by Chris Mooney
"What's the best route?"
"The stairwells are clear. Secure the lab, and we'll take the outside perimeter. I'll watch your back. Steve?"
"Yeah."
"Once we arrive, I'll need to redirect my focus to the Hazard Team. I won't be able to watch them and you simultaneously."
"I'll take care of Dixon and Randy."
"Good luck."
Conway opened the door and sprinted through the maze of corridors, the alarm blaring everywhere, the sound like something ripped from a disaster movie, a sinking ship about to go down along with Dixon and Randy, two minutes and counting.
Conway shut the fourth door behind him and crouched against the wall on his right, the alarm drilling inside his head. The hallway continued straight for maybe fifteen feet, broke for the fourth-floor lobby elevators and then continued beyond that to the final corridor that would lead him straight to the lab. Facing him was a railing. Beyond it and far below was the main lobby. A towering wall of mirrored blue glass stretched all the way to the roof.
The alarm stopped. Conway's ears were ringing.
"He's not on the first floor," someone said in a thick Russian accent, the booming voice rising from the lobby. Conway wanted to peek over the railing and see the faces of the men and commit them to memory. He took a step forward and then stopped. No. Too risky.
"You check the security room?" a second voice asked.
Paul, it's the cameraman, Paul.
"He wasn't in there," the Russian said.
"He's got to be inside the building."
"Find Conway, he's here, hiding."
"The alarm probably scared him off, and he ran back outside," Paul said.
"What do you think he's going to do, come charging in here and try to take us down? Relax, Niki, our job is done. Dana's getting the scene set up in the lab. And I got word on Delburn."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, it's been liquidated."
Conway felt his body sag with defeat. Outside the window and floating in the hard blue sky, he could see the UT watchtower leering at him.
The security gates started to rise, clank-clank-clank. Beyond it, Conway heard the faint, screech of tires. They were getting ready to run.
Which meant Randy and possibly Dixon had only a few minutes, maybe even a few seconds, to live.
"Harrison should be here," Niki the Russian said.
"He's probably inside the security room pulling the tapes inside as we speak," Paul said.
"Our ride's here. Time to boogie."
Over the headset, Harring said, "We're setting up. Secure the lab.
Once we've secured the perimeter, I'll call you back."
Conway skulked across the carpet, and when he was in the clear, he stood up and ran down the final hallway of twists and turns, his sweaty finger sliding across the trigger, ready to shoot. A minute later he stood outside the first door that would lead him into the lab's offices and, then, finally, the lab itself. He brought the weapon up, turned the corner, and moved inside the lab's office of cubicles.
Darkness. No windows existed inside these rooms, and the overhead lights were turned off. Where was the switch? He felt the wall.
Nothing. He had moved through these rooms hundreds of times, and he knew the layout by heart but couldn't remember seeing light switches.
The HK had a tactical light mounted under the stock. Too risky. One of Angel Eyes's men might see the beam of light. Conway stumbled toward the lab, making progress… he turned the corner.
The hallway was a tube, long and dark and filled with a steady hum, and at the far end were the pair of steel doors, both open.
The doors should have been shut and locked. It confirmed Con-way's suspicion: Angel Eyes had modified the lab's security system.
An inside job, Steve, be careful. Who the fuck knows what else they've done in there.
A dull amber glow from the lab's overhead lighting washed into the corridor. Conway moved down the corridor and saw the ramp of cream-colored tile that led to a staging area. This contained three workstations packed with several desktop computers used for testing various software before it was installed on the company's LAN, Praxis's central nervous system of networked computers. Conway moved past the doors and then placed one foot on the tile ramp, testing his weight.
The tiles were removable, the floor underneath hollow to allow the nerd herd easy access to the sprawling nest of wires that hooked up all the servers and telecommunications equipment. Walking across the tiles even in sneakers would echo your footsteps. With his hand on the railing for support, Conway kept low and moved carefully up the ramp.
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 "
"TURN AND FACE THE FUCKING WALL!"
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.
"These guys are leaving. If we don't pursue the fire trucks now, we'll lose them and the suit."
"We can find the suit later."
"It's here, right in front of us. I can follow these guys and see where they " "Remember who we are, Gunther. Remember what we're about."
Gunther tapped Rigby on the shoulder and pointed to the lot.
The fireman had slung back the HK submachine gun and was now kneeling on the floor, his gloved hand holding a Glock handgun that was now pressed against Conway's forehead. The fireman knelt there, waiting.
