Chris Mooney - World Without End

Through Gunther's Viper binoculars was a close-up of the computer prodigy, Major Dixon, splayed across the front hood of a rusted, battered Ford Bronco. Dixon was oblivious to the two men busily removing his clothing. Faust recognized one of them: Chris Evans.

Evans removed Dixon's pants and stuffed them inside a blue laundry bag.

"They're stripping Dixon of his transmitters," Faust said, his tone and heartbeat normal.

"Interesting."

"Who the fuck is doing this?"

"Language please."

Gunther sighed. Still young and still excitable.

"You recognize these dudes?"

"I was told that Mr. Evans and the other members of the school were who they purported to be." Obviously my inside source was misinformed, Faust added privately.

"You think they're leftovers from Armand's group?"

"Armand didn't hire the intellectually gifted. We have audio, correct?"

"If Dixon is still wearing the watch the CIA gave him, yes. Ask Craven." John Craven was Faust's surveillance expert. Like the IWAC group, Faust had the frequency of Dixon's watch and could listen in on Dixon's conversations.

Line two was ringing.

"Speak of the devil, Mr. Craven's calling in," Faust said and hit line two, bringing the second caller into the conversation. John Craven told Faust to turn on his monitor.

Monitor two: a jarred imaged of an overturned Delburn Systems van engulfed in flames, its metal twisted from an explosion. Bodies on the ground, the screaming muted as Dinah Washington broke into "Evil Gal Blues," her voice strong and clear as it played over the office's wall-mounted speakers.

"The man I got monitoring the airport just called in with this," Craven said.

"An improvised explosive device was placed on the first van and took down the Hazard Team. Then an unidentified man placed a second IED right above the gas cap on van number two, the surveillance van, and then jumped into a car and sped away."

Faust was quiet, his eyes locked on monitor two playing the carnage at the airport.

Craven continued.

"The IWAC guys placed inside the airport are both dead. Whoever's behind this is making sure there are no survivors."

"What happened on the plane?"

"Dixon had a meltdown and then it got real quiet."

"What about Mr. Conway's watch?"

"Nothing. And the teams monitoring and covering Conway have got real quiet."

Faust turned his attention back to monitor one. Dixon now lay naked on top of the car hood, his watch and clothing with its transmitters stuffed inside the blue laundry bag that rested on the ground.

Gunther said, "Gunshots."

On the screen Faust saw through Gunther's eyes the back of the skydiving school through the gaps between the trees.

"I just heard two more," Gunther said, keeping his voice low and calm, the way he had been trained. He tried to zoom in on one of the windows.

"I'm not in a good position. I can't see anything."

"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.