Free World Without End by Chris Mooney Page B

shooting just happened," Pasha said.
    "You can't control every moment of your life. Let it go and move on."
    And Bouchard?"
    "He handpicked you for this."
    That surprised Conway. The last time he had seen Bouchard was at the funerals for the two team members, both of whom grew up in Maryland. At the last funeral, the oneforMurph, Bouchard had been quiet, aloof from the rest of the group and not wanting to talk. Conway had tried to approach him after the crowds started to drift, but Bouchard had already walked down the grassy slope, sprinting almost, and was in his car. As he watched Bouchard drive away, Conway had the distinct feeling that he had let the man down. That feeling grew as the days stretched into weeks without a call from Bouchard, Pasha no call from any of the other team members. It was as if Conway had been ostracized, a potential cancer that could infect the rest of the group.
    And now here was Pasha with an offer to play in the starting lineup.
    "Okay," Conway said.
    "I'm in."
    "Good. Now I need you to "
    The window next to them splintered. Conway jumped back. Gunshots rained across the van, rounds ricocheting off the bulletproof armor.
    The driver killed the headlights and floored the gas. The van started fishtailing over the ice. Under the bright full moon the winter landscape glowed in an electric neon white and blue light.
    "Don't worry," Pasha said, nonplussed.
    "The whole van's protected, even the tires."
    A phone rang. Pasha removed a phone from a console, pressed it against her good ear, listened, and then hung up without a word. She reached into a cabinet, removed a nine-millimeter Clock and handed it to Conway.
    "Stay away from the airport, Stephen. Use the Miller credit card to rent a car. That way I'll be able to track you." Pasha got up and slid the van's side door open.
    "Get ready Now."
    Conway jumped out of the van. He dove headfirst through a snowbank, tumbled over ice, and then came to a stop. He scrambled onto his back, his scalp, arms, and legs groaning from the fall, his exposed skin tingling from the snow and ice. Far away he heard the van's tires skidding. More shots rang out. He held the Clock and waited, his breath fogging around him.
    The image faded away. Conway was coming out of his daze. He could hear the plane's engines and the voice yelling over it:
    "Remember to inject him behind the ear so it won't show up in the autopsy."
    "So it looks like he had a heart attack in the air, yeah, I know what to do," the cameraman said.
    "Then hurry up and kill him. We've got to dump his body."
    Conway's eyes fluttered open. He was lying on his back, that much he knew. His head was tilted to the side, pointed at the opened door with the roaring wind rushing over his face. He wiggled his fingers, felt them move, good, but still felt strange, a little dazed. He blinked, the heaviness in his eyelids dissipating, the world coming into sharper focus.
    Hurry up and kill him, the voice had said. Conway was alert now.
    Ready.
    Something made of glass hit the floor. Clink, it was a vial. Con-way saw it roll past his head. Someone was straddling him. It was the cameraman, Paul, and he was holding a syringe. He looked at Con-way, who was awake.
    "Oh shit," Paul said.
    Paul shifted the syringe in his right hand so it was now pointed like a dagger, his thumb on the plunger, bringing the needle down fast. Conway planted his knee hard in the man's scrotum. Paul's body went rigid; the plan that had been so firmly planted in his eyes evaporated and gave way to the god-awful bolt of nauseous pain exploding deep in his loins. He still tried to bring the needle down, but his strength was gone. Conway's left arm came up, blocking Paul's forearm, and using his momentum sent Paul's balled fist crashing against the floor, snapping the needle. Conway brought up his right arm, swiping his elbow hard across the man's face and shattering his nose. The cameraman tumbled off him and buried his bleeding face in his