What the fuck is he waiting for? Conway could feel his heart jack-hammering against his chest. All he could do now was lie on the floor and smell the stink rising off his skin.
The fireman clicked back the hammer.
Conway's vision went out of focus. He couldn't breathe. He blinked and then saw (The gift Pasha had given him last year for his birthday, a photograph of a valley of red tulips bending in the wind, except for one, a yellow tulip, it stands out from the rest of the pack and leans forward into the wind, refusing to bend.
"I saw it and the photograph reminded me of you, Stephen:') the fireman's gloved finger slide up and down the trigger. With his free hand, he waved good-bye, and then Conway saw a pitch-black sky devoid of stars that devoured all of his thoughts and memories.
The fireman pulled the trigger.
The hammer snapped dryly.
The fireman laughed and tossed the gun away. Conway heard it skid across the floor. The fireman stood up and then brought up another weapon and pointed it at Conway's face no, it wasn't a weapon, it looked like some sort of high-tech spray gun. Two black tubes ran from the bottom of the handgrip and disappeared under the fireman's coat.
The fireman moved the spray nozzle away and pointed it somewhere near Conway's legs and a sound like shaving cream foam shooting out of a canister filled the cold room. Conway could see the spray nozzle being moved across his body, covering both arms, and then the nozzle moved away and was pointed at his face, a viscous, milky liquid dripping off the nozzle and dribbling onto Con-way's chin. The fireman stared at his watch for what seemed like a minute, and then got down on one knee and yanked free the stun device that had been stuck to the skin above Conway's heart.
The paralysis vanished. Conway took in a deep rush of air, lifted his head up and saw bands of a thick, whitish gray foam covering his entire body. He tried to move, but the foam had hardened into a stiff, rubber-like substance. He was glued to the floor. The fireman remained kneeling, patient, studying Conway as if he were some sort of exotic, poisonous bug that was now trapped, about to die.
Then the guy reached forward and using the heel of his gloved palm pushed Conway's head to the side, pressing it hard against the floor.
Conway saw Randy Scott lying on his side, groaning like a man struggling to emerge from anesthesia. With his other hand the fireman placed his finger inside the HK's trigger housing.
Conway tried to fight it but couldn't move. It was as if dozens of invisible hands had him pinned against the floor.
"WAKE UP, RANDY! MOVE!" Conway's words came out in a garbled, spittle-filled mess. He tried to yank his hand and head away and The shot hit Randy in the stomach; his body arched back as if kicked, the exit wound spraying the back wall and computer equipment a bright red with shattered bone and skin that started to dribble down the computer screen and speakers, where Dixon's voice still cried out for all to stop, that he was sorry, please, let it
stop.
The fireman stood up and walked out of the lab.
Randy's chemical haze was gone. His eyes were swollen shut, and his trembling hands felt around the leaking hole in his stomach. He was bleeding out fast.
Conway's left hand was wrapped around his midsection; he wiggled his fingers and felt the phone; it was still clipped against his belt. He pitched it between his two fingers and then slid it toward him. Don't drop it, you've only got one chance. Okay, good. Now he could touch all the keys.
"Mittens," Randy said.
"Hold on, Randy."
"Mittens… cat food."
"I'll call Delburn and we'll get out of here."
"Cat's name… breath… smells like cat food."
He's delirious, Conway thought. He wasn't paying attention; he was concentrating on the layout of the phone's keys. Don't waste time dialing, use the programmed number. Right, Delburn's number was already programmed in for speed dialing. His finger brushed over the keys and found the program button and hit it. Okay, now the speed-dial number. It was… what, one?
No, it's two.
Yes, definitely two. Conway slid his finger over and pressed the number Two key.
An explosion came from down near the lab doors. Conway felt the floor shake beneath him. His finger pressed a key. Please, God, let it be number two, he thought. When he looked up and stared down the length of his body, he saw tiles popping up out of the floor as flames shot up toward the ceiling and moved up the walls.
The phone was ringing. The sound was barely audible over the equipment smashing against the floor, but the phone was ringing, he could hear it. Flames fanned up the walls and spread across the ceiling, the fire being fed by the oxygen pouring in from the opened lab doors. In case of a lab fire, the HALON system would deploy a gas that would extinguish the flames without harming the computer equipment.
The system didn't turn on.
Angel Eyes must have disabled it. Fuck.
The fire was moving closer.
You're going to burn to death.
Conway struggled to free himself. Black curls of smoke snaked across the ceiling and slithered down the length of wall. The fire inched closer… closer. Keep trying or you'll burn alive.
