World Without End

by Chris Mooney

  Lucky. The word was a constant echo in his mind, even in his sleep.

  That's what life really came down to: people. Everyone's a victim of someone else's decisions. I suddenly don't like the look of your face and boom, you're bleeding to death on a cold basement floor, the pain is excruciating, and upstairs, two teammates from the Hazard Team, guys who you consider friends, John Murphy and Paul Devincent, men you respect and admire guys who have families and girlfriends and wives and kids have rushed in to save your life only to be ambushed, and guess what, Steve? There's not one fucking thing you can do to stop it. And the truth of the matter? The goddamn kicker? You should have died with them. Want to know why you didn't, Steve? Pure luck.

  That's right, ladies and gentlemen. It was pure luck that Armand's gun jammed on the second shot, pure luck that Pasha came rushing in at just the right moment with her drawn handgun, pure luck that it took only one shot for her to cancel Armand's ticket before he got the chance to use the knife. Pure luck, ladies and gentlemen, no grand design or scheme, no divine intervention. It was simply pure luck.

  The rehabilitation for the shoulder went fine. The physical therapist kept saying the word over and over again: Everything's fine. You're doing fine, Steve, that's it, keep moving, the shoulder's doing just fine. The scar's healing nicely, don't you think? Conway knew that the worst scars are always the ones you can't see.

  All he wanted was to be left alone. That landscape was very familiar, the mental geography well defined. Safe. A mental harbor. When the physical therapy ended, he turned in his cell phone and pager and left no forwarding address, promising to wear the watch with the GPS transmitter at all times, pay for everything in cash and use the alias.

  Conway knew the drill. Thank you, good-bye, and please don't call.

  He rented a nice, small house in Vail, Colorado. A little expensive, sure, but he had some money put aside and man, it was worth every cent.

  Mornings were spent mountain biking, a sport that had always bored him, but he couldn't pass up the scenery: steep cliffs holding rolling fields of green, snowcapped mountains everywhere he looked, the air so clean and crisp that when it filled his lungs he felt a renewed sense of energy, of rebirth. Maybe a short run later in the evening if he was full of that peculiar energy that had no place to go or better, some reading. Dennis Lehane's excellent novels got him through most of those long nights when he couldn't sleep. Sometimes he would look up from a book, the fire crackling behind him, and just watch the sunset, marveling at the way the sky would show shades of magenta and red and orange, casting the world below in a soft, warm glow. His mind would grip it and carry it with him to sleep. The next morning the same routine was repeated. He craved routine the way a junkie hurts for a fix. Routine kept him from thinking about the shooting, kept him from hearing his two teammates screaming, begging for it to stop.

  For five weeks he had spoken to no one. He had no family not in the biological sense but what he did have was two close friends from college, two people he could trust who both lived in downtown Boston. Booker and Riley didn't know about the shooting or how close to death he had really come, and they had no idea what he really did for a living. He had been pretending all his life, trying on different lives, seeing how they fit under his skin. Now he got paid to do it professionally.

  Funny how life prescribes exactly what you need.

  A voice above him, far away, said, "Get rid of his watch."

  A second voice, this one familiar The cameraman. The stun baton.

  Dixon, he's gone. responded, "I fried it. No way can they hear us."

  "We have to make this look authentic. Hurry up and get the syringe ready. We'll be at the drop zone any minute."

  Conway's thoughts seemed disjointed, the torn pieces of a picture he felt he should have recognized. He was aware of someone touching his wrist. Then he remembered.

  Friday night, late October, and a whopper of a storm blanketed Vail with ten inches of powder. The following morning he went skiing and came back to the house around six. Samantha Richardson, a twenty-six-year-old investment planner from Boston, blond hair with a plain face and thin, tight lips, pretty in that waspy New England way, was here on vacation. She knew him as Jeff Cotton, a Web designer from Los Angeles. Conway checked his watch. She would be over in less than an hour.

