by Chris Mooney
No shouting.
No rush of footsteps running down the stairs after him nothing except the sound of his blood pounding in his ears.
He pulled out his Palm Pilot. Drops of sweat as big as marbles splashed against the color screen. Staring at the Palm's screen, waiting for a man to appear… nothing. All quiet.
Conway moved out of the bunker and stepped back into the harsh Texas sun. A quick but careful jog across the concrete and then he skulked up the first set of stairs, blood pounding in a steady thump-thump sound in his ears. He cleared the first set of steps and stood on the landing. Still quiet. His eyes pinned on the window screen, his ears straining as they listened for sound, Conway crawled up the final set of steps, staying under the two windows. The screen door was less than a foot away and the only way to know if someone was inside was to stand up and look. Big risk.
They had to have left someone behind. They wouldn't leave knowing you're alive.
Then why the hell was it so damn quiet?
If someone's in there, you duck and get down the stairs and jump over the i-frilitia and hnok it into the woods. If not, get inside and get to the phone.
Conway wished he had his Clock. It was in a lock box under the car seat. So close.
Taking a deep breath, hold it… now.
Conway stood up and saw… (Armand pulling the gun out from the bag and then, boom!) an empty office. The figure he had seen earlier was the shadow of a tree branch against the white wall. No one inside here, just a tree branch. The office was clear.
Conway was alone.
His heart slowed a little.
He was sure he had seen someone inside the office.
The kid's starting to lose it, a voice said, one that sounded a lot like Gil Santos, the Boston sports radio announcer for the New England Patriots. Conway's made a bad call. The other team's got him running around in circles and the kid's wasting precious time.
Conway opened the screen door and stepped inside the office with flooring made of the same scuffed gray linoleum as the bathroom. Boxes stuffed with old computer equipment, sneakers, and boxes of cheap white T-shirts lettered with the words PROFESSIONAL TEXAS SKYDIVER were stacked on the floor and on flimsy tables cluttered with knickknacks and pictures and reams of paper. Conway shut the door softly behind him. The cordless phone was mounted on the wall, behind the front desk. Above the phone was a sky-diving certificate with Chris Evans's name. Conway grabbed the phone, dialed the number, and pressed the receiver against his sweaty ear.
No dial tone.
Conway tried dialing again. Nothing.
They must have cut the lines.
Conway tried his own phone again. The call still wouldn't go through.
He wanted to slam the phone You're wasting valuable time. Solve the problem.
The closest sign of life was about a half hour down the road, a Mobil or an Exxon, he wasn't sure; it was the last thing he had seen before being swallowed by this expanse of flat green fields. The station would have a phone, but by the time he got there, Pasha would be Something wet hit the back of his neck.
Conway reached up, touched his neck, and then examined his hand.
Blood. His eyes moved up.
Mounted in the ceiling was a set of pull-down attic stairs, the wood painted white like the ceiling so it didn't stand out. A small red pool no bigger than a quarter had formed in one of the corner seams.
Another drop formed and splashed against the floor.
Conway positioned himself so that when he pulled down the stairs he wouldn't get soaked with blood. He reached up and grabbed the pull-string and with a hard yank pulled down the stairs.
Warm tongues of blood slid off the wood steps and splattered against the chair and desk and floor. He moved off to the side and looked through the windows, half expecting to see someone coming for him.
Nobody did. Back inside the office bright red pools gleamed in the sunlight and continued to drip from the ceiling and splash against the floor like spilled paint.
No way to step around the blood. He reached up and unfolded the wooden steps that would lead him up to the attic. He could see the rafters, the trapped hot air above filled with a distinct buzzing sound.
Conway's mind flashed with the image from moments ago: Chris Evans standing outside the registration office as he fitted the gun into his back waistband.
Conway knew what he was about to discover. He climbed the steps until his head peeked over the attic floor.
