World Without End (44 page)

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."

Shut my eyes? What the hell is he talking about?

The back window deflected three shots.

"Hold on," Booker said and planted his foot hard on the gas pedal.

The SUV had dual-ram bumpers that could ram through block-ca des Book smashed into the right side of a Saab with enough force to knock the driver into the passenger's seat. Conway fell forward, bracing himself by reaching out for the dashboard, and dropped the phone. Car horns blared in all directions. Booker kept pushing his way through. The startled and angry faces of the drivers in the surrounding cars tried to move their vehicles out of the way, seeing that the owner of the Lincoln Navigator wasn't about to stop.

Booker yelled over the car horns.

"All I need to do is get through this opening What the, fuck is this shit?"

Seven cars up, the back of a white van had opened; three men dressed head-to-toe in the kind of black, close-quarter combat gear worn by the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team exploded onto the bridge and came charging toward them, night-vision goggles strapped across their faces.

But it was the bulky, square-shaped backpacks and the rifles that looked like props from a science fiction movie that held Conway's attention.

The blinding laser rifle.

How did Angel Eyes get a hold of Gunshots rang out. One of Angel Eyes's black-dressed combat men stopped running. Now standing only a few feet away from the front hood of the Lincoln Navigator, the man brought the weapon up, his eyes covered by protective gear, and stared down the scope of the rifle that was pointed in their direction.

"Get down and keep your eyes shut!" Conway screamed, and then grabbed Booker by the back of the shirt and pulled his friend's massive bulk down into the seat.

More shots pinged off the SUV Booker and Conway lay twisted against the seat, Conway's face pressed against the soft leather, his eyes shut.

Outside, beyond the SUVs protective armor, Conway could hear car doors slamming shut. People screamed. Then he heard something heavy thump against the front hood of the Lincoln Navigator and behind the commotion, a voice screamed out in pain and horror.

"My eyes! Oh my God my eyes I can't fucking see!"

Another voice, trembling, sobbing, right outside the window: "I'm blind! I'm blind!"

Pinned against the soft leather, Conway close enough to smell the bubble gum in his friend's mouth, he recalled the video-test footage of the blinding laser weapon that, on its highest setting, ruptured the cells in the eye and caused permanent and irreversible blindness.

Angel Eyes's voice came from the phone resting on the floor: "It's safe to open your eyes now, Stephen."

Conway grabbed the phone and straightened up. Blinking, he looked outside the window. Car doors hung open while people fled down the expressway, tripping over each other and falling, everyone running away from the three black-dressed combat men who were now climbing back inside the van.

One of Cole's men was sprawled across the front of the hood, both of his shaking hands gripping his face. Conway could see blood dripping between the man's fingers. Another was wandering up the street, blinded, his hands reaching out and touching cars as he screamed for someone to help him.

"You better get moving, Stephen," Angel Eyes said, his voice so calm it sounded mechanical.

"I just received word that two more vans are closing in on your location, and have orders to kill you and your friend."

Booker had already straightened up. Settled back behind the wheel, he punched his foot on the gas, the engine racing, and like a bullet determined to sink deep into bone, the SUV's massive frame and weight plowed ahead and smashed the two small cars out of the way in shrieks of crunching metal. The last image Conway had before they broke free and took the Storrow Exit was that of the startled expression of a uniformed cop on the horn, calling for reinforcements.

The Elf did what he was told: he stayed close to the Lincoln Navigator.

The SUV skidded down deserted and dark streets. They were now deep in the heart of the projects, the Elf closing on the SUV. In the back, Cole leaned down on the floor and looked out the front window, one hand on the back of the Elf's headrest for support, the creepy motherfucker's mouth so close to his ear that he could hear the guy making these wet, smacking sounds.

"Stay close and don't lose him," Cole said, and the Elf got a strong whiff of Owen Lee's blood coming from the man's mouth. Then he thought about last night, Cole down in the basement doing his thing with the girl and the screaming, Jesus Mary Mother of God, he hadn't signed on for this. It was supposed to be a simple gig. All of this torture, it was totally unnecessary. There were other avenues to explore, things like truth serum, and Bouchard knew that. Last night, Alves had come back to the house and saw Cole march up from the basement, the dude splattered in blood. When Cole walked into the back room, Bouchard's face didn't even change expression.

"You get the code?" Bouchard asked.

"No. She was too busy screaming." Cole smiled. His teeth were red, his eyes shining and bright, the look of a man who had just stepped off the most thrilling roller coaster ride of his life, and right then everyone knew Cole had done the biting thing again.