by Chris Mooney
A knife was stuck in Misha's knee; blood rose up through the water like clouds of red ink, rising past his clenched teeth and drifting up and past the group of sand sharks circling overhead.
The sharks had sensed the blood in the water and were swimming fast toward Misha and Stephen.
Pasha unzipped her coat and ran toward the tank. The young mother ran past her. The cool air became charged with adrenaline as other people screamed and ran for the exits. A handful of others remained frozen in place, too afraid or mesmerized to move. They stood around the large section of glass, their feet planted as they watched in wonder and mounting terror at the unbelievable spectacle that was about to unfold right in front of them.
"Holy shit, look!" a man yelled, backing up as he pointed at the glass.
The first shark sunk its teeth deep into Misha's arm and started twisting its powerful head side to side, its razor-sharp teeth ripping off a chunk of meat. A burst of blood formed a watery red cloud around Misha's face as he turned and tried to fend off the attack with his free hand, the second shark having already moved in for the kill and sunk its teeth into Misha's shoulder. Stephen lay on his back, sand swirling around him, his body wedged against the rocks and tank, trapped, the sharks feeding just a few feet above him.
Stephen will never make it to the surface. You've got to get him out now. Do it before security gets here.
"Get out of the way," Pasha said, knocking people down to get to the glass. She knelt down, just inches from Stephen. From behind the glass she saw Misha's muted, agonizing screams of pain and saw Stephen's wide, frightened eyes in the water.
Pasha pulled out her gun, holding up her Clock up so everyone could see it. Pandemonium broke out, everyone was fleeing toward the exits in a stampede, adults screaming, children crying. The glass was too thick; she couldn't shoot through it. Pasha bolstered her Glock and came back with Primacord and a charge. She had been carrying it with her for days in case she had to take down some of Misha's men in a hurry.
Moving quick, Pasha knelt down and worked the strip of Primacord in a straight line along the bottom of the glass, making an X. Stephen's face was pressed against the glass. He turned and with wide, frightened eyes looked at her. Did he recognize her? Pasha moved her face close to the glass, hoping he could make out her blurred face.
"You, back away, now!" a man yelled behind her. She looked over her shoulder and saw a Boston policeman. The accent was Russian. One of Misha She turned her attention back to the tank.
Footsteps rushed toward her.
Hurry up and get it done. Pasha finished shaping the explosives. She placed the charge against the glass, entered 10 seconds into the timer.
The other two sharks had descended on Misha's body and were tearing him apart in bursts of bright pink clouds. A sickening crunch of bone as one shark snapped its powerful jaw on Misha's head. Conway's face was turning red from lack of oxygen. The sharks were feeding less than a foot away from him.
Angry, powerful hands descended on her, lifting her up. Pasha didn't fight it; she let the two guards pick her up, wanting them to think they could handle a woman. She surrendered herself, letting her body go lax, and when she felt their grip loosen, she raked her elbow against the nose of one of the guards, shattering it. When the man let go of his grip, Pasha planted her feet, turned and used a side-kick to blow out the second man's knee. His body crumbled forward, and Pasha finished him off with a kick to the groin and then a roundhouse to the stomach, sending him flying backward across the floor.
Pasha ran back to the charge and hit the button for the timer.
10.
9.
You can't stay. You've got to get out now, before the real police come.
Pasha ran past the groaning, bleeding men and headed for the door. A tall guy with a shaved head seemed to be coming for her. She tucked in her body, threw her shoulder into him and sent the guy flying against the wall. Pasha ran out the door and sprinted through the cold, November sunshine, the piercing wail of police sirens close. A Boston police cruiser, its lights flashing and its siren wailing, came to a screeching halt along with a van near the Aquarium entrance. Pasha ran in the opposite direction.
Stephen will survive this. He'll be fine. Jail will keep him safe.
She kept telling herself this as she fled through the traffic-packed streets of Boston, her mind forming a plan to strike deep into Raymond Bouchard's poisoned heart.
Conway needed air. He looked up and in a blurred mess of red saw what remained of Misha's carcass being torn apart by the sharks only a few feet above. He had to make a break for the surface, but there was no way to get to the top of the tank without being attacked. Deep in the water and needing oxygen, his frightened mind pieced together words from one of those Discovery Channel shows on shark attacks: They're afraid of humans. Don't start thrashing about in the water, they'll think you're a wounded harp seal and descend on you. If a shark attacks, hit it in the nose.
He pushed himself off the floor and had started to swim up when he saw a bright flash followed by a rumble of thunder rock against the pebbled bottom of the Aquarium tank. Conway turned his head, looked down and saw what looked like… it looked like a hole had been blown through the glass.
Conway was being pulled. Then, it was like being caught in an undertow, and the next sensation he had was of being spit through the hole in the glass in a rush of water.
He hit the Aquarium's hard floor, tumbled and rolled, and then his body stopped moving. He lay on his stomach, gasping for air. He pushed himself up onto his knees and looked up.
The explosion had cut a large hole inside the glass; sharks and fish and Misha's body parts poured out onto the floor in a rush of water, the tank draining fast. Fish flopped about on the floor. People were screaming.
