World Without End

by Chris Mooney

  Dixon's still at the school, and he's still bugged.

  Conway removed the plastic stylus from the back of the Palm and drew a line from himself to Dixon. A red line linked the two circles together. Distance: 6.3 miles.

  "Shit."

  On a good day, dressed in shorts and running sneakers, and if he pushed himself to the limit, he could do a six-minute mile. At that rate, he could make it to the school in just under forty minutes. Factor in the heat and the aftereflects of the stun gun and the six-mile run seemed like a marathon.

  Conway drew a box around Dixon and then said, "Magnify."

  The satellite zoomed in. The image grew fuzzy until it reassembled the image of a man dressed in a yellow jumpsuit lying on top of the front hood of an SUV, an old Ford Bronco by the looks of it. Dixon's still knocked out by the drugs. Two other men stood beside the vehicle.

  Conway looked at the bottom right-hand corner of the screen that listed Dixon's six transmitters. They were all on and working.

  For now, a voice said. If Angel Eyes knows about my watch and the group, then he knows Dixon's bugged and will remove the transmitters.

  What were the men waiting for? They should have already stripped Dixon of his transmitters. They wouldn't want him wired. That would send the Hazard Team into action.

  Unless Angel Eyes has taken care of them.

  Conway felt his chest tighten.

  The only thing we know for sure is that the guys in the plane know you're alive. They know you're on the ground, standing in the middle of nowhere. The only way out is your car. It's not like you can just jog over to another road and call a taxi. You have to go back to the school. It's your only escape route. They know that and are waiting for you.

  And while we're playing the guessing game, chew on this: Don't you find it the slightest bit odd that while you were unconscious, they didn't remove your phone or your PDA? They knew about your watch you heard the cameraman say so himself.

  Conway looked up at the blue sky. The plane was barely visible but was beginning its descent. Once it landed, they would head to the next logical place: Praxis. He slid the Palm back into its holster. A six-mile sprint in this heat. Jesus.

  Bitching about the distance isn't going to change the number of miles.

  If you want to save Pasha if you want to save Dixon's life then get moving.

  Fear blooming inside his chest, Conway started sprinting.

  At the age of three, one night after dinner Amon Faust's mother duct-taped his mouth and hands and feet, picked him up and carried him into the bathroom. She dropped him into a tub of scalding water, and while her three-year-old son thrashed and screamed, she walked to the front door, picked up the suitcase she had packed earlier that day, and headed out of their tiny San Francisco apartment to the taxi waiting for her downstairs.

  An elderly neighbor had heard the commotion and ran upstairs.

  Fortunately, the door to the apartment was unlocked. Without hesitating, the old woman, who had grandchildren of her own, reached inside the water and rescued Amon from the tub, burning both her hands in the process. While Amon was at the hospital being sedated for pain, his mother was in Los Angeles, picking up her fake license, passport, and social security card. She then disappeared into a new life.

  The burns were so severe that they required numerous and painful surgeries, all of them paid for by the state. He was lucky, the doctors had said. His face wasn't damaged, and his hands were healing nicely. Still, foster homes had been reluctant to take him. Nobody wanted to be responsible for a child who was constantly sick, his immune system having been weakened from the burns. At the group homes, where children knew no mercy, Amon was ridiculed and avoided. Nobody wanted to be around a freak whose entire body was covered with thick, hard red coils and rubbery patches of scars that resembled seaweed.

  Amon had retreated into the world of literature and art. He discovered that he had a talent for painting. He preferred oils over water-colors, and in times of great stress, he would pick up a brush and lose himself in a blank canvas for hours. He was painting right now.

  The human physique had always fascinated him. The female body, while sexually appealing, seemed too soft. It lacked strength. Amon preferred the male anatomy. Maybe because he lacked a denning male physique of his own, but the truth was that Amon preferred to be in the company of men. He understood the male psyche's vast complexity, its testosterone-filled drive to dominate and shape its world, while women were, by their very natures, slaves to their moods and hormonal storms, irrational creatures who had difficulty grasping the most basic tenets of logic and reason. As a result, Faust had little use for them in his organization.

