World Without End

Review

Publishers WeeklyYou can't keep track of the psychopaths without a scorecard. -- Review

Product Description

The ultimate spy has stolen the ultimate weapon....
WORLD WITHOUT END
His code name is Angel Eyes. His ability to steal advanced prototype weapons is legendary in the shadowy world of covert ops. Yet the weapons are never sold on any black market. They're never used. They simply vanish.
Veteran CIA operative Steve Conway knows the next target -- a combat uniform that renders a soldier virtually invisible -- and knows it would make Angel Eyes unstoppable. But when a trap is set, things go terribly wrong. Now, to retrieve the most valuable weapon ever invented, Conway must go one-on-one with the most dangerous man in the world. As he closes in on the true identity of Angel Eyes, Conway begins to see that there are sinister forces at work. Forces that may come from within the CIA itself. Forces that want Conway dead...

About the Author

Chris Mooney lives in Boston. He is the author of Deviant Ways, also available from Pocket Books.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

Conway woke with a start. He lay on his stomach, sweating, the white bed sheet tangled around him like a vine and sticking to his bare skin, his heart pumping with a frantic energy, as if it were mustering all of its strength to ward off a familiar and powerful enemy.
The window fan was on; cool air blew across his damp, fevered skin. Outside, the Texas sun had just started to rise, the stars still visible in the dark blue sky. Dull red and gold slivers of light glowed across the cream-colored bedroom walls of the condo. The clock on the nightstand read 4:30 a.m.
Going back to sleep was useless. He had to get up in another hour and a half. He rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling.
The specifics of the dream didn't bother him. Over the past five years, the shooting had visited him dozens of times during odd moments -- and always in his sleep, the rational part of his mind replayed the specific events of that day in a desperate attempt to glean some hidden truth that, once discovered, would somehow prevent him from future harm. Fairytale bullshit. Life, he knew, didn't work that way. Shit happens. What you did was bottle the incident, give it a label, shelve it away, and ignore it. His experience at St. Anthony's Group Home had taught him that.
What did bother him was the feeling the dream always left in its wake: an indescribable sensation of debilitating loneliness. The feeling was not new to him; it had been with him as long as he could remember, coming and going, varying in its intensity, and in his thirty-four years of life he could still not explain to himself or any friend or priest the cause of its origin.
"Bad dream?" Pasha asked, her English flawless. She lay in bed with her back facing him, her voice clear and strong, always strong.
"I'm good."
Pasha rolled over onto her stomach and placed her head against the pillow, her thick, dirty-blond hair strewn about her face and shoulders. She wore white panties and one of his white tank top undershirts. Her normally pale skin had a slight tan from the hours spent under the harsh Texas sun and her long body was firm and strong from her training in sambo, the martial-arts system used to train Russia's Special Forces. Middle age had given her a slightly feminine softness that he found attractive. That didn't mean she wasn't dangerous. Conway had seen her go up against the big boys many times. Pasha always won.
"The thing with Armand was a fluke. An accident," Pasha said. "You survived it."
Barely, a voice reminded him. But even now, in his semiawake state, he knew the dream had little to do with Armand and more to do with his irrational need to have the power to control and alter his surroundings.
"There's a lot riding on today," Conway said. "Two years of work. I want to make sure it goes down right. Make sure all the team members are in place and kn