"Yeah, him and this guy Randy Scott. They think Angel Eyes is behind this."
"Get everything ready. I'm on the road and will be there in five minutes," Gunther said and hung up.
Inside the mini-mart, Charlie removed the gas station's surveillance tapes and then checked the broom closet. The real gas station attendant was still passed out. Rigby dragged the guy and put him on a chair behind the counter. When the guy woke up a couple of hours from now, he would have the worst hangover of his life.
Rigby put on a pair of latex gloves. As he wiped down the few areas he had touched, he wondered what Mr. Faust did with all this stolen stuff. Was he collecting it? Selling it? Gunther didn't say anything about it, and Rigby never asked. Then he thought about the suit. To be invisible from everyone, man, you could be God, roaming the earth and carrying out your secret wishes.
Ten minutes from Praxis and relief.
Conway had been barreling down the highway at just above ninety, the ride difficult because of the missing front windshield, the wind gusting past his face with such intensity that his eyes watered. The Palm Pilot was on his lap. He glanced down and noticed that the files were no longer being copied. Randy had knocked Dixon off the server.
But no way to tell if Randy had triggered the lab's alarm system and locked Dixon and Angel Eyes's men inside the building. Conway imagined Angel Eyes and his men as they scrambled to bring the server back online, a process that could take half an hour or more, depending on their skill level. Hopefully, Bouchard's Hazard Team had moved in on Praxis and contained the matter.
Hopefully.
Eight miles away from the company and the traffic on the MoP ac expressway came to a grinding halt. Framed against the clear blue sky and sitting perched high on a hill was Praxis, a sprawling, four-floor structure of gray concrete and mirrored blue glass, looking like some sort of futuristic monolith that had descended from the heavens, isolated from other companies and safe from prying eyes, and oddly out of place in the rolling green hills of Spanish-style homes with red-tiled roofs. Conway moved into the breakdown lane and drove the rest of the way. He picked up his phone and called Randy. Far ahead on the right were clusters of people looking no bigger than action figures gathered near the main road and the only entrance to Praxis.
Angel Eyes and his men must still be inside the building.
Six rings and no answer.
Either Randy had been captured or was hiding somewhere inside Praxis.
Conway hung up and pulled into the small plaza containing a one-hour photo shop and an office supply store. He parked the Pathfinder in one of the shaded spaces, far away from the store and its curious eyes, and shut off the SUV. The hot air throbbed with the traffic from the highway.
Behind the strip mall was a wooded area, its shaded edge holding trash barrels and four redwood picnic tables. All he had to do was walk through the woods, make his way around to the back of Praxis, climb up the embankment, and then he would be able to see the company's main and side entrances. He could watch and report his findings to Bouchard, who should be back at Delburn by now. It beat sitting around and waiting.
He shoved the phone back into its leather case and, Palm Pilot in hand, got out of the Pathfinder and ran behind the strip mall. He tore through the dense growth, ducking under tree limbs, branches snapping back. To his immediate left and rising at what looked like a ninety-degree angle was a steep embankment. He ran up it, struggling, his legs burning, and then five minutes later, his hard work was rewarded.
In the spaces between the trees, Conway could see the side of the building, the late-morning sun reflecting off the blue-mirrored glass so brightly it made him squint. Dizzy, his face hot and his breath coming in sharp, painful bursts, Conway stumbled around until he found the spot that offered him the best view of the building and then squatted down and surveyed the situation.
The main road from the highway wrapped around the side of the building, past the delivery entrance and then opened up into the spacious parking lot full of cars. The battered Ford Bronco from the skydiving school was parked at the bottom of the concrete stairs that led to the mailroom, its door held open by a brick. Past the Bronco was a fire truck and another van, this one gray. The vehicles were parked parallel to each other, blocking the main road to prevent anyone from entering or exiting the parking lot. The gray van's driver's-side door was open, waiting for the driver to return.
The front entrance and lobby was made of clear glass. Past the front door was a security guard station. Beyond that were two sets of elevators. No firemen or bomb technicians lingered around, and, he noticed, the security gates had not been deployed. If Randy had triggered the alarm, those gates would have covered each of the company's two exits.
Conway removed the Palm Pilot from his back pocket and checked the screen. The window displaying the download status was still frozen the software was no longer being downloaded into the suit but if Angel Eyes had Randy, he would use him to bring the server back online. Once that happened, a few more minutes worth of work and Angel Eyes and his men would be done and gone.
Conway leaned the Palm upright against the tree so he could see the screen. His phone vibrated against his hip. He removed it from the case and pressed it against his sweaty ear.
"Steve, Keith Harring, Hazard Team leader for Unit Six." The voice was deep and gritty, as if he had sand lodged in his throat.
"We were finally able to get through to Delburn. Bouchard filled us in. You get through to Scott?"
"I did."
"Give me your status."
"The lab server is still offline."
"And Scott?"
"I haven't been able to reach him. Where are you?"
"En route to your location. We just left."
Just left? Conway felt his body sag. He had hoped Hazard had already moved in.
As if sensing the question, Harring said, "Our communications were being jammed. When we saw what went down at the airport, we knew the gig had gone FUBAR, so we tried another way out not easy since the place looks like a war zone."
"What about Bouchard?"
"We lost contact. Hold on."
Harring's voice moved away and spoke to someone else, the words inaudible over the sound of car horns blaring and the rapid click-click-click of fingers working a keyboard. The airport was max twenty minutes away. Once the lab server came back online, a few more minutes and Angel Eyes would be downloading the software and would be gone well before Hazard arrived.
Harring was back now: "The satellite's locked on your heat signature The field you're sitting in is clear. You're the only guy out back.
