Chris Mooney - World Without End

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.

Conway crouched down, balancing his weight on the tips of his feet, and checked their pockets, hoping to find a cell phone. No phones, wallets, or IDs. Their pockets had been stripped clean.

The crotch of the woman's jeans was stained with urine. Pasha's words from Colorado: Take a piss, it will look more authentic.

Con way looked up. Through the screen window he could see his car parked in the dirt lot. The tires hadn't been punctured, and they had left Dixon's cell phone.

They cut the phone lines but didn't leave anyone here to get rid of me?

Conway stood up. He looked back out the window at his car and had a strong idea of what was supposed to happen next.

Confident he was alone, Conway let the office door slam shut behind him and walked across the deck shaded partly by the bunker's wall to his right. He moved down the final set of stairs and stepped into the parking lot, his hiking boots kicking up clouds of dirt, and looked at his Saab. The sun reflected off the front windshield and hood so brightly it made him squint. The car windows were rolled down, just as he had left them.

Conway removed the Palm Pilot from his back pocket, brought it close to his mouth and said, "Locate Traveler."

On the color screen the satellite zoomed in on the Bronco. It was no longer moving; it had pulled off the highway and was now parked twenty-three miles away from the school.

Conway knew why they were waiting, Give them what they want.

He jogged back to the steps leading up to the deck, turned the corner, and pressed his back up against the bunker wall. Facing the office now, he used his free hand to fish the keys out of his jeans pocket.

Attached to his key ring was a black plastic keypad that allowed him to engage and disengage the car security system, unlock the doors and the trunk it even had a remote starter, a great feature if you lived in New England and wanted your car warmed up on a cold winter day. Living in Austin, where the temperature never dipped to such frigid temperatures, he never had a reason to use it.

Conway found the button for the remote starter and placed his thumb on it. He turned his hand around the corner of the bunker and pointed the keypad at the Saab, his muscles tense. He pressed his back even harder against the wall and secured his feet. The thought of what was about to happen might have depressed him if it weren't for the fact that another vehicle was in the lot, a black Nissan Pathfinder, no doubt belonging to one of the dead employees.

It's going to be loud, but you should be safe.

Conway pressed the button to start the car.

The Saab exploded.

It was louder than he had expected, a deafening boom so intense that it muted his hearing. The pressure wave shook the earth beneath his feet and vibrated through his bones. Torn fragments of metal and flaming bits of debris blew past him and hit the bunker and registration office roofs, clunk-clunk-clunk. The overhang of the bunker roof protected him from being hit by the hail of debris. The Saab's steering wheel bounced off the deck and then a moment later the air grew still again.

Conway looked at the Palm Pilot, angling the screen in the shade, and saw the blue case being tossed out the window as the Bronco tore out of the dirt in a cloud of dust, on the highway now and headed back to Austin.

Angel Eyes now thought he was dead.

Conway turned the corner and moved into the lot. Blasted fragments of his car, most of them engulfed in flames, were scattered across the dirt. The windows in the bunker and video building had been blown out, and some flaming piece of debris had penetrated the video room. Flames had started to devour the curtains and a section of the couch where he and Dixon had sat and watched the skydiving video. Going to be a breeze, Evans had told them, snapping his gum. You're going to remember this day for the rest of your life. Conway bolted over to the Pathfinder.

The SUV's windows had been blown out; the seats were covered with shards of glass that sparkled like diamonds in the sunlight. Conway opened the door, hoping to find the keys dangling from the ignition not a farfetched idea since auto security wasn't going to be a big concern out here. No keys in the ignition, no keys in the glove compartment, visor, or under the seat or mat. And the bodies in the attic had been stripped clean. Probably inside the pillowcase with Dixon's stuff.

The Pathfinder was a brand new model automatic locks and windows a security system, the entire SUV dependent on the dashboard computer system. Perfect.

Conway brought the Palm Pilot's mike close to his mouth and said,

"Access Midnight Exit."

The IWAC group had developed a program called Midnight Exit to assist operatives who might need to make a quick escape. As long as the vehicle was a new model, the program could turn the Palm Pilot into a remote starter. All he needed was the Pathfinder's vehicle identification number. Conway searched the Pathfinder for the VEST, found it, and then spoke the long series of numbers and letters into the mike.

To drive the car, he'd have to disengage the steering lock, which meant popping open the steering column. Conway searched the back and in the compartment where the spare tire was stored found a toolbox. He removed a screwdriver and used it to pop the column. The wheel turned freely. Then he used the screwdriver to brush away the shards of glass on the driver's seat and when he was done checked the Palm's screen.

The Midnight Exit program loaded, he pressed the button on the Palm and the Pathfinder started.

Conway got himself settled behind the wheel. The Bronco had a good thirty-mile lead. Pursue or go to the gas station and use the pay phone? Conway checked the gas gage. A quarter of a tank. Shit. He'd have to stop down the road and get gas and use the pay phone to call Pasha and Delburn.

Gearshift in hand, Conway drove out of the parking lot. The driver's side mirror had been miraculously spared by the explosion and when Conway looked into the cracked glass he saw the video building engulfed in flames that stretched up toward the sky. The place was burning to the ground.

Gunther had removed the blanket. He was out in the open, exposed if the satellite was focused on this area. He doubted it. The guys who had killed everyone in the school and had planted the bomb in Conway's car were long gone. And so was Conway. Shit. Gunther had had Conway locked in the crosshairs of his tranquilizer rifle but couldn't get off a clear shot. Then the dude was off and running in the hot-wired car.

Soaked to the bone, Gunther moved out of the woods, the Viper binoculars flipped up so he could see with his own eyes, and jogged up to the debris-scattered dirt lot. Flames were devouring the last building on the left, and he could see a fire that had started in the woods. In this heat, the ground dry, this place was going to be the world's biggest bonfire in a matter of minutes.

Gunther called Faust: "They planted a bomb in Conway's car," he said.