Echoes of Time (Echoes of Time Travel Series: Book One)

by Rylee Swann

  He nodded and moved to the window to check the view, standing to the side so he wouldn’t be visible to anyone outside. Though the ocean was close, it couldn’t be seen from this angle. Instead, the view was of the parking lot, a quarter filled with cars.

  The ocean called to him, and he couldn’t decide if he wanted or needed to swim. After his recent time in the ocean, his wound had almost completely healed. Inwardly shrugging, he decided the pull was both need and want. If he let it go too much longer it would become an unbearable urge.

  Soon, he promised himself. Soon.

  They spent the next little while eating and talking. Rayna had chosen, among other things, grapes. One by one, she plucked each plump green grape from the stem and popped it into her mouth. He caught her smile more than once, and he imagined the fruit exploding, filling her mouth with juice and flowing down her throat.

  She blinked up at him, her eyes darkening, but not with worry this time. “Want one?”

  Before he could answer, she plucked another from the stem and tossed it to him.

  He caught it between his teeth and bit down on the succulent flesh, keeping his eyes on her.

  Rayna threw back her head and laughed. “Show-off.”

  He shrugged, stood, and walked to the table where the hotel room phone sat. “Are you ready to give me the pros of your idea?”

  “Yes!” She joined him at the table, settling into a chair opposite him and rubbing her hands together with infectious excitement. “Okay, first, you stop killing people for money.”

  Shawn snorted and raised a brow. “Are you sure you want to start with that?”

  Rayna drew her brows together, her smile fading. “Yes, why?”

  “Consider this as a con or counter-point to your pro.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Your government kills people fairly often. It’s part of the job and they’ll say it’s for the greater good and the protection of the country. You want me to become a government assassin. A specialized agent, if you will, and agents are paid for what they do.”

  “So, you’re equating a salary with the payment you get now?” Her eyes widened and a hint of a smirk lifted the corner of her mouth. “That’s stu…err…silly. You know you strengthened my pro just now, right?”

  “How?” He forced himself to stay calm, neutral. It’d been a long time since he’d been tested in a worthy debate.

  “Assassination to protect America. It’s like war. A hidden war that keeps us all safe. Soldiers aren’t breaking the law, but they get a stipend for their time. So, um, yeah. You’d be a soldier for the United States. A warrior.”

  “You think calling me a warrior will sway me to your side?”

  She nodded, amusement alight in her eyes.

  “What’s your next pro?” He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of admitting to her that being a warrior appealed to him.

  “You’ll make me happy.”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “Next.”

  She sat back, folding her arms across her chest. “You can be insufferable. That was a valid pro. If anything is to come of us, it’s important to me. But fine.” She huffed. “My third pro is that you’ll be part of something important. You won’t be out there all on your own. Win the government’s trust and you’ll be part of a team. Have backup. You’ll belong.”

  He pushed back his chair and returned to the window. He longed to see the ocean. To swim. Needed the calming comfort of the salty sea. How could this woman possibly know him so well? To be accepted, to belong…he ached for these things.

  He stood for long minutes with a rigid back, appreciating Rayna’s silence. That she understood he needed time to think.

  Had he been the cause of his isolation? Could it be as simple as taking a job that accentuated his skills? He decided to find out and retook his seat at the table.

  “Are you ready to catch an agent?” he said as he brought the phone closer to him.

  Rayna clapped her hands together, clearly thrilled that he’d decided to do try her plan. “So, you’re going to bait the hook?”

  He shrugged, and Rayna shook her head. “Stop with the macho strong and silent type, okay? I can see right through it, you know. Especially since we just had a real conversation.”

  “Can you?” He lifted the receiver, the dial tone loud and intrusive. “You have to be quiet while I do this. Not a sound. I’m the only one in the room.”

  Rayna nodded, her expression both serious and excited. “Starting now?”

