Read Online World Without End by Chris Mooney - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Chris Mooney
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professionally.
Funny how life prescribes exactly what you need.
A voice above him, far away, said, "Get rid of his watch."
A second voice, this one familiar The cameraman. The stun baton.
Dixon, he's gone. responded, "I fried it. No way can they hear us."
"We have to make this look authentic. Hurry up and get the syringe ready. We'll be at the drop zone any minute."
Conway's thoughts seemed disjointed, the torn pieces of a picture he felt he should have recognized. He was aware of someone touching his wrist. Then he remembered.
Friday night, late October, and a whopper of a storm blanketed Vail with ten inches of powder. The following morning he went skiing and came back to the house around six. Samantha Richardson, a twenty-six-year-old investment planner from Boston, blond hair with a plain face and thin, tight lips, pretty in that waspy New England way, was here on vacation. She knew him as Jeff Cotton, a Web designer from Los Angeles. Conway checked his watch. She would be over in less than an hour.
When he opened the door, he saw at least nine men moving about the living room, dining room, and part of the kitchen, their hands covered in latex, all of them packing boxes and wiping down counters with an electrified urgency. Standing in front of the lit fireplace was Pasha, dressed in a solid-black suit, cut with the kind of sharp lines and curves that made Con-way think of the sleek, powerful elegance of a Mercedes. A phone was pressed against her good ear, her right.
Pasha looked up and saw him, put the phone away and picked up the briefcase next to her leg.
"Downstairs, right now."
The gray basement was cold and bare and smelled faintly of mildew. It was lit by two bare lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling. A dining room chair had been brought down; standing next to it was a bearded man with a blond crewcut drawing clear fluid into a syringe. When he finished, he placed the syringe on a silver tray full of needles and shiny surgical instruments that was set up on a TV tray stand.
"Strip," Pasha said to Conway. She wasn't smiling she never did but it was the way her expression changed when she looked at her watch, like an invasion was imminent, that made him rip off his clothing without question. When he had stripped down to his boxers, Pasha kicked the clothes away.
"Get rid of the underwear," she said.
"This is about Armand, isn't it?"
"The woman you invited over for dinner is bringing along two friends who plan to peel back your skin with pliers. Their buyer wants pictures, so this has to look authentic. Hurry, we're running out of time."
Conway slid out of his underwear. Pasha put her hands very strong, masculine almost on his shoulders and turned him around.
"The scar's still visible," she said.
"Perfect. Stand still."
Behind him, Conway heard a briefcase snap open, followed by the sound of latex snapping over skin. Next he felt something cool and wet, like hard jelly, wrap around his throat. Pasha pressed it against the skin, making sure it stuck.
"It's a fake gash to make it look like your throat was slit. Now get on your stomach," she said, and when he was lying facedown on the cold floor she bound his hands and feet with plastic flex-cuffs.
"Turn your face to the left side, just stare. You'll feel something cold. Don't move, just lie there and keep still or you'll ruin the effect."
Cold liquid was splashed around his throat first and then poured over his wrists and feet. A small red river ran across his cheek and dribbled onto the floor: blood or at least it looked like blood. His mind rushed back to the memory from not that long ago, that of himself writhing on the floor, the blood real, the pain real. Pasha rubbed the fake blood into Conway's hair, streaked it across his back and then rubbed her gloved hand across the floor in a wide, flat streak to make it look like Conway's body had been dragged.
"Stare off into space, keeping your eyes still… Like that. Good."
A flash went off,
Funny how life prescribes exactly what you need.
A voice above him, far away, said, "Get rid of his watch."
A second voice, this one familiar The cameraman. The stun baton.
Dixon, he's gone. responded, "I fried it. No way can they hear us."
"We have to make this look authentic. Hurry up and get the syringe ready. We'll be at the drop zone any minute."
Conway's thoughts seemed disjointed, the torn pieces of a picture he felt he should have recognized. He was aware of someone touching his wrist. Then he remembered.
Friday night, late October, and a whopper of a storm blanketed Vail with ten inches of powder. The following morning he went skiing and came back to the house around six. Samantha Richardson, a twenty-six-year-old investment planner from Boston, blond hair with a plain face and thin, tight lips, pretty in that waspy New England way, was here on vacation. She knew him as Jeff Cotton, a Web designer from Los Angeles. Conway checked his watch. She would be over in less than an hour.
When he opened the door, he saw at least nine men moving about the living room, dining room, and part of the kitchen, their hands covered in latex, all of them packing boxes and wiping down counters with an electrified urgency. Standing in front of the lit fireplace was Pasha, dressed in a solid-black suit, cut with the kind of sharp lines and curves that made Con-way think of the sleek, powerful elegance of a Mercedes. A phone was pressed against her good ear, her right.
Pasha looked up and saw him, put the phone away and picked up the briefcase next to her leg.
"Downstairs, right now."
The gray basement was cold and bare and smelled faintly of mildew. It was lit by two bare lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling. A dining room chair had been brought down; standing next to it was a bearded man with a blond crewcut drawing clear fluid into a syringe. When he finished, he placed the syringe on a silver tray full of needles and shiny surgical instruments that was set up on a TV tray stand.
"Strip," Pasha said to Conway. She wasn't smiling she never did but it was the way her expression changed when she looked at her watch, like an invasion was imminent, that made him rip off his clothing without question. When he had stripped down to his boxers, Pasha kicked the clothes away.
"Get rid of the underwear," she said.
"This is about Armand, isn't it?"
"The woman you invited over for dinner is bringing along two friends who plan to peel back your skin with pliers. Their buyer wants pictures, so this has to look authentic. Hurry, we're running out of time."
Conway slid out of his underwear. Pasha put her hands very strong, masculine almost on his shoulders and turned him around.
"The scar's still visible," she said.
"Perfect. Stand still."
Behind him, Conway heard a briefcase snap open, followed by the sound of latex snapping over skin. Next he felt something cool and wet, like hard jelly, wrap around his throat. Pasha pressed it against the skin, making sure it stuck.
"It's a fake gash to make it look like your throat was slit. Now get on your stomach," she said, and when he was lying facedown on the cold floor she bound his hands and feet with plastic flex-cuffs.
"Turn your face to the left side, just stare. You'll feel something cold. Don't move, just lie there and keep still or you'll ruin the effect."
Cold liquid was splashed around his throat first and then poured over his wrists and feet. A small red river ran across his cheek and dribbled onto the floor: blood or at least it looked like blood. His mind rushed back to the memory from not that long ago, that of himself writhing on the floor, the blood real, the pain real. Pasha rubbed the fake blood into Conway's hair, streaked it across his back and then rubbed her gloved hand across the floor in a wide, flat streak to make it look like Conway's body had been dragged.
"Stare off into space, keeping your eyes still… Like that. Good."
A flash went off,
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