Chris Mooney - World Without End

"Conway has left the bank."

The voice belonged to Charles Rigby, the chubby, apt pupil who had worked closely with Gunther in Austin. Gunther had believed the man possessed the necessary skills to be not only a leader, but an effective member of Faust's family. Privately, Faust wondered if Gunther's vision was clouded by the fact that up until five years ago Rigby was living on the streets of Los Angeles, forced out of his house because his parents had discovered the true nature of their son's sexual proclivities.

Time to test the young man's abilities.

"Cole and his men took shots at Booker and his crew," Rigby said.

Faust straightened up.

"Stephen?"

"Unharmed. Didn't you watch it on your computer screen? I had one of the men transmit the images to your " "Where is Stephen now, Mr.

Rigby?"

"Traveling down Route One South, headed toward Boston."

"And who do we have following?"

"Two vans, one of them containing Jonathan Cole. The bugs we planted inside the vans are working. We can hear everything. One new development: our man inside the bank saw Conway exchange briefcases.

Conway's still wearing the gear with the transmitters."

Of course he wants Cole and his brood to follow. Stephen's acting as the decoy -while the CD moves in another direction. Interesting.

Faust looked down at his hands. Grasped between his long, slender fingers was a head shot of Stephen as he ran across the field. Such determination and raw energy, such intelligence in those eyes. All that potential waiting to be tapped and shaped. What new secrets will you share with me tonight, Stephen?

"Conway's setting the stage for something," Rigby said.

"What it is we don't know, since Booker's place is sealed tight. It's got all the latest goodies to prevent eavesdropping. I know Gunther wanted to get inside there, but even he said " "Stephen is to be protected at all costs."

"I won't let you down."

"See that you don't."

The plan didn't allow for traffic jams. They had made it over the Tobin Bridge without a problem, but when they came out of the tunnel, the traffic was backed up on the expressway, bumper to bumper, because of what looked like a two-car accident up ahead. Conway could see a pulsing storm of blue and white cruiser lights and a parked ambulance grouped near the exit for Storrow Drive. The Lincoln came to a complete stop. Conway shifted in his seat and looked out the windows, scanning the area.

"Relax," Booker said. He blew out a long pink bubble and snapped it.

"These guys aren't going to make a move with the cops right up there, not in front of all these witnesses."

"They're desperate. They can't afford to let the CD get out in the open."

"Desperate don't mean foolish. They're smart. They're going to sit back and watch where we're going, then they'll access the situation and make their move when they think no one is looking."

Earlier, using the encrypted phone in Booker's office, Conway had tried to call Pasha. She didn't pick up but he was surprised to hear a prerecorded operator's voice come on and ask to leave a message. Conway did; he left the number to Booker's office and cell phone. Time to try her again.

Booker's phone rang. He removed it from his belt. He listened and stared out the window, his face remote, the SUV inching forward toward the Storrow Drive exit.

"It's for you," Booker said and handed over the phone.

Conway pressed the phone against his ear. Rows of cars up lined the Southeast Expressway; hundreds of red brake lights glowed like pairs of eyes under the black sky.

"How are you coping, Stephen?" Angel Eyes asked.

"How did you get this number?"

"I have many friends."

"I'm still having trouble processing your interest in all of this."

"What did Raymond say?"

"I didn't ask him."

"Why not? You seem to take everything the man says at face value."

"I want to hear it from you."

"Like you, my moral fabric is woven in terms of black and white. Right and wrong. What I want, Stephen, is the very same thing you've pledged your life, up until this point, to fight: to keep the world safe from those want to cause it harm people like your boss, your mentor, and father figure, Raymond Bouchard."

"That still doesn't explain your interest in the suit."

"Right now the suit is a one-of-a-kind item. It hasn't become a mass-produced weapon of destruction yet."

"Let's discuss your secret agenda."

"Only if you discuss yours."

"Mine?"

"Yes. You, the emotional orphan who must perform heroic acts of bravery to prove your worth in a company of men who don't deserve to share the air you breathe. It's been your life-long mission to prove to yourself that you are not the picture of the worthless orphan you carry in your head. The liars and thieves and white-trash teachers that provided the moral framework of your childhood you have risen above them, Stephen. Yet you live in constant fear that you don't possess the secret treasures and gifts that make you desirable to others. That's why you can't get close to people."

"Psychoanalysis bores me."

"No, it terrifies you. You'd have to map out all those undiscovered countries within yourself places that will always be unfamiliar terrain. After the Armand shooting, I bet you flirted with post-traumatic stress disorder, and your peers suggested therapy, didn't they? But you didn't go because you don't have the answers to the questions about your origins. You have no idea what makes you tick. Each day is a mystery. You're the puzzle that when put together never forms a complete picture."

Conway felt alarms going off, but behind the noise and the commotion and the driving need to get to the next destination, a well-buried part of himself had opened up to Angel Eyes's words, knowing what the man had just said was true.

He's sucking you in. Don't let someone else use you, Steve.

"When faced with the choice between saving your life and retrieving the military suit, I chose you, Stephen. I saved your life. When you went in to find Ms. Kaufmann, I sent in the person I loved the most to protect you. You, Stephen Conway, are alive because of me."

"Why me?"

"Despite your complicated rearing, the worlds you've been forced to inhabit despite all the ugliness you've seen, you still want to believe in good. In the purity of what you're doing. I find that remarkable."

Car horns blared. Booker was trying to move the SUV into the next lane, but nobody was letting him in.

"I can help you erase your doubts, Stephen. I can provide you with the answers to your origins, the names of your mother and father all those questions you have about yourself, I can answer. The life you so desperately want can be yours."

"Tell me where Dixon and Kaufmann are."

"Turn around in your seat and ask that question to the people who are coming for you."

The phone pressed against his ear, Conway turned around and saw dozens of headlights pointed at him. He tried to look beyond them and didn't see anything, just a lot of fancy sports cars, a few trucks and Five men, Conway counted five, peeked out of the darkness and dodged their way through the narrow spaces between the cars, the strong wind trying to blow them back. They were all dressed in bulky down parkas with hoods and wore gloves and were coming this way, closing fast.

To see them, Angel Eyes must be close.

"We need to get out of here, Book. Now."

"I see them. They can't get in here. They can plant a bomb on this car and they won't be able to get in."

On the phone Angel Eyes said, "I'm a man of my word, Stephen.

I said I will protect you, and I will. Just remember to keep an open mind later. For now, keep your eyes shut."

Shut my eyes? What the hell is he talking about?

The back window deflected three shots.