by Chris Mooney
Something slammed into the back window. A spider web of cracks bled off from the center hole, the round deflected by the SUVs bulletproof glass. More rounds deflected off the glass of the surrounding SUVs.
The Navigator peeled away from the curb in a screech of rubber. Another shot hit Booker's window, right where his head was. Book ignored it; he was locked in some other place, concentrating, the same look Pasha had that night in Colorado when a sniper hit the van window, her expression never breaking once as the van fishtailed over a snow-whipped street glowing under a blanket of silver moonlight that rained bullets.
"The Navigators are bulletproof," Owen Lee said. Steve, you clever motherfucker.
On the color screen, Owen watched as the pack of SUVs pulled away from the curb.
"I still got Conway's vehicle locked," Lee said. He looked up through the van's front window and saw the SUVs race past them. In fact, everything was racing. His heart, his vision man, he was soaring. It was like that time down in Tijuana when he was banging this seventeen-year-old whore, snorting coke off of her back, higher than a kite, sweeeet Jesus, and just as he was about to come he thought he was going to black out. But this… he felt like he was swimming away. It didn't feel right.
"Guys are calling in," Lee said. Now he felt short of breath.
"How… how you want to play it?"
Cole spoke his orders into the headset. Each unit was to break off and follow one of the Lincoln Navigators. While he spoke, Lee made a clumsy attempt to grab the gun. Cole grabbed him by the throat, pushed him back out of his chair, and pinned Lee against the floor. Cole's free hand pried the.38. away from the jacket.
"You were going to use this?" Cole said.
"This wouldn't have even put a dent in me."
Owen Lee tried to move and couldn't. His eyes were open; he could see but he couldn't blink. Cole moved in closer.
"You're going to be paralyzed for several hours," Cole said.
"Your friend the Elf drugged your food and coffee. For me."
What's the first rule in this business, Owen? Trust no one.
Lee wanted to talk, to try to barter for his life with the information he had on Bouchard, but his mouth wouldn't work. Nothing was working, but he could feel everything: the grip around his throat and the weight of Cole's body. And to top it off, it was becoming a struggle to breathe. Like he only had half of one lung working. But his mind was fine, nothing hazy there, and the voices screaming inside his head were clear and so loud.
Cole turned Lee onto his side. Out the front window the black sky was peppered with bright stars. It reminded Lee of a time long ago when he was a kid. Cole used flex-cuffs and bound Lee's hands and feet, and then moved his mouth closer to Lee's ear.
"When I'm done with Conway, you and I are going to take a ride up north to a cabin," Cole whispered, his voice breathy. Excited.
"The only way you'll be able to scream is in your head. Why don't you start practicing now." Cole sunk his teeth into Lee's ear.
Nothing in his life so far matched the pain he felt as his ear was ripped away from his head. In his mind he screamed for it to stop could hear himself screaming and what came next was a memory from his childhood: the time he had stolen the highly prized boom-box from his neighbor's back porch. Ten years old and the prize tucked under his arm and he ran like lightning across the dirt backyard in the dead of night with the neighbor's snarling bulldog mutt chasing after him. Lee had climbed the chain link fence and jumped, his right hand stretched out to the side, confident he was in the clear when he ran forward and was jerked back, the spike of pain in his wrist unbearable. He looked back and in the moonlight saw that the fence's barb-shaped tip had penetrated his wrist and had popped through to the other side, ripping through his flesh and muscle when he had tried to run. Blood squirting everywhere, Lee dropped the boom box and screamed and screamed, squares of yellow lights popping up in the windows of the neighborhood, the black sky filled with stars just like tonight, thousands of eyes that stared down on him, not caring.
Mark Alves, the Elf, sat behind the wheel, his eyes riveted on the rearview mirror. He felt his stomach flip and then flip again and then felt the bile shoot up his throat. What was happening in the back… he had heard stories about Cole but what Alves was seeing made him want to run out from the van. He had his hand on the door. He squeezed it, about to open it, when the nagging voice called out:
You check the account to see if Cole made the deposit?
