Van Sciver’s data-mining algorithms cast a wide net, sifting the information superhighway for network ports, VoIP soft switches, bank accounts—any red flag that might mark a trail leading back to Orphan X.

“For OBVIOUS REASONS we can’t get ANY information OUT OF CRIMEA withOUT Putin’s goons catching WIND,” the voices continued. “I need YOU to GO THERE. You’ll BE paired WITH Orphan M.”

Ben Jaggers. A sullen, sallow little man who looked more like a door-to-door salesman than a trained assassin. And yet she’d seen surveillance footage of him putting a chopstick through the eye of a wavering informant in a crowded Shanghai marketplace, leaving the man lobotomized over his egg-drop soup.

In the Program’s original iteration, Orphans never worked together. But for Orphan X, Van Sciver had proved willing to make exceptions. When Van Sciver had taken over operations, there’d been a shift in focus. The Orphan Program still occasionally carried out the bidding of the secret-handshake men while allowing them full deniability. But since drone assassinations had demonstrated their click-button efficiency, there was less need of human assaulters and the complications that came with them. So a loyal core of Orphans under Van Sciver’s direction now devoted themselves to hunting down wayward operatives carrying damning information in their heads. Like sharks in the womb, devouring one another until only the strongest remained. The most elusive and most dangerous of their targets was Orphan X.

She dumped the remains from the hopper into the pulverizer, reducing what was left of Jon Jordan and Mittens to fine powder. “Why Orphan M?”

“Because he’s THE ONLY one who WON’T find you … DISTRACTING.” The last prerecorded word, spoken by a woman with an Indian accent, held particular emphasis.

“Why not?” Candy asked. “What’s wrong with him?”

No reply. Van Sciver didn’t waste words even when they were not his own.

“When am I leaving?” she asked.

“Now,” Van Sciver said through another voice, and disconnected the line.

A knock from the rear echoed through the crematorium.

Tucking the phone back beneath her swim cap, Candy sighed and walked across the Lysol-scented tiles. She opened the back door.

Jaggers stood in the cold, his stringy suit hanging from his bones. He was five foot four, maybe a buck twenty. He kept his eyes on her face, no small feat given what was on display.

“Don’t get in my way, don’t question my tactics, and I’m not gonna fuck you,” she told him. “Any questions?”

He coughed into a jaundiced fist. “What makes you think I want to fuck you?”

She turned, breezing back to the pulverizer, which had just stopped its brittle grinding. “Everyone wants to fuck me once they’ve been around me awhile,” she said. “You’ll see.”