  “Yes.” He waited a moment, but Rayna remained silent. As her lips formed the beginning of her next question, he raised his hand to stop her. She clamped a hand over her mouth as he dialed O for operator on the rotary phone. When a female voice asked how she could direct his call, he said, “Please connect me to the CIA.”

  Rayna’s eyes grew wide and she fairly bounced in her chair with excitement. Yet, to her credit, she didn’t make a sound.

  “The CIA, sir?” the operator asked.

  “Yes, Central Intelligence Agency.” Shawn held the receiver a little away from his ear so Rayna could listen in.

  She scooted her chair closer and bent her head toward him. Close enough for her breath to tickle his skin. He felt an urge to rear back and one to pull her close at the same time. His thoughts grew muddled and he almost missed what the operator said next.

  “Oh, I thought you meant the Culinary Institute of America.” The operator laughed. “One moment while I connect you.”

  Silence on the line lasted only a brief moment.

  “Office of Public Affairs,” another female voice said.

  Shawn didn’t hesitate. He’d given thought to how he’d handle this phone call, and every second counted. He didn’t know if every single call was recorded, or worse, traced, but he wouldn’t take any chances. “I have time sensitive information regarding the security of the United States. Transfer me to someone in authority who can immediately deal with this.”

  “Sir, if you could provide some details so I can transfer you to the right office?” Her tone indicated that she got so-called crank calls like this on a regular basis. Shawn had to knock her out of that mindset right away.

  “I’m not going to talk to some mindless office drone. I will speak only to someone high up in DA or DO.”

  “Sir…”

  “Time sensitive, and the clock is ticking. Do you want to be the person responsible for holding up this urgent information?”

  There was a brief pause and a quiet sigh, as if Shawn had ruffled a pretty drone’s feathers. “Please hold.”

  Shawn covered the receiver’s mouthpiece with his hand and whispered into Rayna’s ear, “DA, Directorate of Analysis. DO, Directorate of Operations aka clandestine services.”

  She nodded her thanks.

  “Directorate of Analysis. How may I—?”

  Shawn cut off the next female voice. He’d been on the phone too long for comfort already. “I have vital information—”

  “Yes, sir,” the woman interrupted. “I’ve been made aware of the reason for your call. Please provide the nature of your information so we may proceed.”

  Shawn wasn’t fooled. This was another way to ferret out crank calls. Time to throw a bomb to get their attention. “I know exactly where Shawn Paros is at this moment. But that will change as I keep getting stalled.”

  “I see. Shawn Paros, you say?”

  Shawn shook his head in annoyance. Clearly, this drone had never heard of him, too low down on the ladder to have his name always in the forefront of her mind. Or skilled enough to make him think that. Time to change tactics.

  “Who are you?” Shawn barked.

  “Sir, I’m the assistant to—”

  “No. This is not for your ears. I’ll call back in ten minutes. Put me through then to someone in charge or you’ll forever lose your chance at Paros.”

  “Wait, and your name is?”

  “Shawn Paros.” He slammed the receiver back into its cradle.


  “Oh, my goodness,” Rayna said in a hushed voice. “That was…”

  “Tiresome.” He pushed a shock of straight black hair away from his face. “Pack up the food. We’re leaving.”

  “Wait, what?” Rayna gaped up at him as he stood and stretched. “Aren’t you going to call them back?”

  “Yes, but not from here.” He reached out and plucked one of the few remaining grapes from a stem and crunched it between his teeth. “We’re moving to the hotel next door.”

  It didn’t take Shawn and Rayna long to get situated in a room in the new hotel, but he figured it was closer to twenty minutes when he placed his next call to the CIA. Shawn shrugged inwardly. He’d cast his bait and they’d either written him off as a crackpot or they were dangling impatiently on the line.

  This time when he was put through to the Directorate of Analysis, things went differently. Shawn recognized the assistant’s voice, but she sounded agitated when she answered.

  “Directorate of Analysis. How—?”

  “It’s me,” Shawn said. “Did you find someone to take my call?”

