“I’ve never had so much as a disagreement with Thad since we started working together.”
“He’s playing you, Chris. I’m not sure if it’s been his plan all along, but it is now.”
“Why would anyone discuss this in front of you? I don’t understand.”
“It wasn’t directly discussed in front of me, but I caught wind of it and fact-checked it myself. It all makes sense. Haven’t you noticed the Liberation has also gone quiet?”
“Well, no, because they take orders from myself and Thaddeus. We chat once a week and last he told me, they were working on replenishing their supplies and outlining new strategies for future arson missions. Sounds to me they’re ready to get back to work.”
“I know once I leave this room you’ll believe me. I have no reason to make this up. Tread carefully, and keep this in mind during your future conversations with Thaddeus. He might start asking questions about your schedule and whereabouts—they’re planning a coup and want to hijack the Revolution and all of its resources. You’re the only one in the way of making that happen.”
Chris smirked. “I believe it, even if I haven’t seen it for myself. It’s a shame. I actually liked the work they were doing at the Liberation, but now I’ll have to remove them from existence just like all the other small groups that formed in the past.”
“You have the experience in these matters; taking them out should be a cakewalk. I really need to get going now, though.”
Duane stood, his lips pursed as he waited for Chris to join him.
“So just like that, it’s over?” Chris asked. “Nearly fifty years—in real time—of work down the drain, leaving me to fend for myself in a fistfight with Martin Briar. Thousands of years if you add it all up.”
“Why do you act like you’ve never been in this position before? I can think of five right off the top of my head, and each instance you came out on top. You’re still invincible. What are you worried about?”
Chris worried about plenty. Martin could authorize time be frozen and resist it, leaving all Revolution soldiers useless, and a one-on-one battle between the two leaders. He also had a standing appointment for a phone call with Sonya every Monday, one that she had to initiate since she was living in 1933. A lot could happen to her within seven days—the unknowing made him paranoid. He gave her his word that he’d leave her alone, and he had so far. The last thing anyone would call Chris Speidel was a liar, but it might be time to renegotiate their terms. His life was on the line, and whether Sonya cared or not didn’t change that fact.
“I’m not worried,” Chris said again, more to assure himself. Once Duane left, it was true that nothing would change. He’d still be in the same predicament, and if Martin froze time it would deem Duane irrelevant anyway. He was on his own, and surely Martin understood this simple fact. “I know it’ll be fine, but can’t you agree that something feels different this time around?”
Duane shrugged, slipping on his coat. “Sure, because Martin can somewhat level the playing field, but remember—he’ll still be on his own. If it comes down to it and you need to run, you know all the hidden trap doors this continent has to offer.”
“The day I hide from a Road Runner is the day I die,” Chris snapped. “You speak like they have Sonya in their possession.”
“Sonya’s fine. She doesn’t want to get tangled in this mess any more than you do. She’s done picking sides and just wants to live her life—there’s nothing you or Martin can say to change that. The Liberation has been searching for her, but they’re nowhere close. They don’t have the access to information like we do—they’re essentially throwing darts at a board. Blindly, at best.”
Duane picked up the lone suitcase of his few belongings, and started toward the front door.
“Goodbye, my friend,” Chris said. “I do hope you’ll reconsider staying, or coming back sooner.”
“I wouldn’t count on that, Chris. I wish you the best. I’ll be watching from afar, but I know you’ll be just fine.”
Chris stuck out a hand, growing thinner and bonier by the day. He knew his body would keep aging no matter what he did, but he didn’t care. He was strong despite his deteriorating appearance—his mind still sharp, his soul as hungry as ever to exterminate Road Runners.
“Thank you for everything. This organization wouldn’t be where it is without you. Don’t be a stranger.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it—I’ll be in touch.”
With that, Duane Betts walked out of the house and out of Chris’s life forever, never to speak another word to the Keeper of Time.
Chapter 3
Martin enforced that no one was to leave the apartment complex without his approval. Even a trip to the grocery store was off limits, so they had each packed additional suitcases of all the food they needed, sure to never be spotted by Sonya.
On the morning of another winter Chicago day in 1933, Martin sat at his kitchen table with an opened Pop-Tart wrapper, crumbs scattered next to a steaming mug of tea. He had no consistent diet since arriving to the Great Depression, but it didn’t matter. All he wanted was to either kill Sonya Griffiths or convince her to return to the Road Runners and assist with the capture of her father.
Nerves bubbled in his stomach, each bite of the artificial strawberry flavoring a chore to force down. The tea made his head spin, too hot for such a rattled state of mind. His own potential death consumed his thoughts, and pushing them away was near impossible.
Sitting at the table reminded him of the time he had confessed to his mother about his participation in this world of time travel, back in 2019 at the kitchen table in their Littleton mansion. He had expected an argument over the validity of his claims, but all Marilyn did was encourage him to see this adventure through its end.
“So what if you die? Everyone dies at some point.” He whispered her words, the weight of each one pressing against his skull. He had no plans of dying, but that matter wasn’t up to him.