  When he opened the door, he saw at least nine men moving about the living room, dining room, and part of the kitchen, their hands covered in latex, all of them packing boxes and wiping down counters with an electrified urgency. Standing in front of the lit fireplace was Pasha, dressed in a solid-black suit, cut with the kind of sharp lines and curves that made Con-way think of the sleek, powerful elegance of a Mercedes. A phone was pressed against her good ear, her right.

  Pasha looked up and saw him, put the phone away and picked up the briefcase next to her leg.

  "Downstairs, right now."

  The gray basement was cold and bare and smelled faintly of mildew. It was lit by two bare lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling. A dining room chair had been brought down; standing next to it was a bearded man with a blond crewcut drawing clear fluid into a syringe. When he finished, he placed the syringe on a silver tray full of needles and shiny surgical instruments that was set up on a TV tray stand.

  "Strip," Pasha said to Conway. She wasn't smiling she never did but it was the way her expression changed when she looked at her watch, like an invasion was imminent, that made him rip off his clothing without question. When he had stripped down to his boxers, Pasha kicked the clothes away.

  "Get rid of the underwear," she said.

  "This is about Armand, isn't it?"

  "The woman you invited over for dinner is bringing along two friends who plan to peel back your skin with pliers. Their buyer wants pictures, so this has to look authentic. Hurry, we're running out of time."

  Conway slid out of his underwear. Pasha put her hands very strong, masculine almost on his shoulders and turned him around.

  "The scar's still visible," she said.

  "Perfect. Stand still."

  Behind him, Conway heard a briefcase snap open, followed by the sound of latex snapping over skin. Next he felt something cool and wet, like hard jelly, wrap around his throat. Pasha pressed it against the skin, making sure it stuck.

  "It's a fake gash to make it look like your throat was slit. Now get on your stomach," she said, and when he was lying facedown on the cold floor she bound his hands and feet with plastic flex-cuffs.

  "Turn your face to the left side, just stare. You'll feel something cold. Don't move, just lie there and keep still or you'll ruin the effect."

  Cold liquid was splashed around his throat first and then poured over his wrists and feet. A small red river ran across his cheek and dribbled onto the floor: blood or at least it looked like blood. His mind rushed back to the memory from not that long ago, that of himself writhing on the floor, the blood real, the pain real. Pasha rubbed the fake blood into Conway's hair, streaked it across his back and then rubbed her gloved hand across the floor in a wide, flat streak to make it look like Conway's body had been dragged.

  "Stare off into space, keeping your eyes still… Like that. Good."

  A flash went off, followed by the small whine of the camera as the flash recharged. Upstairs were the sounds of loud, urgent footsteps.

  This comfortable, quiet slice of life, with its luscious winter landscapes and clean, soothing air was being taken from him.

  "Take a piss," Pasha said.

  "It will look more authentic."

  Conway didn't ask, just did what he was told. He relaxed himself and urinated, feeling its warmth spread across his legs, his emlarrassment overshadowed by the panicked tone in Pasha's voice. More pictures.

  Still bound, Pasha and the agent picked him up and threw him on the chair. More pictures. Pasha cut the flex-cuffs and tossed Conway a bath towel. Clean clothes were folded neatly in the corner, near the furnace.

  A phone rang. The man grabbed
a cellphone from the silver tray.

  "Targets are moving," he said.

  "One van is following her, the other just broke off."

  Pasha said, "Time to leave, Stephen."

  As the van pulled out of the driveway, the last image Conway had was that of gloved men drawing the shades.

  It was snowing at a good clip. They drove through the snow-packed roads, the ride bumpy, Comvay listened to the van's tires crunching over the packed powder, his mind numb, unable to process the thoughts playing behind his eyes. Pasha sat across the table from him, leaning against the van's window. The moonlight highlighted the smooth texture of her full lips, but her eyes were hidden by shadows. The computer screens and the surveillance equipment were turned off, the back of the van dark and cut only by the bursts of moonlight that filtered in from the gaps between the trees.

  "The woman you met on the slopes is Armand's second in command," Pasha said.

