Chris Mooney - World Without End

"Lead the way," Conway said.

The face shield on Pasha's helmet slid down and covered her eyes. She stepped out of the alcove first; the wind was strong and almost knocked her down. His heart heavy with the finality of his choice, Conway stepped out of the alcove and jogged toward the helicopter, his eyes on the opened bay door.

I'm doing the right thing. I'm doing the right thing. I'm doing the right thing.

Conway could see the face of the man in the lighted cockpit. The Austin Detective, Lenny Rombardo.

Another man who worked for Angel Eyes.

The wind blowing around him, Conway stepped up into the dark bay, Pasha still several feet behind him. Rombardo couldn't see him. Conway removed the Palm Pilot from his pocket. The program was already loaded. A two-minute countdown. All he had to do was press the button.

May God forgive me. Conway pressed the button and the timer started ticking down. He slid the Palm across the floor toward Rombardo and then turned around. Pasha was about to step up into the chopper. She still had the gun aimed at him.

"I've changed my mind," he yelled over the wind.

"I'm not going."

Pasha's voice boomed over the helmet's speakers.

"This is your last chance, Stephen. I'm not going to ask you again."

"I've made my decision and you've made yours. Good-bye, Pasha. Please forgive me."

Conway jogged away from her. When he turned around, he saw that she had climbed in beside Rombardo. She had taken off her helmet. Her eyes were locked on Conway's as the Blackhawk lifted into the air. The searchlight clicked off.

You did the right thing, Stephen. Whatever happens after this, know you did the right thing.

The Blackhawk had just sailed past the roof when the bomb went off. The attack chopper turned around and kept spinning. Conway ran toward the edge of the roof, not knowing why. The cockpit was still lit. Blood was on the glass. He saw Pasha. She was alive. She had blood on her face and was trying to take control of the Blackhawk. Rombardo's dead body, broken and twisted, was still buckled in his seat. But the chopper kept spinning, out of control now, sinking, the bomb having destroyed the navigation system. A final pass and Pasha looked at him, frightened.

Forgive me, Pasha.

The Blackhawk sank below the roof and Pasha was gone.

If you have been kicked around by life at an early age, or if your upbringing is defined by being bounced around foster homes and group homes for the troubled and unwanted and the forgettable, you learn the importance of not placing roots because nothing in life is permanent.

The pleasing sight of a backyard pool from your bedroom window, or the thrill you get from playing baseball with a group of boys at a favorite playground are temporary at best, special moments that can be taken away from you as quick and as easy as blinking your eyes.

Steve Conway had lived with Booker that first month. To escape when the media attention got bad, he would run an errand for Book but didn't want to work full time. What he wanted was some stillness, some time alone to reflect and process everything that had happened. Silly, childish demands when you're the dead center of a media storm.

But all storms pass, and when it did, life got real quiet. Conway rented an apartment on Hancock Street in Beacon Hill, a five-minute walk from Booker's place and just around the corner from where Riley used to live. Used to. The word was like a haunted echo in his heart.

John Riley used to live here. John Riley used to be alive. Conway used to work for the CIA. He used to be in love with a woman named Pasha Romanov. She was dead now and so was John Riley. Life moved on.

It seemed easier to confront the truth here in the city, during early spring, surrounded by people. The weather was warm for April, and the college students at Suffolk were wrapping up their courses for the year. He would walk among them on the streets, see them in the coffee shops bump into them at the bars at night, and sometimes would listen in on their conversations about their problems, feel their ridiculous, almost childish angst and anger at why the world behaved the way it did. Sometimes he would talk with them. Mainly he just wanted to be near them, to soak up their innocence and youth.

In the dreams he would be out on a boat in the middle of the ocean, the night sky painted black above him, and whispered in the wind he would hear Pasha's voice calling out to him to come closer, come closer Stephen, I have so much to tell you. So many secrets to share.

Sometimes he would wake up. Sometimes he would stay with the dream and keep searching for her. All he ever heard was her voice. Other times he would get up and walk through Beacon Hill's dark, cool streets until he found Riley's condo. Standing across the street, he would lean his back against the cool brick and stare at the dark window where John Riley used to live.

I did the right thing, right?

Answer: Yes, you did.

I did the right thing, right?

Answer: Yes, you did.

Knowing the truth offered little comfort. The truth required a high price and left a bitter taste in his mouth and a cavernous feeling in the pit of his stomach. The truth, he had found, did not have a place in the day-to-day business of life.

At night, Pasha kept calling out for him.

One vital lesson he had learned early and learned hard in his education in the group homes is that you don't take people at their word; you cannot count on others or their promises. If you decide to ignore these facts and invest emotionally in the truth, if you decide to believe in the illusory comfort of a safe and warm home or, more recently, the whispered promises of a woman who loved you deeply then you have only yourself to blame when it all comes crashing down.

Five years? Was that how long he had been with her? Inch-by-inch he had given himself to love and blind trust in another person, and within the span of a few seconds, she robbed him of every thought and emotion he had for her, wrapped it up neatly inside a balloon and sent it sailing away.

All this time both enemies had been so close to his skin.

All this time and he couldn't see it.

He had been used twice.

Betrayed twice.

Angel Eyes was right. Conway had been nothing more than a means to an end.

At night, alone in the darkness of his bedroom, he would listen to the sounds of the city. A Swiss clock, a housewarming gift from Booker's wife, ticked in the darkness. Time moving forward. The world owes you nothing. Time moves forward and you have to fight to find the ways in which to heal.

Summer arrived on the first Saturday in May. Before the sun had risen, Conway went out for a long run in the Boston Common. Drenched in sweat, he trotted up the flight of stairs, and then showered, changed into jeans and a white T-shirt. Coffee in hand, he walked out onto the roof deck that overlooked the city.

The sun had just started to rise. He watched the neighborhood come alive and in the air felt the springtime magic of hope and the promise of good things to come. He wanted to freeze this moment, to store it in a vial, use it when the next wave of anger and grief hit him.

Inside the apartment, the phone rang.

It's Booker, calling to check up on me again. Booker had assumed the role of big brother; he called early in the morning on the weekends to check in and chat, see what was happening, but what he really wanted was to get a sense of when Conway was going to come to work. He went back inside and picked up the cordless phone in the living room.

"Hello, Stephen."

It had been months since Conway had last heard the cold, monotone voice. He glanced down at his watch, his eyes tracking the second hand.

"I won't be on long enough for your few remaining friends at the CIA to track me," Angel Eyes said.