He was built like an anvil, a whisper over five-nine, broadened with veiny, bulging muscle. His short-cropped hair, dull brown tinged with copper, receded into a severe widow’s peak, a monk’s tonsure beginning to crown in the back. A beard crowded his face, bristle so dense it looked like wiry fur. Under armed guard he was allowed to shave in his cell twice a week, and he required a fresh razor each time.
He was given fifteen minutes of yard time in a pen every Sunday—when it wasn’t raining, when there were no threats of riots, when no irregularities had occurred during the week. During that time he had kept to himself, as was his habit, but he’d observed the others closely and forged a few alliances, not for protection but because he never knew when savage men might come in handy.
Today was not Sunday, which meant that he had sixteen hours to fill inside this six-by-eight-foot cell before he could go to sleep again.
That was fine. His training had prepared him for this. Time was money, and he had plenty to spend in here, 1,779 days with nothing to do but hammer his body into shape, hone his mind, and stoke his personal obsession to a high blaze. The instant he walked free from these four walls, he’d be ready to resume his mission.
Murder Orphan X.
Holt lay on the cot now, eyes still closed, feeling the warmth of sleep depart his face. The air was cool and smelled strongly of industrial cleaner. He let his lids part.
Directly over his head, a grapefruit-size orb bulged from the low ceiling, sufficiently tinted to hide the surveillance lenses inside.
The air felt different. He sensed it before he even sat up.
When he did, his cell door was standing open.
He stayed perfectly still, focused on the door, waiting. Ten minutes passed, maybe twenty.
He rose and knuckled the door gently. The rarely used hinges creaked.
He stepped into the hall.
The gate at the end was rolled back.
He moved toward it, drifting past other cells. Through the tiny glass squares, pairs of eyes watched him glide by.
Silence prevailed.
He reached the gate.
The guard chair just beyond was empty, a folded-back Sports Illustrated left on the padded seat.
Holt stepped through.
Now he was in a wider corridor that led to a solid steel door and a guard station. He kept on.
The guard on duty was watching the morning news.
Holt approached slowly and stood in full view of the tempered glass. The guard didn’t remove his eyes from the small TV screen. His hand dipped beneath the counter, a buzz electrified the air, and the steel door clicked open.
Holt grasped the cool handle and pulled it wide. He stepped through into the gen-pop unit, two stories high. The range floor was spotless, broken only by floating staircases to the second-level catwalks. The animals were all in their precast-concrete houses, still behind locked doors, a face darkening every tiny glass window.
Holt ambled across the empty plain of concrete, sensing myriad heads swiveling to note his progress. Breath huffed across the tempered panes, fogging them sporadically.
So enormous was the hall of warehoused humans that it took Holt a full ninety seconds to traverse its length. Total silence accompanied him at every step. Given the height of the ceiling and the number of lives housed under it, the quiet felt thunderous, weighty, religious—as if he were moving through some nether-world, passing beneath the gaze of eternally trapped souls.
He reached the controlled entry point at the far side. He stopped and faced the security camera above.
He was in the reception center now, where he’d been screened and processed nearly five years ago. An obese guard sat at the counter, working her gum like a cud. In the pass-through tray, a neatly folded stack of clothes waited.
It took Holt a moment to recognize them as his own.
As he approached, the guard swiveled on her chair, turning her back with evident disgust.
He stripped off the gray prison jumpsuit and stepped clear of it, leaving it puddled on the tile floor. For security reasons he’d been issued no undergarments, so he stood naked now, the air cold against his flesh.
He crossed to the counter, retrieved the clothes he’d last seen 1,779 days ago, and dressed. Olive drab vintage fatigue pants, worn T-shirt, steel-toed boots. A hundred bucks in gate money rested in the tray next to the wallet holding his authentic if illegitimate driver’s license. He folded the five crisp twenties into his pocket and headed out.
A guard stood by the concrete façade of the entrance, twelve-gauge shotgun in hand.
The men stared at each other, and for a moment Holt wondered if he’d misread the situation, that he’d been led to his execution.
But the guard spit in the dirt and turned away.
Holt started across the dusty yard. In the tower the sniper kept up his watch, his wraparound shades winking back the sunlight. Holt watched the sunglasses scan right past him as if he didn’t exist.
Which, he supposed, he didn’t.
He came to the front gates, two layers deep, topped with coils of concertina.
They parted like the Red Sea.
He walked through one and then the other.
The instant he stepped free, a bizarre chime sounded, accompanied by a vibration against his thigh.
He reached down to one of his cargo pockets and lifted free an old-fashioned flip cell phone. He had never seen it before.
He snapped it open.
A voice he didn’t know said, “There’s a Nissan Maxima across the parking lot to your right. No, farther right.” He adjusted his gaze. The voice continued, “The keys are in the ignition. The destination is in the GPS.”
The call severed with a click.
Orphan A closed the phone and ambled to the waiting car.
Also by Gregg Hurwitz
THE ORPHAN X NOVELS
Orphan X
The Nowhere Man
Hellbent
OTHER NOVELS
The Tower
Minutes to Burn
Do No Harm
The Kill Clause
The Program
Troubleshooter
Last Shot
The Crime Writer
Trust No One
They’re Watching
You’re Next
The Survivor
Tell No Lies
Don’t Look Back
YOUNG ADULT NOVELS
The Rains
Last Chance
About the Author
GREGG HURWITZ is the New York Times #1 internationally bestselling author of twenty thrillers. His novels have won numerous literary awards and have been published in thirty languages. Additionally, he’s written screenplays and television scripts for many of the major studios and networks. Gregg lives with his two Rhodesian ridgebacks in Los Angeles, where he continues to play soccer, frequently injuring himself. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Begin Reading
Excerpt: Out of the Dark
Also by Gregg Hurwitz
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE INTERN. Copyright © 2018 by Gregg Hurwitz. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover photograph: man © Realstock/Shutterstock.com
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eISBN 9781250225573 (ebook)
First eBook edition: December 2018