Chris Mooney - World Without End

"The military, just like the FBI and CIA, can't afford the top-drawer technical talent, so they've turned to the companies that can. The advancements in this optical camouflage technology are due to the work of one individual: Major Dixon. Dixon works for a company called Praxis, based out of Austin, Texas. The project is code-named ROM ULAN based on the cloaking technology from Star Trek. I'm sure you've seen an episode."

An assignment was coming. Excitement bubbled through him and then a voice screamed out NO, this was his time, he had earned it, the deal was that he would be left alone. Let someone else deal with it.

Then another voice piped in and asked, What's the problem, Steve? Are you afraid to get back into the game, or are you afraid you've lost your edge? Which is it?

"Dixon was offered half a million dollars for information on the suit,"

Pasha said.

"He hasn't accepted yet, but he's thinking."

"Who's the buyer?"

"We're calling him Angel Eyes. We've been tracking his movements for the past three years. Ten months ago, he stole this working prototype from an army base in New Mexico."

The desert disappeared and now Conway was standing on the floor of a high-rise office building. A Blackhawk attack helicopter was hovering just outside the window, the sound of its blades muted. The Blackhawk turned to fly away and suddenly the image of the helicopter melted, as if caught behind ribbons of intense heat, and then vanished. Amazing.

"What we know is that someone placed several remote-controlled devices inside the ventilation system that, once activated, delivered a drug that knocked everyone out inside the building," Pasha said.

"Angel Eyes and his group he would have to have a group to pull something like this off managed to bypass all the security, got inside the helicopter and flew away. We've never been able to recover the chopper."

"What about the blueprints?"

"The databases were raided, and then a computer virus wiped out anything left. The paper files, which were stored inside a safe, were also stolen. All of it's gone, including the tape backup copies. Angel Eyes is extremely thorough."

"If Angel Eyes has the helicopter, then he has the optical camouflage technology. Why does he need Dixon?"

"The helicopter is a solid structure. It can't change shape or run or jump. Dixon is modifying the technology for a man. It's much different."

"Tell me more about Angel Eyes."

"We know he steals cutting edge technology weapons mostly and that the inventors disappear without a trace. So do the prototypes and every blueprint, backup copy all of it disappears. We know he's left only two victims, and we know that he wants this military combat suit bad.

I'll debrief you when we get to Austin."

"I haven't said yes."

Pasha removed his goggles. It took Conway a moment for his eyes to adjust to the van's semidarkness.

"There's going to be an opening at Dixon's company, Praxis, for a network security specialist," Pasha said.

"LAN management and all that. I want you to get friendly with Dixon.

Guide him. We want him to sell it to Angel Eyes."

Pasha handed him an envelope. Inside was a one-way plane ticket to Austin, a license and credit card under the name Peter Miller, and a thousand dollars in cash.

"Use the Miller identity until all this is settled," she said.

"Then you "II be using your real identity."

This was happening too fast. He couldn't process it. He was quiet for a moment, thinking about the Armand gig, how it had turned sour and what he could have done to prevent the outcome.

"The shooting just happened," Pasha said.

"You can't control every moment of your life. Let it go and move on."

And Bouchard?"

"He handpicked you for this."

That surprised Conway. The last time he had seen Bouchard was at the funerals for the two team members, both of whom grew up in Maryland. At the last funeral, the oneforMurph, Bouchard had been quiet, aloof from the rest of the group and not wanting to talk. Conway had tried to approach him after the crowds started to drift, but Bouchard had already walked down the grassy slope, sprinting almost, and was in his car. As he watched Bouchard drive away, Conway had the distinct feeling that he had let the man down. That feeling grew as the days stretched into weeks without a call from Bouchard, Pasha no call from any of the other team members. It was as if Conway had been ostracized, a potential cancer that could infect the rest of the group.

And now here was Pasha with an offer to play in the starting lineup.

"Okay," Conway said.

"I'm in."

"Good. Now I need you to "

The window next to them splintered. Conway jumped back. Gunshots rained across the van, rounds ricocheting off the bullet-proof armor.

The driver killed the headlights and floored the gas. The van started fishtailing over the ice. Under the bright full moon the winter landscape glowed in an electric neon white and blue light.

"Don't worry," Pasha said, nonplussed.

"The whole van's protected, even the tires."

A phone rang. Pasha removed a phone from a console, pressed it against her good ear, listened, and then hung up without a word. She reached into a cabinet, removed a nine-millimeter Clock and handed it to Conway.

"Stay away from the airport, Stephen. Use the Miller credit card to rent a car. That way I'll be able to track you." Pasha got up and slid the van's side door open.

"Get ready Now."

Conway jumped out of the van. He dove headfirst through a snowbank, tumbled over ice, and then came to a stop. He scrambled onto his back, his scalp, arms, and legs groaning from the fall, his exposed skin tingling from the snow and ice. Far away he heard the van's tires skidding. More shots rang out. He held the Clock and waited, his breath fogging around him.

The image faded away. Conway was coming out of his daze. He could hear the plane's engines and the voice yelling over it:

"Remember to inject him behind the ear so it won't show up in the autopsy."

"So it looks like he had a heart attack in the air, yeah, I know what to do," the cameraman said.

"Then hurry up and kill him. We've got to dump his body."

Conway's eyes fluttered open. He was lying on his back, that much he knew. His head was tilted to the side, pointed at the opened door with the roaring wind rushing over his face. He wiggled his fingers, felt them move, good, but still felt strange, a little dazed. He blinked, the heaviness in his eyelids dissipating, the world coming into sharper focus.

Hurry up and kill him, the voice had said. Conway was alert now.

Ready.

Something made of glass hit the floor. Clink, it was a vial. Con-way saw it roll past his head. Someone was straddling him. It was the cameraman, Paul, and he was holding a syringe. He looked at Con-way, who was awake.

"Oh shit," Paul said.

Paul shifted the syringe in his right hand so it was now pointed like a dagger, his thumb on the plunger, bringing the needle down fast. Conway planted his knee hard in the man's scrotum. Paul's body went rigid; the plan that had been so firmly planted in his eyes evaporated and gave way to the god-awful bolt of nauseous pain exploding deep in his loins. He still tried to bring the needle down, but his strength was gone. Conway's left arm came up, blocking Paul's forearm, and using his momentum sent Paul's balled fist crashing against the floor, snapping the needle. Conway brought up his right arm, swiping his elbow hard across the man's face and shattering his nose. The cameraman tumbled off him and buried his bleeding face in his hands.

Conway scrambled to his knees. The disorientation was still with him; he had to grab the edge of the seat to keep from falling. The stun baton was on the floor. With his left hand Conway picked the stun baton up, turned it on and shoved the dancing electric spark right into the guy's scrotum. He watched Paul quiver until he slumped into unconsciousness, and then moved the baton away and turned toward the pilot's cabin.