Page 138 of Hellbent

Thornhill threw the gear stick into park.

Three doors opened. Three Orphans climbed out.

Van Sciver and Candy parted at the curb, each heading to a different side of the house. Thornhill leapt from trash can to fence top to a second-floor windowsill, vaulting onto the roof. Inside, the family dined on, oblivious.

The Orphans converged on the backyard at the same time, Van Sciver and Candy crowding in with drawn pistols as Thornhill dropped down from the decidedly un-Colonial veranda, landing panther-soft on the patio.

The backyard was empty.

A family of black ducks bobbed in the swimming pool.

Van Sciver stared at them, his jaw shifting.

Then he sighted with the holographic red dot and pulled the trigger. The suppressor pipped once, a pile of feathers settling over the water. The ducks winged off vocally into the night. Van Sciver held the unit in one meaty hand and watched the blinking beacon fly away.

Candy said, “I told you GPS was sloppy.”

Van Sciver’s phone chimed, an alert muscling in on the GPS screen. He thumbed it to the fore and read the brief report. The visuals were distressing—David Smith’s face propagating out through the Information Age.

Candy’s phone had gone off, too, and she drifted over, reading the same update on her screen.

Thornhill gave them their space.

“Let’s head back to McClair,” Van Sciver said. “Put the kid down.”

“Sure,” Candy said. “That’s strategic. A kid whose picture just went viral, let’s turn him into a media event.”

“He’s a loose end.”

As Van Sciver started back through the side gate, Candy stayed at his elbow. “Does he know your name?” she said.

“No.”

“Does he know anything about the Program?”

“No.”

“Then let him rot in a kid’s mental ward, spin his delusions in group therapy with the rest of them.” She shook her phone. “Taking him out after this is gonna bring press. Why add fuel for the conspiracy theorists?”

Van Sciver halted in the cramped space at the side of the house. “So X doesn’t get what he wants.”

His eruption caught Candy by surprise. It seemed to have caught him by surprise, too.

He turned and continued on. As they neared the front yard, the door to the kitchen opened, the father leaning out in front of them, hands on hips. He was wearing a red-and-green Christmas sweater, seemingly without irony.

“Excuse me,” the man said.

Van Sciver kept moving, eyes forward. But he lifted the .45 and aimed it at the man’s nose. “Back inside. Call the cops and I’ll come back and rape your wife.”

Candy smiled. “Me, too.”

The man jerked back as if yanked by puppet strings, the door closing with enough force to tangle the cutesy country curtains.

As Van Sciver and Candy stepped out into the driveway, he felt his nostrils flaring, and he tried to contain the rage in his chest. Thornhill dropped from the garage and sauntered up beside them.

Candy kept her focus on Van Sciver. “You’re playing X’s game. Don’t let him trick you—”

He wheeled on her, grabbing her shirt with both hands. “Don’t try to manipulate me.”