A knock banged on the door, startling Martin as he nearly fumbled the mug. “Alina?” he called, expecting his lieutenant to stop by before the plans moved forward.
“Yes, sir,” her muffled voice replied from the other side.
Martin rose and trudged across the apartment to let her in. She wore their official combat uniform, navy blue spandex material with thick padding covering the entire torso. While she wasn’t involved in the mission, she wanted to remain prepared in case she had to intervene at any point. Mainly, the uniform provided the best flexibility for running long distances or engaging in close combat.
“Good morning, Commander,” she greeted, her black hair twisted into a braid. “Are you ready to execute this mission in twenty-seven minutes?” She checked her watch to confirm the precise time.
“No time like the present,” Martin said, offering a forced grin.
“Good. Everyone will be moving into their positions in exactly twelve minutes. From there, we wait for you. Have you tested your radio again this morning?”
They had brought radios from the future, technology a hit-or-miss while traveling throughout time, depending on which technologies existed in the era.
“Still works. I paged Arielle to test. And have you notified the Council of our plans today?”
“Yes. The Council has been alerted that you are ready to head in—they wish you the best of luck.”
“Did they really?” Martin asked, rolling his eyes. He and the Council had gotten into several heated arguments regarding his decision to take on this mission firsthand. They didn’t mind him scouting the area and staying in 1933 to make plans for capturing Sonya, but the moment he declared that he’d be the one barging into her apartment, Chief Councilman Uribe brought their operations to an immediate halt.
Uribe had called it reckless and irresponsible. The organization had already been through enough over the past several months, and there was no reason for their leader to once again be placed in serious jeopardy. He brought the issue to a formal vote on thr
ee different occasions, a 4 to 3 count returning each time in favor of letting the commander do as he saw fit, Martin forever grateful for having stacked the Council in his favor.
Those opposed, including Uribe, took a deep dive into the Road Runner Bylaws, throwing every rule they could at Martin and their fellow Councilors to stop it from happening. Nothing resisted the power of their votes, and it was settled that Martin would carry out the mission.
The Council eventually pleaded with Commander Blair in Europe to help by freezing time, but Martin’s British counterpart was still pissed Gerald had been killed in what he deemed a “sloppy mission that should have never happened.” He vowed to not offer any more assistance with Martin’s antics in trying to kill Chris. From his point of view, the war in North America was bad, yes, but not something that warranted such desperate moves. He did not give his blessing for Martin to enter the mission on his own, but Martin didn’t give a shit.
“They did,” Alina said, stepping all the way into the apartment, taking a seat at the kitchen table. Martin made his way to the couch he had passed out on last night. “I traveled ahead and spoke to Uribe—he really does wish you the best and said he can’t wait to speak with you in person.”
Martin grinned. “I know things got ugly, but he’s a phenomenal man.”
“That he is.” Alina checked her watch again, something she had been doing just about every minute. She was much more organized than Martin, an attribute desperately needed for their leadership team. Every meeting was prompt with its start and end times, Alina having too much to focus on to get dragged into wasted time.
On her first day as the new lieutenant, she stood up and left Martin’s office in the middle of a conversation, citing that her next time block was due for research on places to stash Chris’s dead body. Martin had been taken aback when this happened, but had since learned to appreciate her dedication in the days since. He might have been the one doing the dirty work in capturing Sonya, but Alina would ensure none of their efforts went down the drain.
“Everything is in place should you not make it back,” Alina said. “Your will has been sent to the Council for safety, and our elections team has made preliminary preparations in case both of us don’t make it for some reason. All bases are covered, including the flip side for what will happen if Sonya is killed, captured, or escapes.”
“Perfect, thank you. Should we start getting ready to head out there?” Martin asked, the words making his head spin.
“Yes.”
Martin pulled himself off the couch and opened the closet door in the short hallway that led to his bedroom. He slipped into an armored vest and helmet, having opted to not wear a combat uniform since his role was confined to Sonya’s apartment. If she ran, everyone else on the team was ready to chase.
If they had prepared him like this for his first attempt on Sonya’s life in 1996, he wondered if things would have played out any differently. He never planned to kill her during that initial visit, but things had since changed.
He grabbed a loaded pistol and slipped it into his utility belt, already equipped with pepper spray and a taser. Martin had no intention of using any of these weapons, considering them more as tools of self-defense. Sonya would dictate how this encounter played out, Martin wanting a peaceful discussion where they could explore all available options.
“Three minutes,” Alina informed him. “You should start heading up.” She brought him the radio he had left on the kitchen table, sticking it in his hand.
Martin nodded and took a deep breath. “I’ll see you on the other side, Lieutenant.”
Alina stuck out a hand to shake, Martin grabbing it firmly. “I know you’ll do great.”
They left his apartment together, reaching the stairwell where Alina went down to her first floor apartment, and Martin took the flight up to the third floor where Sonya waited. He hadn’t been on the third floor since their first day living in the complex, and had only seen photographs and diagrams of the floor during their intensive planning. He checked his watch to find one minute remaining until he was expected to knock on her door.
