it gives them a head start to Praxis. All of our resources are here " "Would you look at this," Craven said.
"Conway just landed."
"Stephen's alive," Faust said, hopeful.
"Alive and running in Gunther's direction."
Gunther said, "By the time Conway gets here, these guys will be driving off with Major Dick. You want to head them off?"
"Let them go," Faust said.
"They'll do our job for us. And Gunther?"
"Yes."
"I want Stephen protected at all costs."
"Understood."
Faust hung up and settled back in his chair. He folded his hands across his stomach, his throat dry as he stared at monitor two, firefighters at work dousing the burning wreck of a van. Inside the office, Dinah Washington sang "Lover Come Back to Me," and Faust was gripped with a sense of loss he wasn't ready to acknowledge.
Through the gaps between the trees in the woods Conway saw the plane's white wing shining in the sunlight and stopped running. He leaned his lower back against a tree and then hunched forward, placing his hands on his knees, his breath coming in sharp bursts. His clothes were soaked, his wet hair matted against his head, his heart pumping so fast that he saw white stars dance across his vision. Panting, he checked his watch.
It had taken a little over forty minutes to get here. Forty-five minutes. Shit, that was a long time. Twenty more minutes and Dixon would be at Praxis if they had, in fact, left.
The Palm Pilot was wedged in his right hand; he had consulted it as he ran. He brought it up to his mouth and said, "Locate Traveler."
The satellite locked on what appeared to be a blue bag, maybe a pillowcase, sitting in a dirt-baked lot. Angel Eyes's men had stripped Dixon of his transmitters. Now Conway had no way of tracking him.
Neither did the Hazard Team.
During his run, Conway had secretly hoped that by the time he arrived, the Hazard Team monitoring Dix would have moved in and rescued him, putting an end to this situation. The fact that Hazard was nowhere in sight meant only one thing: They were dead.
I can't assume that. I can't assume anything. Dixon could still be here the last time I saw him he was sprawled on the Bronco, right?
Well, the Bronco's still here. Maybe they're waiting for me to come out, take care of me and then head to Praxis.
Conway had to get to a phone. Going for the cell phone inside the Saab was out. The parking lot was too exposed. Angel Eyes's man or men whoever was waiting around here would be expecting Conway to make a run for the car.
Wait. The registration office had a phone, a cordless unit that hung on a wall near a window that overlooked the runway. Conway could see it in his mind, a white AT amp;T unit with an answering machine. Now to find a way to get inside the building undetected.
The advances in satellite imagery were astounding. Not only could a satellite zoom in on a golf ball and count the number of divots, it could also pick up your heat signature using a technology called thermal imaging. It didn't matter if you were sitting inside a car or walking inside a building, the satellite could look through walls and steel and concrete, as if they were made of clear plastic food wrap, and watch as you moved.
Using the Palm's controls, Conway decreased magnification until he had what he wanted: an aerial shot of the parking lot with four vehicles.
There was his red Saab, a black van, and what appeared to be another SUV, also black and holy shit, the old Bronco he had seen earlier, only now it was parked right near the highway, looking like it was about to take a turn and speed away.
Conway brought the PDA mike close to his mouth.
"Switch to thermal."
The screen turned a dark gray, taking away the crisp, vivid colors. A single, glowing, yellow blob of color appeared on the screen where the Bronco was parked. Using the stylus, Conway drew a box around it. The satellite zoomed in on the Bronco until he saw the blurred, glowing heat signature of the driver sitting behind the wheel. The
"Conway just landed."
"Stephen's alive," Faust said, hopeful.
"Alive and running in Gunther's direction."
Gunther said, "By the time Conway gets here, these guys will be driving off with Major Dick. You want to head them off?"
"Let them go," Faust said.
"They'll do our job for us. And Gunther?"
"Yes."
"I want Stephen protected at all costs."
"Understood."
Faust hung up and settled back in his chair. He folded his hands across his stomach, his throat dry as he stared at monitor two, firefighters at work dousing the burning wreck of a van. Inside the office, Dinah Washington sang "Lover Come Back to Me," and Faust was gripped with a sense of loss he wasn't ready to acknowledge.
Through the gaps between the trees in the woods Conway saw the plane's white wing shining in the sunlight and stopped running. He leaned his lower back against a tree and then hunched forward, placing his hands on his knees, his breath coming in sharp bursts. His clothes were soaked, his wet hair matted against his head, his heart pumping so fast that he saw white stars dance across his vision. Panting, he checked his watch.
It had taken a little over forty minutes to get here. Forty-five minutes. Shit, that was a long time. Twenty more minutes and Dixon would be at Praxis if they had, in fact, left.
The Palm Pilot was wedged in his right hand; he had consulted it as he ran. He brought it up to his mouth and said, "Locate Traveler."
The satellite locked on what appeared to be a blue bag, maybe a pillowcase, sitting in a dirt-baked lot. Angel Eyes's men had stripped Dixon of his transmitters. Now Conway had no way of tracking him.
Neither did the Hazard Team.
During his run, Conway had secretly hoped that by the time he arrived, the Hazard Team monitoring Dix would have moved in and rescued him, putting an end to this situation. The fact that Hazard was nowhere in sight meant only one thing: They were dead.
I can't assume that. I can't assume anything. Dixon could still be here the last time I saw him he was sprawled on the Bronco, right?
Well, the Bronco's still here. Maybe they're waiting for me to come out, take care of me and then head to Praxis.
Conway had to get to a phone. Going for the cell phone inside the Saab was out. The parking lot was too exposed. Angel Eyes's man or men whoever was waiting around here would be expecting Conway to make a run for the car.
Wait. The registration office had a phone, a cordless unit that hung on a wall near a window that overlooked the runway. Conway could see it in his mind, a white AT amp;T unit with an answering machine. Now to find a way to get inside the building undetected.
The advances in satellite imagery were astounding. Not only could a satellite zoom in on a golf ball and count the number of divots, it could also pick up your heat signature using a technology called thermal imaging. It didn't matter if you were sitting inside a car or walking inside a building, the satellite could look through walls and steel and concrete, as if they were made of clear plastic food wrap, and watch as you moved.
Using the Palm's controls, Conway decreased magnification until he had what he wanted: an aerial shot of the parking lot with four vehicles.
There was his red Saab, a black van, and what appeared to be another SUV, also black and holy shit, the old Bronco he had seen earlier, only now it was parked right near the highway, looking like it was about to take a turn and speed away.
Conway brought the PDA mike close to his mouth.
"Switch to thermal."
The screen turned a dark gray, taking away the crisp, vivid colors. A single, glowing, yellow blob of color appeared on the screen where the Bronco was parked. Using the stylus, Conway drew a box around it. The satellite zoomed in on the Bronco until he saw the blurred, glowing heat signature of the driver sitting behind the wheel. The
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