flat-screen monitors, all of them pointed away from the window. Faust turned on the monitor showing the live video feed from Gunther's headset and sat down in the leather chair, leaned back and crossed his legs, his eyes focused on the screen now coming to life.
Through Gunther's Viper binoculars was a close-up of the computer prodigy, Major Dixon, splayed across the front hood of a rusted, battered Ford Bronco. Dixon was oblivious to the two men busily removing his clothing. Faust recognized one of them: Chris Evans.
Evans removed Dixon's pants and stuffed them inside a blue laundry bag.
"They're stripping Dixon of his transmitters," Faust said, his tone and heartbeat normal.
"Interesting."
"Who the fuck is doing this?"
"Language please."
Gunther sighed. Still young and still excitable.
"You recognize these dudes?"
"I was told that Mr. Evans and the other members of the school were who they purported to be." Obviously my inside source was misinformed, Faust added privately.
"You think they're leftovers from Armand's group?"
"Armand didn't hire the intellectually gifted. We have audio, correct?"
"If Dixon is still wearing the watch the CIA gave him, yes. Ask Craven." John Craven was Faust's surveillance expert. Like the IWAC group, Faust had the frequency of Dixon's watch and could listen in on Dixon's conversations.
Line two was ringing.
"Speak of the devil, Mr. Craven's calling in," Faust said and hit line two, bringing the second caller into the conversation. John Craven told Faust to turn on his monitor.
Monitor two: a jarred imaged of an overturned Delburn Systems van engulfed in flames, its metal twisted from an explosion. Bodies on the ground, the screaming muted as Dinah Washington broke into "Evil Gal Blues," her voice strong and clear as it played over the office's wall-mounted speakers.
"The man I got monitoring the airport just called in with this," Craven said.
"An improvised explosive device was placed on the first van and took down the Hazard Team. Then an unidentified man placed a second IED right above the gas cap on van number two, the surveillance van, and then jumped into a car and sped away."
Faust was quiet, his eyes locked on monitor two playing the carnage at the airport.
Craven continued.
"The IWAC guys placed inside the airport are both dead. Whoever's behind this is making sure there are no survivors."
"What happened on the plane?"
"Dixon had a meltdown and then it got real quiet."
"What about Mr. Conway's watch?"
"Nothing. And the teams monitoring and covering Conway have got real quiet."
Faust turned his attention back to monitor one. Dixon now lay naked on top of the car hood, his watch and clothing with its transmitters stuffed inside the blue laundry bag that rested on the ground.
Gunther said, "Gunshots."
On the screen Faust saw through Gunther's eyes the back of the skydiving school through the gaps between the trees.
"I just heard two more," Gunther said, keeping his voice low and calm, the way he had been trained. He tried to zoom in on one of the windows.
"I'm not in a good position. I can't see anything."
"Gunther, move your attention back to Mr. Dixon."
Chris Evans and his partner had finished putting on a new pair of pants and a white T-shirt on Dixon. They slid him off the roof, dumped him into the back seat of the Bronco, got inside and tore up to the school in a cloud of dust and dirt.
Gunther said, "You think these guys are going to make a run on the suit?"
"That would seem like the logical progression," Faust said.
"Gunther, find out who our new friends are. To do that, I'll need fingerprints. Mr. Craven, move your team to the skydiving school.
Concentrate your efforts on the registration office and the plane."
"Understood," Craven said.
Gunther said, "Lifting the prints and transmitting them to you will take time. I'll have to wait until these guys leave to get started."
"I understand," Faust said.
"Then you also understand that by doing this,
Through Gunther's Viper binoculars was a close-up of the computer prodigy, Major Dixon, splayed across the front hood of a rusted, battered Ford Bronco. Dixon was oblivious to the two men busily removing his clothing. Faust recognized one of them: Chris Evans.
Evans removed Dixon's pants and stuffed them inside a blue laundry bag.
"They're stripping Dixon of his transmitters," Faust said, his tone and heartbeat normal.
"Interesting."
"Who the fuck is doing this?"
"Language please."
Gunther sighed. Still young and still excitable.
"You recognize these dudes?"
"I was told that Mr. Evans and the other members of the school were who they purported to be." Obviously my inside source was misinformed, Faust added privately.
"You think they're leftovers from Armand's group?"
"Armand didn't hire the intellectually gifted. We have audio, correct?"
"If Dixon is still wearing the watch the CIA gave him, yes. Ask Craven." John Craven was Faust's surveillance expert. Like the IWAC group, Faust had the frequency of Dixon's watch and could listen in on Dixon's conversations.
Line two was ringing.
"Speak of the devil, Mr. Craven's calling in," Faust said and hit line two, bringing the second caller into the conversation. John Craven told Faust to turn on his monitor.
Monitor two: a jarred imaged of an overturned Delburn Systems van engulfed in flames, its metal twisted from an explosion. Bodies on the ground, the screaming muted as Dinah Washington broke into "Evil Gal Blues," her voice strong and clear as it played over the office's wall-mounted speakers.
"The man I got monitoring the airport just called in with this," Craven said.
"An improvised explosive device was placed on the first van and took down the Hazard Team. Then an unidentified man placed a second IED right above the gas cap on van number two, the surveillance van, and then jumped into a car and sped away."
Faust was quiet, his eyes locked on monitor two playing the carnage at the airport.
Craven continued.
"The IWAC guys placed inside the airport are both dead. Whoever's behind this is making sure there are no survivors."
"What happened on the plane?"
"Dixon had a meltdown and then it got real quiet."
"What about Mr. Conway's watch?"
"Nothing. And the teams monitoring and covering Conway have got real quiet."
Faust turned his attention back to monitor one. Dixon now lay naked on top of the car hood, his watch and clothing with its transmitters stuffed inside the blue laundry bag that rested on the ground.
Gunther said, "Gunshots."
On the screen Faust saw through Gunther's eyes the back of the skydiving school through the gaps between the trees.
"I just heard two more," Gunther said, keeping his voice low and calm, the way he had been trained. He tried to zoom in on one of the windows.
"I'm not in a good position. I can't see anything."
"Gunther, move your attention back to Mr. Dixon."
Chris Evans and his partner had finished putting on a new pair of pants and a white T-shirt on Dixon. They slid him off the roof, dumped him into the back seat of the Bronco, got inside and tore up to the school in a cloud of dust and dirt.
Gunther said, "You think these guys are going to make a run on the suit?"
"That would seem like the logical progression," Faust said.
"Gunther, find out who our new friends are. To do that, I'll need fingerprints. Mr. Craven, move your team to the skydiving school.
Concentrate your efforts on the registration office and the plane."
"Understood," Craven said.
Gunther said, "Lifting the prints and transmitting them to you will take time. I'll have to wait until these guys leave to get started."
"I understand," Faust said.
"Then you also understand that by doing this,
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