  “Oh. Oh, yes. One second. Please don’t hang up. I’ll transfer you right now.”

  That’s more like it, Shawn thought, but he still couldn’t be sure if they were taking him seriously or not. He spared a glance at Rayna—more than that would take his head out of the game—to find her sweet face filled with anticipation, her eyes gigantic and sparkling eagerly.

  “Mr. Paros, I presume?” said an older man in a tone that told Shawn command came to him easily.

  “Yes, who is this?”

  “You’re speaking with Deputy Director Edwards. I understand that—”

  “I talk, you listen.” He had no time to spare now that he was possibly talking to the right person. “I don’t know if you’re who you say you are. Same as you don’t know I’m really Shawn Paros. I’m going to be in New York City tomorrow evening. A restaurant called 2nd Avenue Deli, midtown location. Ten minute window starting at 1930 hours. If you want to find out if I’m Paros, you’ll send someone I’m willing to talk to.”

  Not waiting for a reply, he hung up.

  “Now what?” Rayna asked.

  “Now we go to New York City for my job interview.”

  8

  Shawn made himself comfortable at a small square table near the back door of the 2nd Avenue Deli, where he had a clear view of the entrance. He refused to allow nerves to get the better of him.

  Every table was occupied, voices and laughter clashing and reverberating off the walls. A primary reason why he had chosen the place. Enough noise and no one would overhear any damning conversations.

  Glancing at Rayna, who sat at a nearby table, he wondered again if he’d managed to walk right into a trap. If CIA agents had already converged on this deli, leaving him little to no room for escape.

  Had he done a very stupid thing by going there, all to make a female happy?

  No, her happiness was nothing more than a pleasant side benefit. She’d given him an idea he liked and thought could work. He had even gotten excited about the possibility of pursuing the job when they’d discussed the pros and cons. If this was a trap, the fault was on him.

  A trap he figured, hoped, he could escape if it came down to that.

  He rested one hand idly on the table and kept the other in his lap, hidden from view. There hadn’t been time to source a replacement gun. He considered it too risky to walk into a gun shop and purchase one, and finding a reliable illegal gun dealer could take a couple of days or more. But he figured he could pull off a decent acting job of having one anyway.

  Yet, if more than a lone agent came to meet him, whether he had a gun or not wouldn’t matter. He’d likely get away, but he couldn’t imagine reconnecting with Rayna. She’d no doubt make it known that she was involved—too untrained to get away—and this thought caused the pit in his stomach to grow.

  He had no good excuse not to go when Rayna had demanded a shopping expedition when they’d arrived in New York City this morning. Rayna had gone wild with glee when she entered Macy’s Department Store, taking Shawn’s hand and dashing to the shoe department, where she happily tried on pair after pair. After she asked for his opinion of the first couple with no reply, she stopped asking and he lost sight of her each time she sat down to put on her latest find.

  Her squeal of delight let him know when she’d found the pair she wanted. When he saw them, he didn’t understand why she gushed so enthusiastically—they were nothing more than a bit of white leather and a small heel—but he kept that opinion to himself. He didn’t want to spoil the look of joy on her face.

  He tried to rush her through finding a couple of new outfits to no avail. After spending an inordinate amount of time in the women’s clothing department, her look of satisfaction glowed from across the floor. When she came closer, she had a shopping bag, but what stood out the most were the skintight electric blue pants and equally form-fitting white top she wore.

  “You like?” She did a little spin, and Shawn nodded before he could stop himself.

  She looked good, damned good. Almost as good as when wet, dripping with salt water. He had a sudden desire to sweep her up and take her back to the ocean—not something he’d wanted to share with any other woman since coming to Earth.

  “Very nice.” The compliment surprised him even more than Rayna, but her responding bright smile was worth it.

  “Good. Your turn.” The mischievous glint in her eyes boded no good.

  “What?”

  She didn’t really think for a second he would participate in her shopping spree, did she?