A chubby woman with dyed blond hair and dressed in a white T-shirt and jeans lay facedown in a pool of blood, the right side of her face pressed against the plywood floor while her left eye, wide open, stared at Conway as if waiting for an explanation. A fly sat near the bridge of her nose, licking her drying tears. Her mouth was gagged with a cloth and duct tape, her hands bound behind her back with plastic flex-cuffs; so were her feet.
Conway climbed the stairs and stepped up into the hot attic laced with the overpowering stench of copper and urine. Lying next to the woman and bound in the same manner were two other bodies, both white men. All three had been shot execution-style in the back of their heads.
Conway crouched down, balancing his weight on the tips of his feet, and checked their pockets, hoping to find a cell phone. No phones, wallets, or IDs. Their pockets had been stripped clean.
The crotch of the woman's jeans was stained with urine. Pasha's words from Colorado: Take a piss, it will look more authentic.
Con way looked up. Through the screen window he could see his car parked in the dirt lot. The tires hadn't been punctured, and they had left Dixon's cell phone.
They cut the phone lines but didn't leave anyone here to get rid of me?
Conway stood up. He looked back out the window at his car and had a strong idea of what was supposed to happen next.
Confident he was alone, Conway let the office door slam shut behind him and walked across the deck shaded partly by the bunker's wall to his right. He moved down the final set of stairs and stepped into the parking lot, his hiking boots kicking up clouds of dirt, and looked at his Saab. The sun reflected off the front windshield and hood so brightly it made him squint. The car windows were rolled down, just as he had left them.
Conway removed the Palm Pilot from his back pocket, brought it close to his mouth and said, "Locate Traveler."
On the color screen the satellite zoomed in on the Bronco. It was no longer moving; it had pulled off the highway and was now parked twenty-three miles away from the school.
Conway knew why they were waiting, Give them what they want.
He jogged back to the steps leading up to the deck, turned the corner, and pressed his back up against the bunker wall. Facing the office now, he used his free hand to fish the keys out of his jeans pocket.
Attached to his key ring was a black plastic keypad that allowed him to engage and disengage the car security system, unlock the doors and the trunk it even had a remote starter, a great feature if you lived in New England and wanted your car warmed up on a cold winter day. Living in Austin, where the temperature never dipped to such frigid temperatures, he never had a reason to use it.
Conway found the button for the remote starter and placed his thumb on it. He turned his hand around the corner of the bunker and pointed the keypad at the Saab, his muscles tense. He pressed his back even harder against the wall and secured his feet. The thought of what was about to happen might have depressed him if it weren't for the fact that another vehicle was in the lot, a black Nissan Pathfinder, no doubt belonging to one of the dead employees.
It's going to be loud, but you should be safe.
Conway pressed the button to start the car.
The Saab exploded.
It was louder than he had expected, a deafening boom so intense that it muted his hearing. The pressure wave shook the earth beneath his feet and vibrated through his bones. Torn fragments of metal and flaming bits of debris blew past him and hit the bunker and registration office roofs, clunk-
clunk-clunk. The overhang of the bunker roof protected him from being hit by the hail of debris. The Saab's steering wheel bounced off the deck and then a moment later the air grew still again.
Conway looked at the Palm Pilot, angling the screen in the shade, and saw the blue case being tossed out the window as the Bronco tore out of the dirt in a cloud of dust, on the highway now and headed back to Austin.
Angel Eyes now thought he was dead.
Conway turned the corner and moved into the lot. Blasted fragments of his car, most of them engulfed in flames, were scattered across the dirt. The windows in the bunker and video building had been blown out, and some flaming piece of debris had penetrated the video room. Flames had started to devour the curtains and a section of the couch where he and Dixon had sat and watched the skydiving video. Going to be a breeze, Evans had told them, snapping his gum. You're going to remember this day for the rest of your life. Conway bolted over to the Pathfinder.
The SUV's windows had been blown out; the seats were covered with shards of glass that sparkled like diamonds in the sunlight. Conway opened the door, hoping to find the keys dangling from the ignition not a farfetched idea since auto security wasn't going to be a big concern out here. No keys in the ignition, no keys in the glove compartment, visor, or under the seat or mat. And the bodies in the attic had been stripped clean. Probably inside the pillowcase with Dixon's stuff.