  "We think she may have formed her own group. We don't know how she found you. One of our informants provided us with her name two days ago. We've been watching her ever since. We got lucky."

  Conway turned and looked out the window and watched the rolling banks of snow glowing in the moonlight.

  "I'll find out the rest of the details later," Pasha said.

  "The pictures are to be left at a locker at the airport. We'll stake it out, follow the person who picks it up tomorrow morning and take it from there. Hopefully, they'll lead to the laser rifle."

  "How long have you been following me?"

  Pasha drummed her fingers across the table. She was never at a loss for words, even in times of crisis. Pasha was like Spock in that way: the vigilant, logical stoic; every problem had a solution. And she never, under any circumstances, let her emotions interfere with her job or her personal life whatever personal life she had. No one had been invited to her island.

  "Watch this," Pasha said, and then handed him a pair of bulky goggles with earphones and a wire running into a virtual reality machine.

  Conway put the goggles on.

  A brief period of darkness followed, and the next thing he knew he was standing in a desert, watching a tank moving across the horizon. It was dusk. The sky was dark blue and full of rolling clouds. He didn't feel the wind but could hear it blowing around him. The effect was very real. It was like he was actually standing in the desert watching the sun's dying gold color reflecting off the tank's armor and Hundreds of dots appeared on the tank's armor, showing the area behind the tank, as if holes had suddenly burrowed through to the other side, and with almost lightning quickness the dots exploded into paint spills, bleeding into each other until the tank was gone, replaced now by desert and sky.

  The tank was there it had to be, it couldn't just vanish but Conway couldn't find any shadows or outlines.

  "The technology is called optical camouflage," Pasha said.

  "Thousands of fiber-optic cameras are mounted on the tank's armor. A computer takes pictures of the surroundings and using pixel replication, paints a picture across the tank. Any missing information is filled in through an interpolation algorithm and within the blink of an eye, you're invisible. The U.S. Army's battle lab in Colorado has been trying to develop and integrate high-tech equipment for battle situations involving troops. It's called JEDI the Joint Expeditionary Digital Information program. They're in the process of finishing a working prototype of a combat suit that uses this optical camouflage technology. You climb inside, press or speak the code, and within the blink of an eye, you're invisible.

  "The military, just like the FBI and CIA, can't afford the top-drawer technical talent, so they've turned to the companies that can. The advancements in this optical camouflage technology are due to the work of one individual: Major Dixon. Dixon works for a company called Praxis, based out of Austin, Texas. The project is code-named ROM ULAN based on the cloaking technology from Star Trek. I'm sure you've seen an episode."

  An assignment was coming. Excitement bubbled through him and then a voice screamed out NO, this was his time, he had earned it, the deal was that he would be left alone. Let someone else deal with it.

  Then another voice piped in and asked, What's the problem, Steve? Are you afraid to get back into the game, or are you afraid you've lost your edge? Which is it?

  "Dixon was offered half a million dollars for information on the suit,"

  Pasha said.

  "He hasn't accepted yet, but he's thinking."

  "Who's the buyer?"

  "We're calling him Angel Eyes. We've been tracking his movements for the past three years. Ten months ago, he stole this working prototype from an army base in New Mexico."

  The desert disappeared and now Conway was standing on the floor of a high-rise office building. A Blackhawk attack helicopter was hovering just outside the window, the sound of its blades muted. The Blackhawk turned to fly away and suddenly the image of the helicopter melted, as if caught behind ribbons of intense heat, and then vanished. Amazing.

  "What we know is that someone placed several remote-controlled devices inside the ventilation system that, once activated, delivered a drug that knocked everyone out inside the building," Pasha said.

  "Angel Eyes and his group he would have to have a group to pull something like this off managed to bypass all the security, got inside the helicopter and flew away. We've never been able to recover the chopper."

  "What about the blueprints?"

  "The databases were raided, and then a computer virus wiped out anything left. The paper files, which were stored inside a safe, were also stolen. All of it's gone, including the tape backup copies. Angel Eyes is extremely thorough."