  “Well, you can’t go to your job interview dressed like that.”

  He looked down at himself as she appraised him with a downward turn of her mouth. He still wore his jeans and blue shirt, both of which had seen better days having been bled on, ripped, and done a turn in the ocean. At least the blood had washed out, but he had to admit she had a point.

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but they probably stink,” she said. “Mine did. Come on.”

  She took his hand, leading him away to another floor of the huge store, and he wondered how he’d become her puppy.

  Now, he found himself sitting at the table he’d chosen in 2nd Avenue Deli wearing a light pink button-down shirt, dark-wash jeans, and black ankle-high work boots. All very masculine and very much in style for the 1980s. He looked good and felt confident. Rayna had an eye for choosing clothing.

  He glanced at the big rectangular digital clock above the deli counter, the bold red numbers blinking to 7:32. Eight minutes to go before he’d leave. Eight minutes to ponder whether he wanted someone from the CIA to show up or not. Did he really want to give up his current lifestyle? Stop taking random contract killings and other assorted crimes? Live up to the potential offered to him when he became a time traveler?

  Rarely did he allow such thoughts to creep in or allow himself to consider them. How did he feel about his life, himself? On Paros, he’d never fit in. Couldn’t make friends, endured constant teasing. He knew even the adults whispered about him. He couldn’t help being awkward, not quite as good a swimmer as the others. So often he’d wish for his looks to change so he could blend in, be accepted. He’d hated his own reflection. Yet, he’d known of no other existence.

  Until more people from Earth arrived.

  He’d jumped at the chance to go to the world his mother had been born on. He wouldn’t have to live in shame for not having yellow hair and amber eyes. Like all Parosians. Like even his brother. He figured things for him would be better on Earth.

  They weren’t.

  He didn’t fit in. Didn’t know how to fit in. Had no frame of reference for making friends. For living a normal life, whatever that meant. But he had skills. Mad skills taught over a five-year period while he learned everything about Earth and trained in combat techniques. Skills that made doing anything else boring, intolerable.

  On Earth there were no limits, he co
uld do anything, be anyone. So, he did, and cared nothing of the potential consequences or morality of his actions.

  Annoyed by where these thoughts were taking him—that he’d made a gigantic blunder by not trying harder to fit in—he forced them away with a strong mental push. Better to stick to only the business at hand: the government agent he came here to meet.

  The door to the restaurant opened and a male figure entered. For a brief moment, the setting sun backlit him, and Shawn squinted, unable to make out any details. But when he stepped farther inside, Shawn knew this was his contact.

  Average height, average looks, deceptively average build. Blond hair in a brush cut. He wore tan chinos and a white polo shirt with the collar up. Played the part of a preppie fresh out of Yale.

  His hardened eyes swept the restaurant with a practiced gaze. He spotted Shawn, and advanced toward the table with a carefully constructed, nonchalant stride.

  Shawn recognized one of his own.

  One killer approaching another.

  He didn’t risk a glance to where Rayna sat. His instincts had told him not to let her come to the restaurant, but he didn’t listen, wanting to keep an eye on her. He’d told her to order food, eat dinner, and above all else, draw not the slightest attention to herself. He’d made her promise, repeating himself until she’d cried out in exasperation that she fully understood the inherent danger.

  “Shawn Paros, I presume?” the man said in a low voice. He rested his hand on the back of the empty chair across from Shawn.

  Shawn leaned forward and kicked the chair out as a rough invitation to sit. “Who are you?”

  The man pulled the chair farther out, eased himself down, and scooted the chair forward again. He placed his forearms on the table as an easy smile spread across his face. Shawn noted the broad shoulders and ripple of muscles in the man’s arms. There was strength, hidden power behind the laid-back manner.

  “Operations Officer Alec Connor. Wanna tell me why I’m here?”

  “What can I get you fellas?” a waiter asked as he stopped in front of the table, order book and pen in hand.