  Faust was painting a portrait of Stephen Conway. While he painted, he thought of the young man's troubled background. Like himself, Stephen had grown up an orphan. Stephen had a strict moral code, was intelligently gifted, adaptive, and, when needed, so very cunning.

  While Faust admired those traits, what fascinated him most was the man's ability to get back into the game after the Armand fiasco. Most people would have shied away, but not Stephen. He was consumed with proving himself, with proving his worth to his team members. Stephen Conway was that rare twenty-first-century gladiator willing to walk back inside the arena to slay a new foe. If Stephen could be molded and shaped, Faust could turn him into quite a valuable asset. Granted, it would prove to be a difficult challenge, but it could be done. Faust had an idea, a way to turn him away from the rest of his pack.

  His phone rang. The headset still attached, he hit the TALK button on the phone attached to his belt and then continued painting.

  "Yes, Gunther."

  "You in your office?" Gunther's low voice sounded troubled.

  "No. Do you have Mr. Dixon?"

  "You need to turn on your monitor."

  Trouble.

  Faust had programmed himself not to react. Anger disrupted the natural homeopathic stasis of his body and released toxins that would rob him of his strength and energy and, even worse, do irreversible damage to his heart.

  "Just a moment, Gunther." Faust put his paintbrush down and then went into the kitchen and refilled his water glass. Dinah Washington's marvelous voice swam around him. Glass in hand, he moved into a sunlit room of hardwood and windows that offered a spectacular view of the University of Texas's sprawling campus.

  Set up on a glass U-shaped desk were three twenty-one inch flat-screen monitors, all of them pointed away from the window. Faust turned on the monitor showing the live video feed from Gunther's headset and sat down in the leather chair, leaned back and crossed his legs, his eyes focused on the screen now coming to life.

  Through Gunther's Viper binoculars was a close-up of the computer prodigy, Major Dixon, splayed across the front hood of a rusted, battered Ford Bronco. Dixon was oblivious to the two men busily removing his clothing. Faust recognized one of them: Chris Evans.

  Evans removed Dixon's pants and stuffed them inside a blue laundry bag.

  "They're stripping Dixon of his transmitters," Faust said, his tone and heartbeat normal.

  "Interesting."

  "Who the fuck is doing this?"

  "Language please."

  Gunther sighed. Still young and still excitable.

  "You recognize these dudes?"

  "I was told that Mr. Evans and the other members of the school were who they purported to be." Obviously my inside source was misinformed, Faust added privately.

  "You think they're leftovers from Armand's group?"

  "Armand didn't hire the intellectually gifted. We have audio, correct?"

  "If Dixon is still wearing the watch the CIA gave him, yes. Ask Craven." John Craven was Faust's surveillance expert. Like the IWAC group, Faust had the frequency of Dixon's watch and could listen in on Dixon's conversations.

  Line two was ringing.

  "Speak of the devil, Mr. Craven's calling in," Faust said and hit line two, bringing the second caller into the conversation. John Craven told Faus
t to turn on his monitor.

  Monitor two: a jarred imaged of an overturned Delburn Systems van engulfed in flames, its metal twisted from an explosion. Bodies on the ground, the screaming muted as Dinah Washington broke into "Evil Gal Blues," her voice strong and clear as it played over the office's wall-mounted speakers.

  "The man I got monitoring the airport just called in with this," Craven said.

  "An improvised explosive device was placed on the first van and took down the Hazard Team. Then an unidentified man placed a second IED right above the gas cap on van number two, the surveillance van, and then jumped into a car and sped away."

  Faust was quiet, his eyes locked on monitor two playing the carnage at the airport.

  Craven continued.

  "The IWAC guys placed inside the airport are both dead. Whoever's behind this is making sure there are no survivors."

  "What happened on the plane?"

  "Dixon had a meltdown and then it got real quiet."

