Chris Mooney - World Without End

The overhead banks of fluorescent lighting had been shut off. The only source of light came from the opened door and the two computer monitors on each desk, their dark-blue screens glowing against the back wall.

The mailroom was long, rectangular and windowless, full of rows of supply cabinets, shelving, and large copying machines. Conway moved behind the counter and walked toward the back of the mailroom, the phone pressed against his ear. Overhead, the air conditioning clicked on, and a rush of cold air blew down from the ceiling.

"I'm inside," Conway whispered, his voice hoarse.

"I'll need a minute or so to set up."

"You're clear," Harring said.

Every desktop computer inside the building was hooked into the company's Local Area Network, or LAN. Each employee had a unique user name and password that allowed him access to specific directories and files; other directories and their contents were restricted, permanently out of their reach. As the company's network administrator, Conway had access to all six servers. What he had to do now was reboot one of the mailroom's desktop computers and log on as the administrator, which would allow him to bring the lab's security system back online.

You hope. If they used Randy to shut off your access, you won't be able to do a thing.

Conway moved to the first desk and hit the reboot button on the desktop PC. The computer monitor went black and then came to life again, lines and lines of white text scrolling across the screen as it went through its series of internal tests. Next item: find a headset. Conway searched through drawers, desk tops, and shelving and then found one in the back, lying on top of a copier. He fitted the unit over his head and adjusted the padded microphone so it sat right against the corner of his mouth. All he would have to do was whisper and Harring would hear him. Conway clipped the phone to his belt and then moved back behind the desk and sat down.

On the computer monitor, a window asked him to enter his user ID and password. He typed it in and then paused, his finger hovering above the ENTER key. If Angel Eyes had someone monitoring the network, the second Conway pressed the key, it didn't matter if the password was accepted or denied, they would know someone else was inside the building. If no one was monitoring the network and Conway's passwords were accepted, he could trigger the lab's alarm system. He would be locking himself here with Angel Eyes.

"They're beating the shit out of Randy," Harring said.

"I'm about to log on. How far away are you?"

"Ten, fifteen minutes."

Conway looked at the ENTER key. Come on, just let this go through and buy me some time. He pressed the key and the window disappeared, his information sent into the vast computer matrix for verification. shit.

Conway stared at the new window on the monitor.

"Denied access," he said.

"They've shut me off from the network. I can't do anything from "

"They're moving," Harring said, his voice loud and tight.

Conway stood up and ran toward the counter, Harring saying, "I'm counting two men, these boys are sprinting and heading straight for the stairs or the elevator, I can't tell which yet. Get to the security room."

Two doors, one leading back outside, the other the stairs. Con-way opened the second door to the gray-painted stairwell and ran up the stairs, the squeak and thud of his boots echoing loudly up the stairwell. He opened the door and moved onto the second floor, easing the door back into its frame so it wouldn't make a sound. High above him a door slammed open against a wall, followed by the rush of footsteps, all of it real now, no longer imaginary scenarios.

The door shut, Conway turned and ran down stretches of blue-gray painted hallways ending and beginning, beginning and ending, a maze crafted from a nightmare, until the last hallway disappeared and gave way to an open area of cubicles, private offices, and meeting rooms.

The place was strangely empty and quiet. The desktops glowed with the sunlight pouring in from the windows. Conway moved down the final corridor and when it split to the right, he turned and now faced the security-room door. A key-card scanning device was mounted on the wall, located next to the door handle. Conway fished his key card from his front pocket, found it and slid the card through the scanner. The light turned red.

"They've shut off my access to the security room," Conway said. He tried the doorknob; the door shook inside the frame.

"I can't get in."

"You got a key?"

"No." The company's office and security manager, Joe Langdon, was the only person who had the keys.

From far down the maze of corridors, Conway heard the second-floor door burst open against the wall and then slam shut.

Harring: "Target two is running in your direction."

The security room was located at the corner of the building in a suite of private offices. The only way out of here was to go back the way he came the same corridors through which one of Angel Eyes's men was now running.

"I want you to turn the corner and wait," Harring said, his seasoned voice clear and calm.

"Target one is in the mailroom looking around, and the one coming in your direction is alone. They probably think you bolted back outside.

Get your Palm ready. If you do exactly what I say, we can level the playing field until I get there."

Conway moved past the door, turned the corner, and pressed his back against the wall. To his left and several feet away was an opened door leading into a private office; to his right, the hallway continued for maybe thirty feet, and then the walls disappeared into the wide sea of cubicles he had just passed. Conway looked down at the carpet. Good.

The overhead lights didn't throw off his shadow. Palm Pilot in hand, he called up the program that turned the PDA into an Air Taser.

"Our boy just turned the corner and is walking down the final hallway,"

Harring said.

"Stay where you are, regulate your breathing. You don't want him to hear you."

He won't have to see or hear me, all he'll have to do is take a whiff of the air, and he'll know I'm right here. An odor of sweat and grime and dry blood rose from his skin.

Hung on the wall and facing the hallway that contained the security room door was a framed poster of an American Cup racing boat diving deep into a towering wave. In the glass's reflection, Conway saw the small, blurred shadow of a man grow larger as he walked up the hallway toward him.

Harring whispered over Conway's earphone: "When I tell you, you're going to turn around and hit him with your Taser. Just remember to stay low."

Conway took slow, deep breaths through his nose and regulated his breathing. He placed his thumb on the Palm's button. The problem with the Palm's Air Taser System was that you only had one shot. Once he pressed the button, he would drain the entire battery. The Palm Pilot became useless until it was recharged. He had only one shot to bring this guy down.

"Twenty feet and closing," Harring whispered, barely audible.

"He's moving slowly, looking for you. Stay sharp."

The hum of the fluorescent lighting was maddening. Over the earphone, Conway heard the screech of tires, car horns blaring. His throat was so dry it hurt to swallow.

Harring whispered, "Get ready."

Down to the wire now, Conway could feel it, like an electric current moving through his veins. His fate was about to be decided, everything hinged on him and (go ahead and say it) luck. Conway's muscles tensed.

Ready.

"Now!" Harring said.

Conway turned the corner, staying low.

The man dressed in jeans, a black T-shirt, and a baseball cap had just removed his latex-covered hand away from the doorknob, his right hand fastened around the grip of a submachine gun when he saw Steve Conway on the floor with one hand on the ground, the other hand holding in the air a Palm Pilot organizer. Startled, the man tried to turn his body and brought the weapon around just as two barbs shot out of the Palm and pierced his leg and chest. The man crumpled to the floor, unconscious.