The Nowhere Man

3 War Machine

Lurching from stoplight to stoplight, Evan dreamed of vodka. He had a new bottle tucked into the ice drawer of his Sub-Zero, waiting to greet him when he got home. From the outside his Ford F-150 pickup looked like any one of the millions on the roads of America. But with its laminate armor glass, self-seal tires, and built-to-spec push-bumper assembly, it was actually a war machine.

Up ahead, his building came into view. Branded with the inflated title of Castle Heights, the residential tower pinned down the easternmost spot on the Wilshire Corridor, giving his penthouse condo an unbroken view of downtown Los Angeles. Castle Heights was posh but dated, as easily overlooked as Evan’s truck. Or Evan himself.

Recruited out of the projects of East Baltimore as a kid, he’d spent seven grueling years training under the tutelage of his handler. To say that Jack Johns had been like a father to him was an understatement. Jack had been the first person to treat Evan like he was human.

Evan had been created by the Orphan Program, a deep-black project buried inside the Department of Defense. It had identified the right kind of boys lost in the system of foster homes, covertly culled them one by one, and trained them to do what the U.S. government could not officially do in places where it could not officially be. A fully deniable, antiseptic program run off a shadow budget. Technically, Orphans did not even exist.

They were expendable weapons.

As Orphan X, Evan had been given bursting bank accounts in nonreporting countries. His assignments spanned more than a decade. Rarely sighted, never captured, he was known only by the dead high-value targets he left in his wake and the alias he’d earned for moving unseen among the shadows.

The Nowhere Man.

At one point, though, he’d wanted out. It had cost him dearly. But it had left him with virtually unlimited money, a rare skill set, and time on his hands. And while he was done being Orphan X, he’d discovered that there was still work he should do as the Nowhere Man.

Pro bono work.

He’d lost the government designation but kept the alias given to him by his enemies.

Evan had heard that the Orphan Program had been dismantled, but last year he’d discovered that it was still operational. The most merciless of the Orphans had taken over. Charles Van Sciver. His new directive: to track down and eliminate former Orphans. According to those holding Van Sciver’s leash, Evan’s head contained too much sensitive information to remain connected to his body.

One thing had been made clear in their last bloody confrontation — Van Sciver and his Orphans would not stop the hunt until Evan was dead.

In the meantime Evan stayed off the grid and stayed vigilant.

At last he finished the gauntlet crawl through Wilshire Boulevard traffic. Turning in to Castle Heights, he whipped through the porte cochere past the valet and descended to the subterranean parking lot, drifting into his spot between two concrete pillars.

He grabbed a black sweatshirt from the back, tugged it on to cover the dried blood on his arm, and headed across the floor. He always took a moment outside the lobby door to close his eyes, draw in a breath, and ready himself for the transition into his other persona.

Evan Smoak, importer of industrial cleaning supplies. Another boring tenant.

Given the hour, the lobby was quiet, the air fragrant with the scent of lilies. Evan crossed briskly to the elevator, nodding at the security guard. “Evening, Joaquin.”

Joaquin looked up from the bank of monitors running live feeds from the building’s perimeter and hallways. Castle Heights prided itself on its security, an additional selling point to attract moneyed middle-aged tenants and flush retirees.

“Evening, Mr. Smoak. You have a good night?”

“Typical Thursday,” Evan said. “Burgers with the guys.”

Joaquin controlled the elevators from behind the high counter — another safety measure — and his shoulder dipped as he pressed the button for the car. Evan lifted a hand in thanks, noticed the flecks of dried blood beneath his fingernails, and lowered it quickly. He stepped inside, the button for the twenty-first floor already lit.

The doors were just sliding closed when he heard a familiar voice call out, “Wait! Hold the elevator, Joaquin—please.” The patter of footsteps. “I meant the ‘please’ to come first so I didn’t sound all ordery, but—”

The doors parted again, and Evan came face-to-face with Mia Hall. Her sleeping nine-year-old was slumped in her arms, his chin resting on her shoulder.

Mia’s eyes rose to meet Evan’s, and she froze.

She was rarely caught off guard, but now her mouth was slightly ajar, a flush coming up beneath the faint scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

They’d had an almost-relationship last year. He’d saved her life, and she’d saved his ass. In the process she’d learned more about him than she should have. Which would have been a problem even if she hadn’t been a DA for the City of Los Angeles.

They blinked at each other.

She shifted, straining under Peter’s weight.

“Want me to take him?” Evan asked.

There was a time when that would have been normal.

“No,” she said. “Thanks. I got him.”

They rode up to her floor in silence. Remembering the traces of blood beneath his nails, Evan curled his hands into loose fists. He caught the faintest whiff of lemongrass — the scent of Mia’s lotion.

Peter’s cheek was smooshed into a half pout, his blond hair stuck up on one side, his lips blue with lollipop residue. When the doors parted with an arthritic rattle, Peter lifted his head sleepily. The smile touched his charcoal eyes first, then his mouth.

“Hi, Evan Smoak.” His voice, even raspier than usual. Before Evan could answer, the boy’s lids drooped shut again.

Mia carried him out, and Evan watched them walk up the corridor until the closing elevator doors wiped them from view.