His legs dragged down the hallway, thoughts swirling out of control as his breathing elevated to a much faster pace. Martin had put on a pair of gloves, anticipating the nervous sweat that always seemed to accompany him during moments of anxiety. He needed to grip his weapons if it came to it. The body armor felt like an elephant on his back.
Unit 312 had a slightly crooked door in the middle of the long hallway, and Martin drew one more deep breath when he reached it, hand trembling as he raised it and knocked. He took a step back and raised his hands in the air to show there was no harm intended, waiting to see if Sonya would answer.
Chapter 4
The grand mission to rid the world of Chris Speidel had many moving parts. While one team worked in 1933 Chicago, another remained in 2020 northern Nevada, a mere ten-minute helicopter ride away from the Wealth of Time storefront. Arielle Lucila, who went on the Chicago trip, had planned the pending attack on the store and served as a liaison between the two teams.
They didn’t want one event to occur without the other, so when Arielle called thirty minutes ago giving the green light, confirming that all was in place in Chicago, a grin came to the lips of Justin Fowler, a longtime Road Runner and current Lead Runner of the nearby Salt Lake City office.
He and Arielle had formed this team together, finding the best twenty soldiers available in North America. They had arrived by helicopter two days earlier, setting up tents as they made final preparations for what was to be a first-time mission for the Road Runners: dropping bombs on a Revolution hideout.
While the Road Runners kept a plethora of explosives, they had only ever used them when they blew up Chris’s Alaskan mansion. Never had they dropped bombs from above, but this was a unique opportunity thanks to the severely remote location of the store.
Besides, no commander had ever legally authorized the use of bombs until Briar, bringing with him a ruthless approach the organization had never seen before. He spared no expense or efforts in his lone goal of bringing down Chris. Some soldiers on the team speculated that Commander Briar was letting the organization run on autopilot—as rarely making appearances and giving updates became custom. But no one let that fact bother them, as they witnessed a refreshing, serious approach to bring down the Keeper of Time.
“Balls to the walls,” Justin told his team, a collection of equally ruthless men and women with an insatiable hunger to kill Revolters. “This is Commander Briar’s approach, and it will be ours this morning. Are there any last questions before we head over?”
He looked to the huddle of blank faces, many concealed behind face coverings as part of their combat attire. The soldiers dressed in their uniforms, helmets on, rifles loaded. An all-out raid was on the menu, and not a single one of them wanted to back down now.
Justin declared it time to proceed. They broke into groups and dispersed in different directions, Justin heading to the chopper equipped with the explosives. Four soldiers joined him, including the pilot, while the other sixteen packed into three different trucks that would arrive to the scene seconds after the explosions started. The intent behind the bombs was not to kill those inside, but to destroy the building—a beautiful, symbolic gesture according to Commander Briar, who had explained all of his troubles with Chris had stemmed from that very edifice.
Once the structure absorbed its damage, those inside would have no choice but to run out where they’d meet the gunfire of those soldiers in the trucks. Commander Briar told them to be ready for anything, including large numbers of Revolters. He cited the time he and Gerald had wanted to stop by, but several cars had appeared in the parking lot after a week of surveillance suggested otherwise. He suspected the store was being used as a hub to funnel Revolters from all around the sphere of time, meaning it was impossible to know their true numbers. That was another reason he justified the bombs, Gerald having instilled the strategy of putting e
nemies on defense and catching them off guard.
Timing was everything on this mission, an attribute that separated the great soldiers from the elite. The helicopter had been started, leaving them exactly five minutes until take off. Justin and the rest of his crew filed in, he taking the co-pilot seat where he’d make the decision to deploy the bombs.
They all slipped on a pair of headsets as the engine and rotor drowned out any possibility of normal conversation. The pilot entered last, a large man by the name of Sergio Fritteli, who seemed to rock the entire chopper as he made his way to the pilot’s seat.
“Everyone ready to roll?” he asked through the headset.
Justin gave a thumbs up while the other two in the back whooped and hollered like rowdy high schoolers. This earned a satisfied chuckle from Sergio, who started flipping switches on the dashboard. “One minute until takeoff,” he said, the vibrations growing stronger, a sense of destiny sprinkling over the nerves starting to form in Justin’s gut.
“Balls to the walls!” Justin shouted as he looked out his window to the rest of the group already in their trucks, a few hanging out the backseat windows for a better view of the road ahead. He had encouraged them to watch the show, to embrace being part of the most important history for the Road Runners.
“Off we go!” Sergio cried, the helicopter beginning its ascent. They climbed in altitude, not needing to go much higher than 300 feet for this trip, but Justin caught a breathtaking view of the desert. Every way he looked was sheer golden sand, daunting with its isolation, but welcoming with its guaranteed privacy at the same time.
Wealth of Time stood tall and sturdy, about the size of the old Target stores before they all turned into supercenters. Justin had never seen it for himself until this mission, and this elevated angle provided him a glimpse of its grandness. He couldn’t wait to demolish it.
They started moving forward, and within seconds had left the trucks behind, where they’d soon start the drive over.
Time of Fate (Wealth of Time Series #6) Page 2