Page 128 of Hellbent

Bower met him in the kitchen with a red notebook.

It looked just like the notebook Evan had found in the Portland headquarters.

Hangebrauck carried it into the kitchen. Then he placed it in the microwave. The lit carousel spun, rotating the notebook.

Joey looked over at Evan, her brow furled.

Bizarre.

As Bower disappeared once again to the front of the house, Hangebrauck walked into the living room and stared down at David Smith. The boy lay quietly, half off the tarp, his cheek smashed to the floorboards, his thin shoulders rising and falling.

Hangebrauck slung his M4 and sat on the high end of the decline bench, a bored expression on his face. He dug something out from beneath a thumbnail.

Joey leaned toward Evan, her sneakers crackling in the weeds. “There are still two of them,” she whispered.

Evan smiled.

* * *

Evan didn’t have a suppressor. A gunshot would alert the neighbors. He would have to use his hands.

He moved silently along the side of the house and came up on the open back door. Hangebrauck remained on the decline bench, gazing blankly through the sole uncovered rear window into the yard. A dark hall led to the front of the house and to Bower.

Evan waited.

After a time Hangebrauck stood and stretched his back, his shirt tugging up and showing off a pale bulge of flesh at the waistband. He gave a little groan. Resting his hand on the butt of the carbine, he walked to the window.

Over his shoulder Evan’s reflection ghosted into sight in the pane.

Evan’s right elbow was raised, pointing at the nape of Hangebrauck’s neck.

The big man’s eyes barely had time to widen before Evan reached over his crown, grabbed his forehead, and yanked his head back into his elbow.

The bony tip of Evan’s ulna served as the point of impact, crushing into the base of Hangebrauck’s skull, turning the medulla oblongata into gray jelly.

A reinforced horizontal elbow smash.

The man didn’t fall so much as crumple.

Evan stripped the M4 cleanly from Hangebrauck as he dropped out of the sling.

The thump made a touch more noise than Evan would have liked.

He tilted the M4 against the wall and moved quickly down the hall. He got to the entryway just as Bower pivoted into sight, rifle raised.

Evan jacked Bower’s gun to the side, the man’s grip faltering. He spun Bower into the momentum of the first blow and seized him from behind, using a triangular choke hold made illegal in police departments from coast to coast. Evan bent Bower’s head forward into the crook of his arm, pinching off the carotid arteries on either side. Bower made a soft gurgling sound and sagged, heavy in Evan’s grip.

Evan lowered him to the floor.

Thirteen down.

Twelve to go.

Evan walked back to David Smith. Crouching, he found a strong pulse on the boy’s neck. He noticed a slit on the forearm, recently sutured, but otherwise the kid looked fine. He’d probably gotten sliced during the snatch and Van Sciver had patched him up.

The room looked to have been recently cleaned, but despite that a bad odor lingered. Sporadic water spots darkened the walls, the plaster turning to cottage cheese. Scrub marks textured the floorboards. The bristles had left behind a thin frothed wake of bleach, the white edged with something else not quite the shade of coffee.

Evan knew that color.