World Without End (11 page)

"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.

Conway 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.

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 Tshirts 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 skydiving 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.