Shit, no, he hadn't checked the Cayman Islands account. Four hundred G's… that's a lot of cash to give up.
You leave now, you leave without the money. You want to give it up?
No. And the strange thing was, he couldn't take his eyes away from the rearview mirror. Owen Lee lay on the floor, absolutely still, his eyes wide and staring straight at him as if to say Look what you've done.
You've fucked me and good. Not my problem, dude. I needed the money you knew that and you decided to play your cards and I played mine.
Shit happens.
Cole, on his knees and hunched forward over Lee's body, suddenly straightened as if startled by a sound. He turned his head around slowly, the ear still in his mouth. Then the ear dropped.
"Want a taste, Mr. Alves?"
"No," the Elf wheezed. That could be you, he thought and almost pissed himself.
"Then drive."
Alves peeled out of the parking lot. Stay on Conway and then let the cannibal psycho go after him, get Cole the fuck out of here. Alves would use the computer here in the back, check his account, and if the money was there, transfer it to another account. And after that? Fake his death, run away, do something. Mark Alves never wanted to see Cole again.
Booker headed down Route One South toward Boston. Traffic was light;
Booker and the other SUVs cruised up the highway at a steady eight-five. The world outside the windows was full of bright signs for stores and strip malls and gas stations. The SUV was warm, lit up by the dials on the control panel. Miles Davis played over the speakers.
Conway had taken off his mask, but he could still smell the aroma of the sweaty rubber. The fleet of SUVs had split up. When he left the room, he exchanged briefcases with one of Booker's men. Con-way kept the watch, Palm, and the phone, knowing that Cole would lock on the transmitters and follow this vehicle. The CD was on its way to Booker's contact at the Channel Five news station in Need-ham, and with any luck, Cole and his men would be following him.
"My boss, Raymond Bouchard, he killed Riley. I got it all on this CD,"
Conway said. He stared at the depth sensor in his watch and thought, I hope you're listening, Raymond.
"You got your FBI contact all lined up?"
"It's all set," Booker said.
"He'll meet us with his team. All we have to do is hand him the CD and he'll take it from there."
There was no way Cole would let that happen. He would try to intercept this vehicle and put a stop to it. That's what Conway wanted. Now all they had to do was to get to Roxbury.
The penthouse suite inside the nine-unit condo on Devonshire is less than a two-minute walk from the heart of downtown Boston even under the worst weather conditions. The suite comes with its own private parking garage and a separate elevator which is accessible only by key a remnant from the previous owner, a basketball player from the glory days of the Boston Celtics who demanded privacy and discretion. The other owners must pass through the front doors and enter the lobby where a security man who doubles as a concierge sits behind a wonderfully crafted desk bathed in soft light.
None of the owners or the security personnel have ever met Simon LeCruix personally in fact, no one who lives in the building can claim they've met the man. But they do know the story of how Mr. LeCruix paid a staggering seven-figure sum to gut the entire suite and rebuild it from scratch, a three-year project that included a changing chamber behind the door, complete with two special HEPA-filtered devices, scrubbing stations and lockers that held boxes
of latex gloves, surgical masks and Tyvek sterile garb. No one knew why Mr. LeCruix needed such an area, or why the same group of well-groomed men would periodically visit him.
Inside the suite now, the rooms dark and cold, always cold to keep whatever lingering germs and viruses that might have survived the scrubbing with the Vesphene/Spor-Klenz cleaning solution from incubating. The suite's layout was almost a mirror image of the one in Austin, right down to the choice of furniture and its arrangement.
This strict order was also imposed on the owner's thoughts. For years, the rooms of his mind have been clean and ordered, a majestic, sweeping museum of stored emotions and experiences and adventures that have been neatly labeled and could be, at a moment's notice, examined with total clarity.