Gunshots.
Conway turned and saw a young, bald muscle-head holding a gun; the man had just shot two Boston cops who had their guns drawn. Two cops lay against the floor, covered in water and blood. The one near Conway had a shattered kneecap and a broken nose. It was the Russian Conway had seen earlier, the one who had been with Misha at the top of the stairs.
The bald guy ran to Conway.
"They're not real cops. They're from Misha's gang," he said.
All Conway could do was gasp for air. He took the man's hand when he heard another gunshot. The bald guy crumpled to his knees and fell against Conway, and they were both knocked to the ground. The bald man lay on top of Conway. Blue-uniformed Boston patrolmen, their guns drawn, were running this way.
"Bouchard's dirty," the bald guy said. Blood was rushing from the gunshot in his stomach.
"He's setting you up. Stay away from him and his partner, Cole. You can't trust them."
And then pairs of rough hands descended on Conway like lobster claws.
Angel Eyes's men, they're about to grab you.
Fight it.
Conway tried and couldn't. His strength was gone.
"Stephen, we're on your team," one of the cops said against Con-way's ear. A towel was thrown over his face.
"Keep that towel draped over your head," someone said.
"Hold it in place. We don't want the security cameras to see you."
"Get him outside," another man said.
"I'll see if I can grab the security tapes and meet up with you at the rendezvous point."
"Hurry up, the Boston police are on their way."
Conway was pulled up to his feet. The towel held over his face and his body hunched forward, he was escorted out of the Aquarium, the men holding him shouting, "Boston police, out of the way, get out of the way!" Through the gap in the towel he saw the back door of a black van open. Conway was tossed inside. Two men stepped inside with him and slammed the back door shut. The van lurched forward in a screech of tires, Conway lying on his stomach against the cold floor, sucking in air, his eyes closed and thinking of Pasha. It was her face he had seen against the glass, he was sure of it. Pasha had placed the explosives and had
saved his life. Again.
The towel still draped around his head, Conway pushed himself up onto his hands and knees and tried to gulp in air between coughs. His face was hot and his lungs burned, his temples pounding so hard that it felt as if the veins were going to burst inside his head. The memory of what had happened inside the shark tank just moments ago still trembled inside his skin. He could still feel that choking sensation of the cold water rushing down his throat, Misha above him, his screams garbled as he was torn apart.
The van hit a bump. Conway lost his balance and slammed against the floor. He lay there against the cold, vibrating steel floor, not wanting to get up. The air was warm and humming with the sounds of the van's racing engine and the tires moving across the pavement. A cellular phone rang.
"You might want to sit up, Steve, and get comfortable. The ride's going to be a little shaky until we hit the highway."
Conway didn't recognize the bright, confident voice.
"Who we got in pursuit?" the same voice asked.
"Surveillance says we're in the clear," another voice responded, this one behind Conway, in the back of the van.
"And the Aquarium tapes?"
"In our possession and on their way to the rendezvous point. The Aquarium's a hot zone. Boston cops are on the scene. We're going to have to do some major spin control to keep the focus away "Stephen, looks like you're going to make it out of this nice and clean. But to be safe, I suggest you cut your hair, grow a beard or a goatee. Go with the goatee. It will give you an edge."
Conway pushed himself up so he was sitting down. Breathing was painful, and he still felt dazed, unable to hold onto one particular thought. He ran the towel over his damp head and face, still coughing, then slung it around his shoulders. He pressed his back against the van's side wall.
The middle-aged man sitting on a cooler near the van's sliding door looked like a construction worker for the Big Dig. He wore mud-streaked jeans and Timberland work boots and a burnt orange Dickeys winter coat draped over a gray sweatshirt. His baby-fine blond hair was parted to the side, his skin tanned.
Two other people were in here besides the blond man: the driver, dressed in the blue uniform of a Boston patrolman, and in the back, sitting against the opposite wall, his elbows propped up on his knees and tapping a cell phone against his calf, a tall man who was also dressed like a Boston cop. Conway didn't recognize any of them.
The blond-haired man picked up a tightly wrapped white towel from the floor and pressed it against the back of his head. He saw the question in Conway's eyes and answered it for him.
"Happened in my hotel room, can you believe it? Here I am, getting out the shower, I only got a towel wrapped around me, and when I stepped into the bedroom someone smacked the back of my head. There I am, lying on the floor buck naked and unconscious while some dude goes through my things." The guy shook his head with a wry grin, like he couldn't believe he stepped right into it.
"Then the surveillance van, all the gear we had inside, it suddenly craps out, just went up in smoke, everything fried. Lucky we had alternate equipment to track you. That transmitter in your phone has a two-mile radius. We locked onto the frequency just before you decided to go for a swim." The man smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Looks like Angel Eyes tried to take a run at you."
Conway took in a deep breath, winced. He closed his eyes and saw the mess of events playing inside his head. What he wanted was some time alone to sift through all of this shit.
"The guy I had follow you to the funeral, Tony, the Lynn police just found his body sitting inside his car. Someone used his brains to redecorate the upholstery and back window. Look, I underestimated the guy's potential, and we got caught with our pants down. It won't happen again. We haven't been formally introduced. Ray told me to leave you alone until after the funeral. I'm Jonathan Cole."
