Chris Mooney - World Without End

"And Stephen?"

"Conway figured it out and detonated the bomb. Our new friends think he's dead."

"Do you have him?"

"I couldn't get a clear shot. Conway hot-wired a black Nissan Pathfinder and is headed back to Austin."

"To Praxis, of course."

"You think he'll try to tackle these guys by himself?"

"Stephen would rather die than live a life staring at a coward in the mirror."

"That's suicide. If he rushes in there by himself and tries to stop them, they'll find him and kill him."

"Agreed. What are the chances of him stopping at the gas station?"

"Good. I saw him try to use the phone in the registration office and then slam it back on the cradle. They must have cut the lines."

"So Stephen's phone must not be working."

"Or is being jammed. The gas station's the closest thing out here.

He'll stop and use the pay phone. Rigby's there, waiting for my call.

When Conway pulls in, we'll grab him."

"Are you sure Mr. Rigby's up for the job?"

"You need to give him more credit."

"Stephen could kill Mr. Rigby if he's not careful."

"Understood. The plane is still in one piece. Where's Craven?"

"On his way to you. When Mr. Craven arrives, hand over the MARS. system and let him work on the plane."

"He better get here soon. It's going to get hot here quick."

"I want those fingerprints," Faust said.

A half hour later Conway pulled into a gas station, one of the new Mobil's that had a garage and an attached air-conditioned mini-mart stocked with soda, candy, and pre-made turkey and ham sandwiches that tasted like rubber. On the front seat was a blue pillowcase containing all of Dixon's clothes and gear. He had seen it lying on the side of the road where it had been dumped, and he had stopped and picked it up, hoping to find Dixon's cell phone. It was in there, along with the rest of his clothes and transmitters. They had stripped him clean.

The problem with the cell phone was signal strength. Out here, with no towers around, a call wouldn't go through. Conway would have to use the pay phone.

Inside the mini-mart, a heavy man with tan pants and a blue shirt ran a mop back and forth across the floor. The pay phone was thirty feet or so away from the pumps, next to the air hose and well out of view of the mini-mart. Conway pulled the SUV up next to the self-service pump that was the farthest away from the store, angling the car so the pumps hid the missing windows no need to draw attention to the stolen Pathfinder that would later be traced back to the skydiving school. His time in Austin, he knew, had just come to a close; he would be gone by nightfall and didn't need a police inquiry detaining his exit.

The pumps were shaded by the enclosed roof; over the speakers Britney Spears's grating voice hiccuped "Oops, I Did It Again."

Paying cash for the gas involved interacting with the attendant. Conway had a special credit card with an alias, which could not be traced back to him, but would, with any luck, send the police on a wild chase for Stanley Peters, a thirty-five-year-old Maine native who existed only on paper.

Conway picked up the Palm Pilot from the passenger's seat, pressed a button and the car shut off. Palm in hand, he got out and shut the door. The dispenser for the fuel gloves was right next to the pump. He removed a pair and put them on no need to leave any fingerprints and then removed the card from his wallet, slid it inside the slot on the pump, and then started pumping gas. In the space between the pump and the pole, Conway could see that the attendant had stopped mopping and was now looking in his direction. Just keep your fat ass in there. A moment later, the attendant went back to mopping. Conway clicked the latch inside the pump's handle to keep the gas pumping and then jogged over to the pay phone.

The scrambling unit he needed to insert inside the pay phone's mouthpiece had been stored in the Saab's trunk. With no change in his pocket, he would have to use the calling card number not a problem since Delburn could easily hack its way inside the phone company's database and erase any evidence of this phone call. He placed the Palm on the bottom lip of the pay phone's tray, right above the area where the phone book sat and in the shade so he could see the screen. He picked up the receiver and punched in his calling-card number first, then dialed Pasha's number and waited for the call to go through. He could feel the sun drilling into the back of his neck. The air was dry and filled with a throbbing, eerie emptiness.

The phone started ringing. Conway glanced over his shoulder. Fat man was still inside the mini-mart, and no other cars had pulled m.

The phone kept ringing… ringing… "Come on, Pasha, pick up."

Eight rings and no answer.

She's gone. Conway felt a wave of sharp and sudden loss rise within him.

Talk to Bouchard and get an update. Conway called Delburn.

"Good morning, Delburn Systems."

Conway was talking over an unsecured line, so he used the code words:

"Good morning, Carol, this is Foster."

A pause, then the woman said, "Yes, Mr. Foster, how can I help you?"

Conway cleared his throat, took in a deep breath and said, "I've lost the Traveler account."

"I'll have Mr. Jacobs call you back on your cell phone."

"It doesn't seem to be working. I'm calling you on a pay phone."

Conway gave her the number.

"I'll page Mr. Jacobs and have him call you back."

Conway hung up. Page Bouchard? What did she mean by that? A blooming silence followed. He checked his watch. By now, Dixon was at Praxis.

There was still a good chance to save the operation. Randy Scott, member of the IWAC team and Praxis's LAN manager, could trigger the building's alarm system and lock Angel Eyes and his men inside to prevent the suit from being stolen.

Conway's cell phone rang. Sweet Jesus, yes. He removed it from his leather case and said, "Go secure."

The encryption technology engaged, beeped, and then a deep male voice exploded over the line.

"Jesus Christ, Steve, we lost track of your life signs. I thought you and Dixon were dead," Raymond Bouchard said.

"The whole thing was a setup. Angel Eyes knew we were coming. They stripped Dix of his transmitters and stuffed them inside a pillowcase and used the transmitters to lure me out. He killed everyone at the skydiving school. The place is burning to the ground. They're going to make a run for the suit."

"So they don't know you're alive."

"They think I'm dead. That I died from the bomb they planted inside my car." Conway squeezed the receiver in his hand, his anger getting away from him and not caring, heat building in his voice. Sweat worked it way down his back. His heart climbed inside his chest when he asked the next question.

"Where's Pasha?"

"About twenty minutes ago, we lost contact with all the team members at the Austin airport," Bouchard said, his voice flat.

"Same thing happened with the surveillance and Hazard Team covering you and Dixon. The watches that monitored their life signs… they all flat-lined. People who witnessed the explosions at the airport called the police and fire departments. It doesn't look like there are any survivors, Stephen."

Conway felt a sharp pain twist inside his chest, like razor wire working its way through his heart. He stared across the empty field, white dots of light dancing and burning in front of his eyes. That doesn't mean she's dead.

"Stephen?"

You have to forget about Pasha you have to forget about all of this and focus on Dix. He needs you. You're the only one who can save him.

Training took over. He compartmentalized his thoughts and feelings, pushed them to the side, and focused on solving the problem.

"I'm here," Conway said.

"What do you want me to do?"