  "What about Mr. Conway's watch?"

  "Nothing. And the teams monitoring and covering Conway have got real quiet."

  Faust turned his attention back to monitor one. Dixon now lay naked on top of the car hood, his watch and clothing with its transmitters stuffed inside the blue laundry bag that rested on the ground.

  Gunther said, "Gunshots."

  On the screen Faust saw through Gunther's eyes the back of the skydiving school through the gaps between the trees.

  "I just heard two more," Gunther said, keeping his voice low and calm, the way he had been trained. He tried to zoom in on one of the windows.

  "I'm not in a good position. I can't see anything."

  "Gunther, move your attention back to Mr. Dixon."

  Chris Evans and his partner had finished putting on a new pair of pants and a white T-shirt on Dixon. They slid him off the roof, dumped him into the back seat of the Bronco, got inside and tore up to the school in a cloud of dust and dirt.

  Gunther said, "You think these guys are going to make a run on the suit?"

  "That would seem like the logical progression," Faust said.

  "Gunther, find out who our new friends are. To do that, I'll need fingerprints. Mr. Craven, move your team to the skydiving school.

  Concentrate your efforts on the registration office and the plane."

  "Understood," Craven said.

  Gunther said, "Lifting the prints and transmitting them to you will take time. I'll have to wait until these guys leave to get started."

  "I understand," Faust said.

  "Then you also understand that by doing this, it gives them a head start to Praxis. All of our resources are here " "Would you look at this," Craven said.

  "Conway just landed."

  "Stephen's alive," Faust said, hopeful.

  "Alive and running in Gunther's direction."

  Gunther said, "By the time Conway gets here, these guys will be driving off with Major Dick. You want to head them off?"

  "Let them go," Faust said.

  "They'll do our job for us. And Gunther?"

  "Yes."

  "I want Stephen protected at all costs."

  "Understood."

  Faust hung up and settled back in his chair. He folded his hands across his stomach, his throat dry as he stared at monitor two, firefighters at work dousing the burning wreck of a van. Inside the office, Dinah Washington sang "Lover Come Back to Me," and Faust was gripped with a sense of loss he wasn't ready to acknowledge.

  Through the gaps between the trees in the woods Conway saw the plane's white wing shining in the sunlight and stopped running. He leaned his lower back against a tree and then hunched forward, placing his hands on his knees, his breath coming in sharp bursts. His clothes were soaked, his wet hair matted against his head, his heart pumping so fast that he saw white stars dance across his vision. Panting, he checked his watch.

  It had taken a little over forty minutes to get here. Forty-five minutes. Shit, that was a long time. Twenty more minutes and Dixon would be at Praxis if they had, in fact, left.

  The Palm Pilot was wedged in his right hand; he had consulted it as he ran. He brought it up to his mouth and said, "Locate Traveler."

  The satellite locked on what appeared to be a blue bag, maybe a pillowcase, sitting in a dirt-baked lot. Angel Eyes's men had stripped Dixon of his transmitters. Now Conway had no way of tracking him.

  Neither did the Hazard Team.

  During his run, Conway had secretly hoped that by the time he arrived, the Hazard Team monitoring Dix would have moved in and rescued him, putting an end to this situation. The fact that Hazard was nowhere in sight meant only one thing: They were dead.

  I can't assume that. I can't assume anything. Dixon could still be here the last time I saw him he was sprawled on the Bronco, right?

  Well, the Bronco's still here. Maybe they're waiting for me to come out, take care of me and then head to Praxis.

  Conway had to get to a phone. Going for the cell phone inside the Saab was out. The parking lot was too exposed. Angel Eyes's man or men whoever was waiting around here would be expecting Conway to make a run for the car.

  Wait. The registration office had a phone, a cordless unit that hung on a wall near a window that overlooked the runway. Conway could see it in his mind, a white AT amp;T unit with an answering machine. Now to find a way to get inside the building undetected.

