ground around the van glowed a dull yellow the result of the sun beating down on the dirt lot and from the back of the van came glowing puffs of smoke that burned and faded.
The Bronco was running. The driver was waiting for someone.
The skydiving school was broken up into three small units, all attached: on the left, the registration office, followed by the bunker containing walls full of parachuting equipment, and on the right, the final building, call it the video room, where he and Dixon had watched the skydiving video, talked to the instructors about how the jump would take place, and then signed the waivers freeing the school of any liability in case either he or Dix were injured or killed.
Part of the bunker and video building's roof was covered by the shade of the trees. Without the harsh sun beating down on the roof, the satellite could pick up heat signatures nicely. Conway moved the controls and checked both areas. Clean, nobody inside.
The registration office was trickier. With no shade and the sun beating down on the roof for hours now, the shingles had absorbed the heat. The registration office was a glowing blob of color. The satellite only offered an aerial view; Conway had no way to tell if anyone was inside. He stared at the blob, looking for movement, an outline or a shadow. Shit. If he only had a pair of handheld thermal binoculars, he could from this position scan each floor and check to see where the driver's partner was A screen door banged against its frame.
Conway looked up. He couldn't see anyone, not from this distance. On the screen, right outside the registration office door, stood the glowing red and yellow and orange figure of a man.
"Switch off thermal."
On the screen the world stopped glowing. Using the stylus, Con-way zoomed in on a man and saw the blond hair had to be Chris Evans. He was fitting what had to be a handgun into the back waistband of his pants. Evans ran down the length of deck that separated the office from the bunker and across the dirt lot. With one hand he reached down and scooped up the pillowcase. The Bronco's passenger's side door opened and Evans got in. The Bronco skidded out of the lot, kicking up clouds of dust, hit the highway with a squeal of rubber and disappeared down the road on its way back to Austin. To Praxis. Conway doubted they were taking Dix to the bank, where the compact disc was waiting.
Angel Eyes wouldn't have gone through all this elaborate planning to retrieve a CD.
Conway looked up from the screen. White plastic patio furniture was scattered across the concrete deck in front of the bunker. To the left of the bunker was the set of stairs that led up to a weathered deck, and then the final three steps that led up to the registration office, all of its windows open.
He was close enough to see part of the office's white walls and a shadow.
The shadow moved.
Someone was in there.
Conway removed his phone and tried calling one more time, hoping.
Nothing but static. Someone must be jamming my signal.
You've got to get inside the registration office and call Pasha, now, before Angel Eyes's men get to Praxis, before they kill Dixon and this mess of an operation turns FUBAR.
To get to the office, he would have to step out of the woods and run across the wide open field, exposed. No more cover from the trees, no Hazard Team coming to his rescue, no last minute miracle. One shot and he would be down.
Time to roll the dice.
Conway bolted toward the building.
Conway ran past the white patio furniture, shot into the bunker and pressed his back against the wall, next to the door that led into the video room. One hand on the doorknob, ready to make an exit.
No gunshots.
No shouting.
No rush of footsteps running down the stairs after him nothing except the sound of his blood pounding in his ears.
He pulled out his Palm Pilot. Drops of sweat as big as marbles splashed against the color screen. Staring at the Palm's screen, waiting for a man to
The Bronco was running. The driver was waiting for someone.
The skydiving school was broken up into three small units, all attached: on the left, the registration office, followed by the bunker containing walls full of parachuting equipment, and on the right, the final building, call it the video room, where he and Dixon had watched the skydiving video, talked to the instructors about how the jump would take place, and then signed the waivers freeing the school of any liability in case either he or Dix were injured or killed.
Part of the bunker and video building's roof was covered by the shade of the trees. Without the harsh sun beating down on the roof, the satellite could pick up heat signatures nicely. Conway moved the controls and checked both areas. Clean, nobody inside.
The registration office was trickier. With no shade and the sun beating down on the roof for hours now, the shingles had absorbed the heat. The registration office was a glowing blob of color. The satellite only offered an aerial view; Conway had no way to tell if anyone was inside. He stared at the blob, looking for movement, an outline or a shadow. Shit. If he only had a pair of handheld thermal binoculars, he could from this position scan each floor and check to see where the driver's partner was A screen door banged against its frame.
Conway looked up. He couldn't see anyone, not from this distance. On the screen, right outside the registration office door, stood the glowing red and yellow and orange figure of a man.
"Switch off thermal."
On the screen the world stopped glowing. Using the stylus, Con-way zoomed in on a man and saw the blond hair had to be Chris Evans. He was fitting what had to be a handgun into the back waistband of his pants. Evans ran down the length of deck that separated the office from the bunker and across the dirt lot. With one hand he reached down and scooped up the pillowcase. The Bronco's passenger's side door opened and Evans got in. The Bronco skidded out of the lot, kicking up clouds of dust, hit the highway with a squeal of rubber and disappeared down the road on its way back to Austin. To Praxis. Conway doubted they were taking Dix to the bank, where the compact disc was waiting.
Angel Eyes wouldn't have gone through all this elaborate planning to retrieve a CD.
Conway looked up from the screen. White plastic patio furniture was scattered across the concrete deck in front of the bunker. To the left of the bunker was the set of stairs that led up to a weathered deck, and then the final three steps that led up to the registration office, all of its windows open.
He was close enough to see part of the office's white walls and a shadow.
The shadow moved.
Someone was in there.
Conway removed his phone and tried calling one more time, hoping.
Nothing but static. Someone must be jamming my signal.
You've got to get inside the registration office and call Pasha, now, before Angel Eyes's men get to Praxis, before they kill Dixon and this mess of an operation turns FUBAR.
To get to the office, he would have to step out of the woods and run across the wide open field, exposed. No more cover from the trees, no Hazard Team coming to his rescue, no last minute miracle. One shot and he would be down.
Time to roll the dice.
Conway bolted toward the building.
Conway ran past the white patio furniture, shot into the bunker and pressed his back against the wall, next to the door that led into the video room. One hand on the doorknob, ready to make an exit.
No gunshots.
No shouting.
No rush of footsteps running down the stairs after him nothing except the sound of his blood pounding in his ears.
He pulled out his Palm Pilot. Drops of sweat as big as marbles splashed against the color screen. Staring at the Palm's screen, waiting for a man to
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