Page 163 of Hellbent

A few seconds of silence. Then Van Sciver swore loudly, the sharp syllable booming off the walls.

Evan had not heard him lose his cool, not since their Pride House days. In his booster bag tucked behind the pallet, he stayed perfectly still.

Van Sciver said, “Get our bodies out of here. We need to lay down a cover story. Gang violence, cartel involvement, whatever. We were never here.”

Thornhill issued orders over a radio, and then more boots thumped in. The sounds of corpses being dragged.

The floorboards groaned as someone drew near. They groaned again, nearer yet. Evan felt faint tremors through the foundation.

Then Van Sciver’s voice came, no more than ten feet away. “No,” he said.

And then, “No.”

And once again, with an undercurrent of worry, “No.”

A phone call.

Van Sciver had stepped to the side of the church for privacy.

“Okay,” he said. “We won’t. Not a trace.” A beat, and then, “I understand the Black Hawk is high-profile. We won’t use it again. This was our best shot—” Another pause. “Not very well.”

Van Sciver took another step, so close now that Evan could hear him breathing.

“I understand he’s the only connective tissue. But 1997 is a long ways back.”

Evan could hear the voice on the other end of the line now, not the words but the tone. Firm and confident, with a hidden seam of rage.

Van Sciver replied, “Yes, Mr. President.”

The phone call terminated with a click.

Van Sciver exhaled through what sounded like clenched teeth. He shifted his weight, the floorboards answering.

Then his steps headed out.

A moment later Evan heard the Black Hawk rotors spin up and the helo lift off. The sound faded. There came an instant of peace.

And then sirens wailed faintly somewhere in the night.

Evan unzipped himself, releasing the humidity of the booster bag. He climbed out. The air tasted of smoke and blood.

Bodies covered the nave, folded over pews, sprawled on the floor, heaped against the walls.

No sign of Freeway.

The sirens were louder now.

Bullets riddled the old wooden altarpiece. Blood painted the Virgin Mary’s forehead, an Ash Wednesday smudge. The arc of the cast-off spatter pointed to the right side.

Evan followed, mounting the carpeted steps.

A brief hall behind the altar led to a rear door.

He stepped out into the crisp night. Drops of blood left a fairy-tale trail out of the back alley. Evan followed them.

He came to the street and crossed it as a swarm of cop cars screeched up to the front of the church. A crowd had gathered, and he melted into its embrace.

More crimson drops on the sidewalk. The transfer pattern of a handprint on a streetlamp. A red dab stained a flyer by the bodega with the plywood-covered window.