends looked on, slurping Jamba Juice and chewing Wetzel’s Pretzels.

Slatcher switched comms to the radio channel and keyed the primary channel. “Big Daddy to Field Teams One and Two. Abort. Abort. I’m gonna fly solo.”

A moment later a crackle. “Field Team Leader One. You sure? I thought your employer requested body recovery.”

“Can’t risk it,” Slatcher said. “Target’s already late to the dance. I’m in position, holding high ground. He can scout all he wants, but he won’t stand a chance.”

Slatcher spotted the team leader, dressed in a paramedic uniform, on the second deck of the food court by Tommy’s Burgers. He watched the man’s lips moving on a slight delay. “Confirm, Big Daddy. Team One out.”

Another voice chimed in: “Team Two out.”

“Go back to base,” Slatcher said. “Watch the package and provide backup to Hot Mama.”

The sweeping scope captured the second team leader on the patio of a Mexican joint, slurping a fishbowl-size margarita. “Confirm, Big Daddy.”

In the green-tinted night-vision wash, he watched the freelancers disperse. Slatcher couldn’t risk having Orphan X identify one of his men.

Evan would arrive as soon as possible and scrutinize the central plaza from every angle. But against the backdrop of all the lights and motion, a sniper scope would vanish like a blue sequin dropped into the ocean. Slatcher had miscalculated once before in Chinatown. It would not happen again.

He dialed back the magnification and moved the crosshairs from one face to the next as they floated across the plaza beneath him.

Now all he had to do was wait.