  The advances in satellite imagery were astounding. Not only could a satellite zoom in on a golf ball and count the number of divots, it could also pick up your heat signature using a technology called thermal imaging. It didn't matter if you were sitting inside a car or walking inside a building, the satellite could look through walls and steel and concrete, as if they were made of clear plastic food wrap, and watch as you moved.

  Using the Palm's controls, Conway decreased magnification until he had what he wanted: an aerial shot of the parking lot with four vehicles.

  There was his red Saab, a black van, and what appeared to be another SUV, also black and holy shit, the old Bronco he had seen earlier, only now it was parked right near the highway, looking like it was about to take a turn and speed away.

  Conway brought the PDA mike close to his mouth.

  "Switch to thermal."

  The screen turned a dark gray, taking away the crisp, vivid colors. A single, glowing, yellow blob of color appeared on the screen where the Bronco was parked. Using the stylus, Conway drew a box around it. The satellite zoomed in on the Bronco until he saw the blurred, glowing heat signature of the driver sitting behind the wheel. The ground around the van glowed a dull yellow the result of the sun beating down on the dirt lot and from the back of the van came glowing puffs of smoke that burned and faded.

  The Bronco was running. The driver was waiting for someone.

  The skydiving school was broken up into three small units, all attached: on the left, the registration office, followed by the bunker containing walls full of parachuting equipment, and on the right, the final building, call it the video room, where he and Dixon had watched the skydiving video, talked to the instructors about how the jump would take place, and then signed the waivers freeing the school of any liability in case either he or Dix were injured or killed.

  Part of the bunker and video building's roof was covered by the shade of the trees. Without the harsh sun beating down on the roof, the satellite could pick up heat signatures nicely. Conway moved the controls and checked both areas. Clean, nobody inside.

  The registration office was trickier. With no shade and the sun beating down on the roof for hours now, the shingles had absorbed the heat. The registration office was a glowing blob of color. The satellite only offered an aerial view; Conway had no way to tell if anyone was inside. He stared at the blob, looking for movement, an outline or a shadow. Shit. If he only had a pair of handheld thermal binoculars, he could from this position scan each floor and check to see where the driver's partner was A screen door banged against its frame.

  Con
way looked up. He couldn't see anyone, not from this distance. On the screen, right outside the registration office door, stood the glowing red and yellow and orange figure of a man.

  "Switch off thermal."

  On the screen the world stopped glowing. Using the stylus, Con-way zoomed in on a man and saw the blond hair had to be Chris Evans. He was fitting what had to be a handgun into the back waistband of his pants. Evans ran down the length of deck that separated the office from the bunker and across the dirt lot. With one hand he reached down and scooped up the pillowcase. The Bronco's passenger's side door opened and Evans got in. The Bronco skidded out of the lot, kicking up clouds of dust, hit the highway with a squeal of rubber and disappeared down the road on its way back to Austin. To Praxis. Conway doubted they were taking Dix to the bank, where the compact disc was waiting.

  Angel Eyes wouldn't have gone through all this elaborate planning to retrieve a CD.

  Conway looked up from the screen. White plastic patio furniture was scattered across the concrete deck in front of the bunker. To the left of the bunker was the set of stairs that led up to a weathered deck, and then the final three steps that led up to the registration office, all of its windows open.

  He was close enough to see part of the office's white walls and a shadow.

  The shadow moved.

  Someone was in there.

  Conway removed his phone and tried calling one more time, hoping.

  Nothing but static. Someone must be jamming my signal.

  You've got to get inside the registration office and call Pasha, now, before Angel Eyes's men get to Praxis, before they kill Dixon and this mess of an operation turns FUBAR.

  To get to the office, he would have to step out of the woods and run across the wide open field, exposed. No more cover from the trees, no Hazard Team coming to his rescue, no last minute miracle. One shot and he would be down.

  Time to roll the dice.

  Conway bolted toward the building.

  Conway ran past the white patio furniture, shot into the bunker and pressed his back against the wall, next to the door that led into the video room. One hand on the doorknob, ready to make an exit.

  No gunshots.