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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 know what
to do."
"We're prepared, Stephen. You're not in this alone."
"I realize that."
Pasha waited for the rest of it. She stared at him, her blue eyes filled with that
constant expression of wariness and guard, the vigilant hunter staring down the scope of a
rifle searching for the next target.
Conway looked away from her hard gaze. Her left ear was missing; what remained was a
molten blob that, even when they were alone in the bedroom, she carefully hid behind her
shoulder-length hair. No one knew what had caused the deformity. Her private life was as
vaulted as her emotions.
Pasha Romanov was nine years older than he -- had turned forty-three two days ago --
and in the five years they had worked together, and even when their professional
relationship had turned private, she had rarely opened up about her life. It was as if all
of her memories and their affixed emotions were stored in vials only to be examined in
private.
Conway propped himself up and rubbed the fatigue out of his face. "I'm going to go
out for a run," he said. "Want to come?"
Pasha's full lips were clamped together, pouting.
"What?" he asked.
Pasha pushed herself up to her knees. Conway watched as she climbed up on top of him,
her breasts swelling against the tightness of his white tank top. The first time he saw
her breasts, he had been taken aback by their size and fullness. Pasha wore modern Armani
business suits to work. She never wore clothes generally worn by most women and eschewed
any style that accented her femininity.
Without a word or sound, Pasha yanked his boxers down his legs and then took him into
her mouth. Behind her thick locks, her blue eyes stared up at him, her gaze serious and
intense, the way one stared down an adversary. Conway surrendered himself to the smooth,
texture of her mouth, and the dream and the hollow feeling of loneliness that had haunted
him just moments ago began to drift away.
Several minutes later, his knees grew weak. His body started to jerk. Pasha sensed what
was about to happen and stopped. She slid out of her underwear, removed her tank top, then
moved on top of him and guided him deep inside her. Pasha always had to be on top -- she
didn't like sex any other way -- and he wasn't surprised when she grabbed his wrists,
moved them over his head, and pinned them hard against the mattress with a surprising
strength. Pasha needed to dominate him like she did everything else in her life; she
controlled how they fucked, set the pace and tempo -- she even controlled where he touched
her by guiding his hands to certain areas, watching him the entire time.
Pasha leaned forward, her back arched, until her breasts rubbed against the upper part
of his chest and the whiskers along his face, and then rocked back and forth, slowly, in
full control, and stared down at him through her hair. Other women in his life had
required constant foreplay before actual intercourse. Sex was a production. Not with
Pasha. She fucked like a man, got right down to it without any pretense, no moaning, no
change in expression, just greedy, give me what I need and absolutely no talking, her eyes
always open and watching, her intense gaze reminding Conway of the way a jewel thief
prizes a rare, priceless stone locked behind glass.
What a pair we make, Conway thought.
A moment later Conway felt the pressure build again. Without a sound or a change in
expression, Pasha rocked her hips even quicker while keeping his hands pinned above his
head, her strength amazing. His body jerked and shuddered and a moment later it was over,
both of them quiet, breathing hard and sweating.
Pasha lay on top of his chest, her breasts damp with perspiration, sliding against his
already wet skin. She still held his hands in place and then rested her chin on his
shoulder, near his scar, her hair covering his face and eyes. It was like he was looking
at the world from a jail cell.
"I'll always be here for you," Pasha whispered, her words a low, drowsy hum
against his ear. Conway could hear her labored breaths, could smell the sleepiness and
sweat lingering on her skin. "I know."
"I'll keep you safe," she said. "I promise."
Conway pried his hands away from her grasp, wrapped his arms around her back, and
hugged her close to him. He felt the hard, rubbery stump of her left ear press against his
cheek, a grim reminder that love and the whispered promises of solace and protection were
no match against the chaotic agenda of the outside world.
Excerpted from WORLD WITHOUT END © Copyright 2002 by Chris Mooney. Reprinted with permission from Pocket Books, an imprint of Simon and Schuster. All rights reserved.
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