Gunther's death had changed that. The once-splendid rooms in Amon Faust's mind, these crafted private sanctuaries that had held glorious memories and tastes and secrets, have been ransacked, their contents destroyed, the glass containers and picture frames and vivid filmstrips of a perfect life now shattered against the floor, burned and defaced.
Faust had spent the better part of the day inside his office, sitting with his back against the wall, his eyes closed, focusing his mental energy on the task of cleaning. Deep, slow breaths kept the volatile mix of rage and regret and loss and grief from consuming him. It was critical to keep his mind clear. It was the only way he could help Stephen through this next maze. Faust couldn't afford another mistake.
Another loss.
The phone rang.
He opened his eyes. Outside the pair of sliding glass doors that led out to the patio was a black sky alive with the full moon, its silver light washing over the hardwood floor decorated with dozens of pictures of Gunther taken at various stages of his life. The photographs were arranged in ascending order, a series of molts that charted Gunther's inspiring transformation from a troubled, violent boy to a handsome, intelligent Renaissance man capable of so many wonders. The pictures captured the boy's essence in various phases, and as Faust viewed them, a part of him believed that Gunther was still alive, still a viable presence in his life, and not a carved up piece of meat waiting to be dissected on an autopsy table.
The headset was already in place. Faust hit the TALK button.
"Conway has left the bank."
The voice belonged to Charles Rigby, the chubby, apt pupil who had worked closely with Gunther in Austin. Gunther had believed the man possessed the necessary skills to be not only a leader, but an effective member of Faust's family. Privately, Faust wondered if Gunther's vision was clouded by the fact that up until five years ago Rigby was living on the streets of Los Angeles, forced out of his house because his parents had discovered the true nature of their son's sexual proclivities.
Time to test the young man's abilities.
"Cole and his men took shots at Booker and his crew," Rigby said.
Faust straightened up.
"Stephen?"
"Unharmed. Didn't you watch it on your computer screen? I had one of the men transmit the images to your " "Where is Stephen now, Mr.
Rigby?"
"Traveling down Route One South, headed toward Boston."
"And who do we have following?"
"Two vans, one of them containing Jonathan Cole. The bugs we planted inside the vans are working. We can hear everything. One new development: our man inside the bank saw Conway exchange briefcases.
Conway's still wearing the gear with the transmitters."
Of course he wants Cole and his brood to follow. Stephen's acting as the decoy -while the CD moves in another direction. Interesting.
Faust looked down at his hands. Grasped between his long, slender fingers was a head shot of Stephen as he ran across the field. Such determination and raw energy, such intelligence in those eyes. All that potential waiting to be tapped and shaped. What new secrets will you share with me tonight, Stephen?
"Conway's setting the stage for something," Rigby said.
"What it is we don't know, since Booker's place is sealed tight. It's got all the latest goodies to prevent eavesdropping. I know Gunther wanted to get inside there, but even he said " "Stephen is to be protected at all costs."
"I won't let you down."
"See that you don't."
The plan didn't allow for traffic jams. They had made it over the Tobin Bridge without a problem, but when they came out of the tunnel, the traffic was backed up on the expressway, bumper to bumper, because of what looked like a two-car accident up ahead. Conway could see a pulsing storm of blue and white cruiser lights and a parked ambulance grouped near the exit for Storrow Drive. The Lincoln came to a complete stop. Conway shifted in his seat and looked out the windows, scanning the area.
"Relax," Booker said. He blew out a long pink bubble and snapped it.
"These guys aren't going to make a move with the cops right up there, not in front of all these witnesses."
"They're desperate. They can't afford to let the CD get out in the open."
"Desperate don't mean foolish. They're smart. They're going to sit back and watch where we're going, then they'll access the situation and make their move when they think no one is looking."
Earlier, using the encrypted phone in Booker's office, Conway had tried to call Pasha. She didn't pick up but he was surprised to hear a prerecorded operator's voice come on and ask to leave a message. Conway did; he left the number to Booker's office and cell phone. Time to try her again.
