The neighboring door creaked open. Just as she realized that it might belong to a connected condo, a streak of movement flew at her. She braced herself for a strike, but it didn’t come. Instead she was wrapped up, her arms locked to her sides, and then unfurled, a swing dancer who’d lost her lead.

A face blurred by as he spun her. She recognized his eyes. For an instant she let him lead.

Not that she had a choice.

And then she was free, tumbling across the threshold of the adjacent condo, the door slamming shut behind her.

She slipped on something slick, slammed onto the floor, and came up sticky.

She knew that smell.

She lunged for the door but knew all too well what she’d find. The double-cylinder dead bolts had autolocked. And she didn’t have a key.

Her cell phone was missing, plucked cleanly from her hand. She thought of Orphan M below, waiting for her texted command.

There was little she could do now but brace for the drone missile.

*   *   *

Orphan M held his cell phone in one hand, the GPS unit in the other, staring from screen to screen. He did not allow his knee to bounce with impatience.

At last a text arrived.

HE’S LOOSE. I HAVE HIM PINNED ON GROUND FLOOR. JAM LOCK ON FRONT GATE + I’LL HERD HIM THERE.

Orphan M input the front-gate coordinates for the drone and then tossed the GPS unit on the seat, leapt from the Volkswagen, and Froggered across four lanes to the complex, dodging grilles and blaring horns.

He reached the tall metal gate, readying his pick set. He slid a slender diamond pick into the keyhole and snapped it off.

There’d be no getting through that gate now.

He sprinted back through traffic, nearly getting pancaked by a bus, and flung himself into the Passat before the next barrage of traffic swept by.

The GPS handheld unit rested on the dashboard, not where he’d left it on the seat. Puzzled, he picked it up, turned it over. The battery lid was slightly loose, one of the screws lifted a few millimeters from the plastic.

He stared at it uncomprehendingly even as the reality dawned on him.

The batteries had been taken out and put back in.

Which erased the previous coordinates.

And reset the unit to its own position.

His body went cold, and he realized that it wasn’t cold he was experiencing—it was a full-body panic sweat. His head lifted.

Standing motionless in the sea of movement on the sidewalk across the street was Orphan X. He touched the imaginary brim of his beanie cap, gave a little nod.

M had time only to lift his eyes to the roof of the car before the Volkswagen vaporized.

72. The Old Stories

72

The Old Stories