Chris Mooney - World Without End

The refrigerated air between the cream-colored walls felt bone-numb, the gray-shadowed world of the lab filled with the mixed beep and hum of the large telecommunications systems. Conway moved past the railing, about to make his way down into the heart of the lab, when he saw the cut and bloodied hand peeking out from behind the chair wheels.

Conway moved closer to the hand, the man's face buried in the shadows coming into a sharper focus.

Randy.

Randy's face was cut up and swollen, both eyes completely shut, his lips a wet, torn mess that dripped blood onto the floor. Three of his front teeth were missing.

Conway reached out and touched Randy's neck. The skin was warm, the pulse strong. Conway shook him. No movement, not even a groan.

He must be drugged.

"Please."

Dixon's voice, very soft and choked with tears, drifted up from deep inside the lab, from the staging area where they worked on the combat suit.

"Please," Dixon begged.

"Please, don't… don't kill me."

"You got one minute to get that software downloaded into the suit or I'm going to paint the walls with your brains."

The male voice belonged to Chris Evans. He was inside the lab with Dixon.

Conway stood up, wondering who else was inside the lab. His head down and his body bent slightly, he crept through the row of bulky telecommunications equipment, the cold air buzzing with a droning mechanical hum and the clicks of machinery. The military suit was stored inside a circular tube made of shatterproof glass, like a rare statue housed inside a museum. Dixon was the only one who could access the suit; the separate biometric security responded only to Dixon's fingerprint and retinal scan, along with a special code, which he changed on a daily basis. A mere touch on the pressure-sensitive glass would signal an alarm and lock up the lab.

Unless Angel Eyes has shut off the security. He's proving to be quite clever.

"I'm done," Dixon said.

"Good. Now get on your knees," Evans said.

"You said you said you wouldn't." Dixon's babbling voice mounted with terror.

"You said all I had to do was help you, and you promised you wouldn't "

"On your knees or I'll blow your head off."

A body slumped to the floor in a loud, heavy thud. Dixon started to cry.

"I did what you wanted."

The row was about to end, and from around the corner Conway could see the combined blur of two shadows stretched wide across the white tiles.

"Face the wall," Evans said.

"Please, not like… not like this "

Conway, the skin on his scalp tingling, brought the weapon up and turned the corner.

Dixon and Evans were both dressed in firemen's garb and faced the wall so that only their backs were visible. The helmets they wore shielded their heads so that Conway couldn't see their faces, only their backs.

Dix was down on his knees like a man kneeling at church, his body bent slightly forward as one hand grabbed the swivel chair in front of him, his other gloved hand rested by his side, unaware of the handgun already pointed at the back of his head.

Conway aimed at Evans's back and squeezed off two shots, poof-poof, each round suppressed by the silencer. Evans fell forward stiffly, as if his entire body was made of wood. Then he tumbled forward and knocked Dixon down against the floor, their helmets scattering across the tile.

The faces of two mannequins stared up at Conway. He looked through the cloud of dust that hung in the cold air and saw the tube that held the suit.

The suit was gone.

"Please," Dixon cried. His recorded voice came from a pair of computer speakers sitting on the table.

"I'm begging you, stop, please."

It's a trap.

Conway turned and brought the weapon around and saw a fireman standing in the space between the row of telecommunication equipment. The fireman had already brought the HK submachine gun up and now stared down his sight.

The muzzle flash didn't come from the main chamber at all, but from the long tube mounted beneath the submachine gun's forward handguard, the place where a tactical light should have been mounted. Then Conway's eyes caught it too large to be a bullet, it was a small cylindrical object, a miniature soda can with fins flying with frightening speed and precision toward him.

Conway tried to turn away and the object slammed into his chest with enough force to knock him off his feet. By the time he fell backward against the floor, the four electrical prongs had already penetrated his skin and were feeding a steady electrical charge through his body.

He could feel the thing stuck to his shirt right above his frantic heartbeat.

Heavy footsteps were marching toward him.

Somehow, the HK was still gripped in his hand. He could feel his finger resting on the trigger housing.

Bring the weapon up, Steve.

In his mind he saw himself bringing the weapon up and squeezing off rounds that would shred his advancing adversary. His body ignored the simple task.

Steve, bring the weapon up or it's over.

Conway couldn't move. He was paralyzed. Useless. All he could do was stare up at the dim tubes of fluorescent light with his mouth hanging open while Dixon's voice cried out in the background.

"Please… I'm begging you…"

The footsteps stopped. Conway heard something hard slump against the floor, close to where the mannequins had been standing, but he couldn't turn his head to see. Then the fireman stepped into Conway's line of vision.

The man's mouth and nose were covered by a black neoprene mask, the kind used in skiing. He stood there for a moment and then brought up the Clock, slowly, and pointed it at Conway's face. It was just like that morning with Armand. Only this time, no Hazard Team was going to come rushing in at the last second to save him. Conway stared at the muzzle and knew that his life was over.

"And what do we have here?" Gunther muttered to himself.

Charles Rigby sat in the driver's seat of the 911 Porsche and stared through the tinted windows at the dead-still traffic on the MoP ac expressway. He said nothing. After being picked up, he tried to apologize again, and Gunther had given him a look that told him to shut up. Gunther wanted the silence, wanted to use the little time he had to collect his thoughts and see how he could turn this thing around.

What he saw happening on the highway didn't look promising.

Gunther sat low in the passenger's seat of the Porsche, a pair of Viper binoculars mounted on his head and eyes, and zoomed in on the entrance to Praxis. The fire truck with its flashing lights and siren was about to turn onto the highway, the battered Ford Bronco in tow, a revolving red police bubble mounted on the dashboard. Faust wouldn't be able to view this new development. The MARS. system was back at the skydiving school where Craven was using the equipment to transmit the fingerprints to Faust's condo.

Gunther called Faust.

"They're pulling out of Praxis."

"With the suit, I'm sure," Faust said.

"They wouldn't come this far and leave without it. Any sign of Stephen?"

Gunther scanned the crowd of faces gathered near the entrance all clear, no sign of Major Dick either and then Gunther looked to his left, a strip mall with an office supply store and "The Pathfinder Conway hot-wired at the school, it's parked in a lot about a mile away," Gunther said.

"But no sign of Stephen."

"Not that I can see."

"Then he must be inside Praxis. Pull into the lot and make your way inside the building."

"Wait. You want me to go inside?"

"Stephen and Mr. Dixon could be trapped or hurt or injured. They may need our assistance."

"If they're inside, then they're already dead." Gunther turned his head and saw the fire truck and engine heading up the highway, heading away from him.