Booker's phone rang. He removed it from his belt. He listened and stared out the window, his face remote, the SUV inching forward toward the Storrow Drive exit.
"It's for you," Booker said and handed over the phone.
Conway pressed the phone against his ear. Rows of cars up lined the Southeast Expressway; hundreds of red brake lights glowed like pairs of eyes under the black sky.
"How are you coping, Stephen?" Angel Eyes asked.
"How did you get this number?"
"I have many friends."
"I'm still having trouble processing your interest in all of this."
"What did Raymond say?"
"I didn't ask him."
"Why not? You seem to take everything the man says at face value."
"I want to hear it from you."
"Like you, my moral fabric is woven in terms of black and white. Right and wrong. What I want, Stephen, is the very same thing you've pledged your life, up until this point, to fight: to keep the world safe from those want to cause it harm people like your boss, your mentor, and father figure, Raymond Bouchard."
"That still doesn't explain your interest in the suit."
"Right now the suit is a one-of-a-kind item. It hasn't become a mass-produced weapon of destruction yet."
"Let's discuss your secret agenda."
"Only if you discuss yours."
"Mine?"
"Yes. You, the emotional orphan who must perform heroic acts of bravery to prove your worth in a company of men who don't deserve to share the air you breathe. It's been your life-long mission to prove to yourself that you are not the picture of the worthless orphan you carry in your head. The liars and thieves and white-trash teachers that provided the moral framework of your childhood you have risen above them, Stephen. Yet you live in constant fear that you don't possess the secret treasures and gifts that make you desirable to others. That's why you can't get close to people."
"Psychoanalysis bores me."
"No, it terrifies you. You'd have to map out all those undiscovered countries within yourself places that will always be unfamiliar terrain. After the Armand shooting, I bet you flirted with post-traumatic stress disorder, and your peers suggested therapy, didn't they? But you didn't go because you don't have the answers to the questions about your origins. You have no idea what makes you tick. Each day is a mystery. You're the puzzle that when put together never forms a complete picture."
Conway felt alarms going off, but behind the noise and the commotion and the driving need to get to the
next destination, a well-buried part of himself had opened up to Angel Eyes's words, knowing what the man had just said was true.
He's sucking you in. Don't let someone else use you, Steve.
"When faced with the choice between saving your life and retrieving the military suit, I chose you, Stephen. I saved your life. When you went in to find Ms. Kaufmann, I sent in the person I loved the most to protect you. You, Stephen Conway, are alive because of me."
"Why me?"
"Despite your complicated rearing, the worlds you've been forced to inhabit despite all the ugliness you've seen, you still want to believe in good. In the purity of what you're doing. I find that remarkable."
Car horns blared. Booker was trying to move the SUV into the next lane, but nobody was letting him in.
"I can help you erase your doubts, Stephen. I can provide you with the answers to your origins, the names of your mother and father all those questions you have about yourself, I can answer. The life you so desperately want can be yours."
"Tell me where Dixon and Kaufmann are."
"Turn around in your seat and ask that question to the people who are coming for you."
The phone pressed against his ear, Conway turned around and saw dozens of headlights pointed at him. He tried to look beyond them and didn't see anything, just a lot of fancy sports cars, a few trucks and Five men, Conway counted five, peeked out of the darkness and dodged their way through the narrow spaces between the cars, the strong wind trying to blow them back. They were all dressed in bulky down parkas with hoods and wore gloves and were coming this way, closing fast.
To see them, Angel Eyes must be close.
"We need to get out of here, Book. Now."
"I see them. They can't get in here. They can plant a bomb on this car and they won't be able to get in."
On the phone Angel Eyes said, "I'm a man of my word, Stephen.
I said I will protect you, and I will. Just remember to keep an open mind later. For now, keep your eyes shut."