Now listen to me and listen carefully.
"I've got the building's floor and design schematics loaded onto our system. I'm working with a three-dimensional model that allows us to see where they're traveling inside. The satellite will pick up heat signatures and motion. The first floor is clear, and so is the second and third. On the fourth, I'm showing three bodies, all alive, standing outside a door. One is sitting, the other three standing."
"The lab's on the fourth floor," Conway said.
"If they're inside the lab, you won't be able to pick up their heat signatures or voices or any transmissions. The entire place is shielded. The others must be in there with Dixon."
"I thought they couldn't get inside the lab without wearing special encoded badges that the lab's security would go off."
"They could have used Randy to disable the security."
"But not Dixon."
"Dix doesn't have the security clearance."
"Okay, good, that buys us some time. The security room is clear. My guess is that they're saving that for last. Get the suit out first, and then have their guys go inside the security room and remove the surveillance tapes. No way they're going to leave that evidence wait, we've got action." Harring's voice was tight now, excited.
"I'm showing two men standing outside the lab door. They're kicking the guy sitting on the floor, and one of them has a weapon, looks like a submachine gun, he's pointing it at this guy's head."
"Randy," Conway said and felt a heaviness fill his heart. They've got him.
"Randy know you're here?"
"He knows I'm alive."
"So these guys are going to try to make him talk."
"Randy won't talk."
"He might if they blow out one of his kneecaps. He's young, Steve. A newbie. He's scared, and if he starts babbling, he'll blow any chance we've got of salvaging this operation."
Below his eyes, Conway saw movement. He looked down at the Palm's screen and saw what was happening.
"The server's back online," he said.
"They're downloading the remaining files."
"How long until they're "
"They're seventy percent done. Ten minutes, maybe five, I don't know, it's too close."
"We won't make it in time."
Two years of hard work, the countless man hours and sleepless nights, the deaths of IWAC team members, Pasha, and now Dixon and Randy were about to be slaughtered.
Harring said, "You have to shut down the server."
"They have Randy. They would have used him to shut off my permissions."
"But they think you're dead, right?"
"They would have shut off my access. It's the smart thing to do."
"But you don't know that. You armed?"
"I've got my Palm Pilot."
"And it has the Air Taser system, right?"
"Yeah."
"I can work with that. Steve, I can watch you on my screen here, watch your back and tell you where to go. The delivery room is clear. You can enter from the side." No urgency in Harring's voice, just a cold, professional precision that reminded Conway of a seasoned coach who was confidently telling the younger player that the bases were loaded, and all he had to do was step up to the plate, hit a line drive, and the game was over.
"You want me to be a running target until you get there," Con-way said.
"They won't be able to touch you, I promise."
Time was running down on the Palm Pilot.
It is in the midst of these split-second decisions that character is forged. You don't have time to prepare. You must quickly draw on your inner resources and training, act and hope for the best.
Conway shoved the Palm Pilot into his back pocket and stood up.
"I'll make contact with you once I'm inside."
Twenty-Two.
Conway ran up the concrete steps and past the opened door and plunged into the cold semidarkness of the delivery room.
The overhead banks of fluorescent lighting had been shut off. The only source of light came from the opened door and the two computer monitors on each desk, their dark-blue screens glowing against the back wall.
The mailroom was long, rectangular and windowless, full of rows of supply cabinets, shelving, and large copying machines. Conway moved behind the counter and walked toward the back of the mailroom, the phone pressed against his ear. Overhead, the air conditioning clicked on, and a rush of cold air blew down from the ceiling.
"I'm inside," Conway whispered, his voice hoarse.
"I'll need a minute or so to set up."
"You're clear," Harring said.
Every desktop computer inside the building was hooked into the company's Local Area Network, or LAN. Each employee had a unique user name and password that allowed him access to specific directories and files; other directories and their contents were restricted, permanently out of their reach. As the company's network administrator, Conway had access to all six servers. What he had to do now was reboot one of the mailroom's desktop computers and log on as the administrator, which would allow him to bring the lab's security system back online.
You hope. If they used Randy to shut off your access, you won't be able to do a thing.
Conway moved to the first desk and hit the reboot button on the desktop PC. The computer monitor went black and then came to life again, lines and lines of white text scrolling across the screen as it went through its series of internal tests. Next item: find a headset. Conway searched through drawers, desk tops, and shelving and then found one in the back, lying on top of a copier. He fitted the unit over his head and adjusted the padded microphone so it sat right against the corner of his mouth. All he would have to do was whisper and Harring would hear him. Conway clipped the phone to his belt and then moved back behind the desk and sat down.
On the computer monitor, a window asked him to enter his user ID and password. He typed it in and then paused, his finger hovering above the ENTER key. If Angel Eyes had someone monitoring the network, the second Conway pressed the key, it didn't matter if the password was accepted or denied, they would know someone else was inside the building. If no one was monitoring the network and Conway's passwords were accepted, he could trigger the lab's alarm system. He would be locking himself here with Angel Eyes.
"They're beating the shit out of Randy," Harring said.
"I'm about to log on. How far away are you?"
"Ten, fifteen minutes."
Conway looked at the ENTER key. Come on, just let this go through and buy me some time. He pressed the key and the window disappeared, his information sent into the vast computer matrix for verification. shit.
Conway stared at the new window on the monitor.
"Denied access," he said.
"They've shut me off from the network. I can't do anything from "
"They're moving," Harring said, his voice loud and tight.
Conway stood up and ran toward the counter, Harring saying, "I'm counting two men, these boys are sprinting and heading straight for the stairs or the elevator, I can't tell which yet. Get to the security room."