  "If Angel Eyes has the helicopter, then he has the optical camouflage technology. Why does he need Dixon?"

  "The helicopter is a solid structure. It can't change shape or run or jump. Dixon is modifying the technology for a man. It's much different."

  "Tell me more about Angel Eyes."

  "We know he steals cutting edge technology weapons mostly and that the inventors disappear without a trace. So do the prototypes and every blueprint, backup copy all of it disappears. We know he's left only two victims, and we know that he wants this military combat suit bad.

  I'll debrief you when we get to Austin."

  "I haven't said yes."

  Pasha removed his goggles. It took Conway a moment for his eyes to adjust to the van's semidarkness.

  "There's going to be an opening at Dixon's company, Praxis, for a network security specialist," Pasha said.

  "LAN management and all that. I want you to get friendly with Dixon.

  Guide him. We want him to sell it to Angel Eyes."

  Pasha handed him an envelope. Inside was a one-way plane ticket to Austin, a license and credit card under the name Peter Miller, and a thousand dollars in cash.

  "Use the Miller identity until all this is settled," she said.

  "Then you "II be using your real identity."

  This was happening too fast. He couldn't process it. He was quiet for a moment, thinking about the Armand gig, how it had turned sour and what he could have done to prevent the outcome.

  "The shooting just happened," Pasha said.

  "You can't control every moment of your life. Let it go and move on."

  And Bouchard?"

  "He handpicked you for this."

  That surprised Conway. The last time he had seen Bouchard was at the funerals for the two team members, both of whom grew up in Maryland. At the last funeral, the oneforMurph, Bouchard had been quiet, aloof from the rest of the group and not wanting to talk. Conway had tried to approach him after the crowds started to drift, but Bouchard had already walked down the grassy slope, sprinting almost, and was in his car. As he watched Bouchard drive away, Conway had the distinct feeling that he had let the man down. That feeling grew as the days stretched into weeks without a call from Bouchard, Pasha no call from any of the other team members. It was as if Conway had been ostracized, a potential cancer t
hat could infect the rest of the group.

  And now here was Pasha with an offer to play in the starting lineup.

  "Okay," Conway said.

  "I'm in."

  "Good. Now I need you to "

  The window next to them splintered. Conway jumped back. Gunshots rained across the van, rounds ricocheting off the bullet-proof armor.

  The driver killed the headlights and floored the gas. The van started fishtailing over the ice. Under the bright full moon the winter landscape glowed in an electric neon white and blue light.

  "Don't worry," Pasha said, nonplussed.

  "The whole van's protected, even the tires."

  A phone rang. Pasha removed a phone from a console, pressed it against her good ear, listened, and then hung up without a word. She reached into a cabinet, removed a nine-millimeter Clock and handed it to Conway.

  "Stay away from the airport, Stephen. Use the Miller credit card to rent a car. That way I'll be able to track you." Pasha got up and slid the van's side door open.

  "Get ready Now."

  Conway jumped out of the van. He dove headfirst through a snowbank, tumbled over ice, and then came to a stop. He scrambled onto his back, his scalp, arms, and legs groaning from the fall, his exposed skin tingling from the snow and ice. Far away he heard the van's tires skidding. More shots rang out. He held the Clock and waited, his breath fogging around him.

  The image faded away. Conway was coming out of his daze. He could hear the plane's engines and the voice yelling over it:

  "Remember to inject him behind the ear so it won't show up in the autopsy."

  "So it looks like he had a heart attack in the air, yeah, I know what to do," the cameraman said.

  "Then hurry up and kill him. We've got to dump his body."

  Conway's eyes fluttered open. He was lying on his back, that much he knew. His head was tilted to the side, pointed at the opened door with the roaring wind rushing over his face. He wiggled his fingers, felt them move, good, but still felt strange, a little dazed. He blinked, the heaviness in his eyelids dissipating, the world coming into sharper focus.