Chris Mooney - World Without End

"Hold on," Booker said and planted his foot hard on the gas pedal.

The SUV had dual-ram bumpers that could ram through block-ca des Book smashed into the right side of a Saab with enough force to knock the driver into the passenger's seat. Conway fell forward, bracing himself by reaching out for the dashboard, and dropped the phone. Car horns blared in all directions. Booker kept pushing his way through. The startled and angry faces of the drivers in the surrounding cars tried to move their vehicles out of the way, seeing that the owner of the Lincoln Navigator wasn't about to stop.

Booker yelled over the car horns.

"All I need to do is get through this opening What the, fuck is this shit?"

Seven cars up, the back of a white van had opened; three men dressed head-to-toe in the kind of black, close-quarter combat gear worn by the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team exploded onto the bridge and came charging toward them, night-vision goggles strapped across their faces.

But it was the bulky, square-shaped backpacks and the rifles that looked like props from a science fiction movie that held Conway's attention.

The blinding laser rifle.

How did Angel Eyes get a hold of Gunshots rang out. One of Angel Eyes's black-dressed combat men stopped running. Now standing only a few feet away from the front hood of the Lincoln Navigator, the man brought the weapon up, his eyes covered by protective gear, and stared down the scope of the rifle that was pointed in their direction.

"Get down and keep your eyes shut!" Conway screamed, and then grabbed Booker by the back of the shirt and pulled his friend's massive bulk down into the seat.

More shots pinged off the SUV Booker and Conway lay twisted against the seat, Conway's face pressed against the soft leather, his eyes shut.

Outside, beyond the SUVs protective armor, Conway could hear car doors slamming shut. People screamed. Then he heard something heavy thump against the front hood of the Lincoln Navigator and behind the commotion, a voice screamed out in pain and horror.

"My eyes! Oh my God my eyes I can't fucking see!"

Another voice, trembling, sobbing, right outside the window: "I'm blind! I'm blind!"

Pinned against the soft leather, Conway close enough to smell the bubble gum in his friend's mouth, he recalled the video-test footage of the blinding laser weapon that, on its highest setting, ruptured the cells in the eye and caused permanent and irreversible blindness.

Angel Eyes's voice came from the phone resting on the floor: "It's safe to open your eyes now, Stephen."

Conway grabbed the phone and straightened up. Blinking, he looked outside the window. Car doors hung open while people fled down the expressway, tripping over each other and falling, everyone running away from the three black-dressed combat men who were now climbing back inside the van.

One of Cole's men was sprawled across the front of the hood, both of his shaking hands gripping his face. Conway could see blood dripping between the man's fingers. Another was wandering up the street, blinded, his hands reaching out and touching cars as he screamed for someone to help him.

"You better get moving, Stephen," Angel Eyes said, his voice so calm it sounded mechanical.

"I just received word that two more vans are closing in on your location, and have orders to kill you and your friend."

Booker had already straightened up. Settled back behind the wheel, he punched his foot on the gas, the engine racing, and like a bullet determined to sink deep into bone, the SUV's massive frame and weight plowed ahead and smashed the two small cars out of the way in shrieks of crunching metal. The last image Conway had before they broke free and took the Storrow Exit was that of the startled expression of a uniformed cop on the horn, calling for reinforcements.

The Elf did what he was told: he stayed close to the Lincoln Navigator.

The SUV skidded down deserted and dark streets. They were now deep in the heart of the projects, the Elf closing on the SUV. In the back, Cole leaned down on the floor and looked out the front window, one hand on the back of the Elf's headrest for support, the creepy motherfucker's mouth so close to his ear that he could hear the guy making these wet, smacking sounds.

"Stay close and don't lose him," Cole said, and the Elf got a strong whiff of Owen Lee's blood coming from the man's mouth. Then he thought about last night, Cole down in the basement doing his thing with the girl and the screaming, Jesus Mary Mother of God, he hadn't signed on for this. It was supposed to be a simple gig. All of this torture, it was totally unnecessary. There were other avenues to explore, things like truth serum, and Bouchard knew that. Last night, Alves had come back to the house and saw Cole march up from the basement, the dude splattered in blood. When Cole walked into the back room, Bouchard's face didn't even change expression.

"You get the code?" Bouchard asked.

"No. She was too busy screaming." Cole smiled. His teeth were red, his eyes shining and bright, the look of a man who had just stepped off the most thrilling roller coaster ride of his life, and right then everyone knew Cole had done the biting thing again.

"Want a taste, Raymond?"

The Elf had caught the peculiar look in Bouchard's eyes. The dude was jealous that Cole got to enjoy the release, got to enjoy the taste.

That was why Bouchard had insisted on going inside the Boston condo alone, why he stuck the needle full of cocaine and rat poison into the guy's neck even though there was a more humane way to pull the guy's plug. No, Bouchard had wanted to watch John Riley suffer. Just like Cole, Bouchard got off on it. Bouchard like to play in the same sandbox but didn't like getting his hands dirty. At that moment, the Elf didn't know what was worse: the devil you didn't know or the devil you did.

The thing of it was Cole knew he was being set up. The broad must have spilled something because after Bouchard left, Cole looked at Owen Lee and said, "You have something you want to tell me, Owen?" And Owen, the fucking idiot that he was, just shook his head no. The Elf thought about what had just happened to the girl, and when Owen left the house to get some smokes, he called Cole and struck up a deal.

The Elf looked out the window. They were in the projects now. As he chased the SUV, he suddenly didn't care about the money. All he cared about was getting the fuck OUT. Go down to the Caribbean and spend some time popping college broads out looking for dick, then fake his own death and start over somewhere in the Midwest, maybe give the nine-to-five thing a try. Other guys had done it.

"When I tell you, pull up alongside of them and run them off the road,"

Cole said.

The SUV took a sharp right. The huge Lincoln Navigator looked like it was about to tip over but instead, it shot up a narrow one way street.

The Elf was on him.

He saw them first, shining in the van's headlights, metal strips with the spiked ends dropping from the unit underneath the Navigator road spikes used to stop high-speed pursuits. The spikes were bouncing all over the street.

The Elf hit the breaks but the van had already run over them. The front tires deflated. Oh shit. He turned the wheel but had already lost control of the van. He slammed dead-on into a row of parked cars.

The seat belt threw him back against the seat kept him from flying out the window. Cole hit the back of his chair and bounced backward, back toward the drugged Owen Lee. Cole wasn't moving, but the Elf could. He was dazed and probably had suffered massive whiplash, but he could move.

Now's your chance. Get the fuck out of here.

His head throbbing, the Elf unlocked his seat belt and checked his door. It opened, and he had room to get out. Dazed, he stepped outside.