The Pathfinder was a brand new model automatic locks and windows a security system, the entire SUV dependent on the dashboard computer system. Perfect.
Conway brought the Palm Pilot's mike close to his mouth and said,
"Access Midnight Exit."
The IWAC group had developed a program called Midnight Exit to assist operatives who might need to make a quick escape. As long as the vehicle was a new model, the program could turn the Palm Pilot into a remote starter. All he needed was the Pathfinder's vehicle identification number. Conway searched the Pathfinder for the VEST, found it, and then spoke the long series of numbers and letters into the mike.
To drive the car, he'd have to disengage the steering lock, which meant popping open the steering column. Conway searched the back and in the compartment where the spare tire was stored found a toolbox. He removed a screwdriver and used it to pop the column. The wheel turned freely. Then he used the screwdriver to brush away the shards of glass on the driver's seat and when he was done checked the Palm's screen.
The Midnight Exit program loaded, he pressed the button on the Palm and the Pathfinder started.
Conway got himself settled behind the wheel. The Bronco had a good thirty-mile lead. Pursue or go to the gas station and use the pay phone? Conway checked the gas gage. A quarter of a tank. Shit. He'd have to stop down the road and get gas and use the pay phone to call Pasha and Delburn.
Gearshift in hand, Conway drove out of the parking lot. The driver's side mirror had been miraculously spared by the explosion and when Conway looked into the cracked glass he saw the video building engulfed in flames that stretched up toward the sky. The place was burning to the ground.
Gunther had removed the blanket. He was out in the open, exposed if the satellite was focused on this area. He doubted it. The guys who had killed everyone in the school and had planted the bomb in Conway's car were long gone. And so was Conway. Shit. Gunther had had Conway locked in the crosshairs of his tranquilizer rifle but couldn't get off a clear shot. Then the dude was off and running in the hot-wired car.
Soaked to the bone, Gunther moved out of the woods, the Viper binoculars flipped up so he could see with his own eyes, and jogged up to the debris-scattered dirt lot. Flames were devouring the last building on the left, and he could see a fire that had started in the woods. In this heat, the ground dry, this place was going to be the world's biggest bonfire in a matter of minutes.
Gunther called Faust: "They planted a bomb in Conway's car," he said.
"And Stephen?"
"Conway figured it out and detonated the bomb. Our new friends think he's dead."
"Do you have him?"
"I couldn't get a clear shot. Conway hot-wired a black Nissan Pathfinder and is headed back to Austin."
"To Praxis, of course."
"You think he'll try to tackle these guys by himself?"
"Stephen would rather die than live a life staring at a coward in the mirror."
"That's suicide. If he rushes in there by himself and tries to stop them, they'll find him and kill him."
"Agreed. What are the chances of him stopping at the gas station?"
"Good. I saw him try to use the phone in the registration office and then slam it back on the cradle. They must have cut the lines."
"So Stephen's phone must not be working."
"Or is being jammed. The gas station's the closest thing out here.
He'll stop and use the pay phone. Rigby's there, waiting for my call.
When Conway pulls in, we'll grab him."
"Are you sure Mr. Rigby's up for the job?"
"You need to give him more credit."
"Stephen could kill Mr. Rigby if he's not careful."
"Understood. The plane is still in one piece. Where's Craven?"
"On his way to you. When Mr. Craven arrives, hand over the MARS. system and let him work on the plane."
"He better get here soon. It's going to get hot here quick."
"I want those fingerprints," Faust said.
A half hour later Conway pulled into a gas station, one of the new Mobil's that had a garage and an attached air-conditioned mini-mart stocked with soda, candy, and pre-made turkey and ham sandwiches that tasted like rubber. On the front seat was a blue pillowcase containing all of Dixon's clothes and gear. He had seen it lying on the side of the road where it had been dumped, and he had stopped and picked it up, hoping to find Dixon's cell phone. It was in there, along with the rest of his clothes and transmitters. They had stripped him clean.