Conway opened his eyes. He wasn't in the van. Right now, he was back inside the still-fresh memory from this morning, back in the cold air smelling of dead leaves and packed with the foreboding chill of a long winter, approaching the middle-aged man who stood with his eyes closed and his bare hand pressed against the glass. He introduced himself as Jonathan Cole, knew all the specifics about the Austin fiasco.
But if this blond guy was really Cole, then who the fuck was the guy from this morning?
I think you know the answer to that question.
He thought back to the man he had met this morning. The man seemed so polished, so sure of himself. Then came the words from the funeral home card: You live in a wilderness of mirrors, Stephen. Be careful.
Jackals surround you. A warning? Then Conway thought back to the pictures left for him in the hospital room. You're next.
Had Angel Eyes been trying to warn him about Bouchard?
Angel Eyes had the opportunity to take you at the Holocaust Memorial.
You thought he was your handler. So the big question is, if Angel Eyes has the suit and needs the decryption code, then why didn't he take you in?
Conway felt himself turn away from the answer.
You can't ignore the possibility anymore.
"You okay, Steve?" Cole asked.
"Kaufmann," Conway wheezed, his voice barely audible.
"What about her?"
"You got her?"
"Got her? What are you talking about?"
"They took her away. Outside," Conway said.
"Didn't you intercept her?"
"I had no idea she was there."
It was a setup.
Renee Kaufmann was gone.
Next came the voice from just moments ago, the young bald guy from the Aquarium: Bouchard's dirty. He's setting you up. Stay away from him and his partner, Cole. You can't trust them.
Another person telling Conway not to trust Bouchard.
Why would Bouchard sell us out?
The answer's waiting for you on a CD at the bank in Lynn.
Was the bald muscle-head connected to Pasha? What the fuck was going on?
If what the dude from the Aquarium said is true, then it confirms Pasha's theory, so tread carefully.
But first, he had to figure a way out of this mess.
"What went down in there?" Cole asked.
"Who blew you out of the tank?"
Conway kept his eyes veiled. He had to protect Pasha, the only person he could trust. He ran the towel over the back of his neck and said,
"It wasn't one of your guys?"
"If it was, I wouldn't be asking the question." Cole was grinning, his tone polite.
"I was hoping you could tell me."
"I was underwater, everything was blurry, happening fast. I had no idea who it was. Next thing I know, I'm being spit out of the tank and tossed onto the floor."
"And the guy you were talking to?"
"He shot two cops," Conway said.
"Misha's men."
"Who?"
"Misha Ronkil, one of the Russian mob's top hit men. He came with two of his crew dressed as Boston cops."
"This bald guy, you know him?"
"Never saw him before. You?"
Cole shook his head.
"He say anything?"
"He said to come out with him. That he was there to help me."
Cole let his gaze linger. Conway held it for a moment and then casually looked away and out the front window at the highway. The van was heading north on Route 95. It moved into the right lane and took an exit for Somerville.
The two men stared at Conway, waiting. It was possible, very possible, that these men were hiding Dixon. Conway felt confined.
An idea came to him. He reached inside his back pocket and removed his wallet. He opened it up and saw the note from the funeral home wedged in the slot right in front of the credit card Pasha had given him, the one with the transmitter. Was she tailing him right now? Conway hoped so.
The card was wet, but the writing was in ballpoint, so it hadn't been blurred by the water. He carefully removed the car
d and handed it to Cole.
"What do you think it means?"
Cole read it and then said, "Who knows? He's probably trying to get inside your head."
The van stopped. Conway craned his head and saw that they had pulled into a Mobil gas station. The man in the back, the one dressed as a cop, opened the back doors, got out and jogged over to the mini-mart.
The driver remained behind the wheel, the engine running.
"Take a ride with me," Cole said. He opened the van's sliding door and stepped out into the cold November day.
"Where are we going?"
"For a ride. Come on, I promise I won't bite."
With his thumb, Conway slid Pasha's credit card out of his wallet. He wedged it into the space under the driver's seat, got out and slid the door shut.
It was a gamble, sure, but maybe this van was going back to wherever Dixon was being kept. Conway hoped that Pasha was nearby, that she would follow this van, thinking he was inside. He had memorized the number she had given him back in Austin. He would call her later tonight. Hopefully, she would have answers. Or better yet, she would have Dix and Renee Kaufmann.
Inside the Jaguar with its black leather seats, Cole put in a Miles Davis CD, the volume turned low. They drove through the streets of Somerville, Cole tapping his fingers against the steering wheel and staring out the front window as he ran through a private store of options. Several minutes later, they were on the highway heading south, back to Boston.
"That was one hell of a ride back there," Cole said.
Conway just nodded.
"It's okay to be a little shook up," Cole said.
"God knows I would be. Nothing worse than drowning. Except maybe being burnt alive."
Conway kept looking out the front window, watching the traffic. A minute or so passed before Cole spoke again.
"What did Renee Kaufmann want to talk to you about?"
"Why didn't you ask me inside the van?" Conway said.
"I wanted to ask you in private."