Page 162 of Hellbent

Evan nodded.

Freeway kept the razor open, but he crossed his arms, the blade rising next to the grooved ball of his biceps. “Okay,” he said. “Your last meal.”

Evan chewed some more, then popped the last bite into his mouth. He crumpled up the wrapper, let it fall from his hand onto the floor.

Freeway started forward, but Evan held up a finger as he cleared the caramel from his molars with his tongue. He strained his ears but heard nothing. A spark of concern flared to life in his stomach. He was out of time.

And then he sensed it.

The air vibrating with a distant thrumming.

It grew louder.

Freeway took a half step back toward the altar, his eyes pulling up to the ceiling. The other men looked spooked, regarding the church walls around them. The thumping grew louder. A few shards of stained glass fell from the high frame.

From beyond the front door came the unmistakable sound of sniper rounds lasering through the air. Then the thud of falling bodies.

Evan said to Freeway, “You might want to go see about that.”

The steel front door blew open, Devil Horns sailing back through the vestibule, the top of his head blown off. A Black Hawk whoomped down at the entrance, gusting wind through the nave. Operators in balaclavas spilled out with military precision, subguns raised, firing through the doorway, dropping the first ranks of gang members.

The inadvertent cavalry, right on time.

As the gang members scrambled to return fire, Evan walked to the side of the church where the stolen goods were stored. Ducking behind a head-high pallet, he dumped out a booster bag, emptying a load of RFID-tagged Versace shirts onto the floor. Then he climbed into the roomy duffel and zipped himself in. The inside, lined with thick space-blanket foil, crinkled around him.

His own miniature Faraday cage.

It would mute the GPS signal emanating from his stomach.

The sounds from the church nave were apocalyptic. Cracking rounds, panicked shrieks, crashing bodies, wet bellowing, splintering wood—a full-fledged urban firefight.

Two birds, one stone.

At last the frequency of gunfire slowed. A prayer in Spanish was cut off with a last report.

The smell of cordite reached Evan even here, hidden in the bag. He heard heavy boots moving through the nave, and then Thornhill said, “Clear. Jesus F. Christ. Who knew we were wading into Fallujah?”

Van Sciver’s deep voice carried to Evan. “What a shitshow. How many did we lose?”

Candy’s voice said, “Three. I count three.”

In the darkness of the booster bag, Evan thought, Twenty dead. Five to go.

Van Sciver’s voice came again. “Where’s X?”

Thornhill again. “I don’t know. The GPS signal, it vanished.”

“Vanished? We had at least four more minutes by my count.”

“I don’t know what to tell you.”

“How ’bout the blood trail there at the back of the altar?”

“One of the gang members. I saw him stumble out. It wasn’t X.”

“Get me optics on thermal signatures in the building. Now.”

Shuffling boots. Then Thornhill said, “There’s nothing on premises except the dead bodies, and we’ve looked under them.” A beat. “I think homeboy played us.”