The problem with the cell phone was signal strength. Out here, with no towers around, a call wouldn't go through. Conway would have to use the pay phone.
Inside the mini-mart, a heavy man with tan pants and a blue shirt ran a mop back and forth across the floor. The pay phone was thirty feet or so away from the pumps, next to the air hose and well out of view of the mini-mart. Conway pulled the SUV up next to the self-service pump that was the farthest away from the store, angling the car so the pumps hid the missing windows no need to draw attention to the stolen Pathfinder that would later be traced back to the skydiving school. His time in Austin, he knew, had just come to a close; he would be gone by nightfall and didn't need a police inquiry detaining his exit.
The pumps were shaded by the enclosed roof; over the speakers Britney Spears's grating voice hiccuped "Oops, I Did It Again."
Paying cash for the gas involved interacting with the attendant. Conway had a special credit card with an alias, which could not be traced back to him, but would, with any luck, send the police on a wild chase for Stanley Peters, a thirty-five-year-old Maine native who existed only on paper.
Conway picked up the Palm Pilot from the passenger's seat, pressed a button and the car shut off. Palm in hand, he got out and shut the door. The dispenser for the fuel gloves was right next to the pump. He removed a pair and put them on no need to leave any fingerprints and then removed the card from his wallet, slid it inside the slot on the pump, and then started pumping gas. In the space between the pump and the pole, Conway could see that the attendant had stopped mopping and was now looking in his direction. Just keep your fat ass in there. A moment later, the attendant went back to mopping. Conway clicked the latch inside the pump's handle to keep the gas pumping and then jogged over to the pay phone.
The scrambling unit he needed to insert inside the pay phone's mouthpiece had been stored in the Saab's trunk. With no change in his pocket, he would have to use the calling card number not a problem since Delburn could easily hack its way inside the phone company's database and erase any evidence of this phon
e call. He placed the Palm on the bottom lip of the pay phone's tray, right above the area where the phone book sat and in the shade so he could see the screen. He picked up the receiver and punched in his calling-card number first, then dialed Pasha's number and waited for the call to go through. He could feel the sun drilling into the back of his neck. The air was dry and filled with a throbbing, eerie emptiness.
The phone started ringing. Conway glanced over his shoulder. Fat man was still inside the mini-mart, and no other cars had pulled m.
The phone kept ringing… ringing… "Come on, Pasha, pick up."
Eight rings and no answer.
She's gone. Conway felt a wave of sharp and sudden loss rise within him.
Talk to Bouchard and get an update. Conway called Delburn.
"Good morning, Delburn Systems."
Conway was talking over an unsecured line, so he used the code words:
"Good morning, Carol, this is Foster."
A pause, then the woman said, "Yes, Mr. Foster, how can I help you?"
Conway cleared his throat, took in a deep breath and said, "I've lost the Traveler account."
"I'll have Mr. Jacobs call you back on your cell phone."
"It doesn't seem to be working. I'm calling you on a pay phone."
Conway gave her the number.
"I'll page Mr. Jacobs and have him call you back."
Conway hung up. Page Bouchard? What did she mean by that? A blooming silence followed. He checked his watch. By now, Dixon was at Praxis.
There was still a good chance to save the operation. Randy Scott, member of the IWAC team and Praxis's LAN manager, could trigger the building's alarm system and lock Angel Eyes and his men inside to prevent the suit from being stolen.
Conway's cell phone rang. Sweet Jesus, yes. He removed it from his leather case and said, "Go secure."
The encryption technology engaged, beeped, and then a deep male voice exploded over the line.
"Jesus Christ, Steve, we lost track of your life signs. I thought you and Dixon were dead," Raymond Bouchard said.
"The whole thing was a setup. Angel Eyes knew we were coming. They stripped Dix of his transmitters and stuffed them inside a pillowcase and used the transmitters to lure me out. He killed everyone at the skydiving school. The place is burning to the ground. They're going to make a run for the suit."