He shook the nostalgia and checked his cell phone, the beautiful sight of service bars greeting him, and dialed the head of their Chicago chapter, a younger gentleman by the name of Patrick Williams.
“Pat! How are you, my good sir?” Chris greeted once he answered.
“Chris?!” Patrick replied, his voice deep, but clearly surprised. “Where the hell are you? People are starting to talk.”
“Yes, I know. Pat, we have entered Mission Lifesaver. Start the process and get word out to all of our lovely Revolters that this mission is currently active. They know what to do.”
“Holy shit, sir, so it’s true. No one ever thought this would happen.”
Thanks for rubbing it in, Chris thought. “Thank you, Pat, neither did I, but we must focus and get out of this. I’m not going to worry, and neither should anyone else. This plan is tailored to get things back to normal. Now get the ball rolling.”
“Yes, sir. Take care of yourself.”
Patrick hung up and the wheels of madness were officially in motion. Within three hours, most of the major cities in North America would burn to the ground in a coordinated effort that would leave national governments scrambling, the Road Runners unable to do anything but run, all while the Revolution sat back and watched, laughing.
Chris wasted no time dialing Colin, keeping his head up to watch for anyone who might spot him from Main Street. No one did, but the phone rang and rang until eventually dropping the call. He tried one more time, getting the same result, and stuffing the phone back into his pocket as he swirled around and started back into the woods. “Dammit!” he snarled, stomping on the snow, kicking any of the heavy sticks that dared get in his path.
All Chris wanted was some assurance that his life wasn’t in danger. His rage boiled up to the point he no longer felt the fatigue in his old legs. He considered sprinting for his cabin, but didn’t trust his body to handle such a task, especially under his hot head.
A trip to the grocery store had to wait now—it was time to hunker down until matters sorted themselves out.
Chapter 19
Mission Lifesaver was designed to do quite the opposite of its title. The only life it meant to save was that of Chris Speidel, never mind the potential thousands of casualties that were sure to fall once the mission was complete.
No one in the Road Runners knew about this mission by the Revolution, thanks to it being one of its best kept secrets. For those Road Runner soldiers on the streets, trying to contain the mass protests that now carried on every minute of the day, word had arrived that the Wealth of Time store in Nevada no longer existed. This news spread among both the soldiers and those protesting, prompting raucous celebration by those who understood this to be the first step toward the collapse of the Revolution. It fueled their fire, making them believe their international protests had somehow led to this happening, forever oblivious that Commander Briar was going to move forward with this mission regardless of what any of the membership felt.
As they tended to be, the Road Runners were organized to a fault, even during mass, public unrest. They had numbers and they knew it, setting up shifts for different groups of protesters to show up and relieve the group before them. It had become an around-the-clock phenomenon with no end in sight. They remained disciplined, not peeping a word to the local media, not chanting anything that might give away their grand secret. It was the ultimate display of unity, millions of people across North America protesting in the streets, and not an ounce of correct speculation from those in the regular world following the story.
Since they had the luxury of different shifts, everyone could check the news channels and internet to see what the world thought of their display. Rumors swirled, claiming the people were part of a Satanic cult sent to the United States for a showdown against Christianity. Others speculated it was the actual New World Order, causing a distraction while they furthered some sort of underground agenda. It was all gibberish and baseless.
No one had any intent to invoke violence during the protests. They understood the organization had issued a blackout, cutting off the power to all official offices, demanding people stay home or otherwise face punishment. But the soldiers had no way of enforcing these measures, especially now that local police had arrived and the Road Runners couldn’t exactly start arresting people in front of them. The protest hadn’t been planned, so no credit was due, but things definitely worked out in their favor, leaving the protesters at an impasse with the Road Runner soldiers and free to continue their cause.
By the time the news broke of the Nevada store, plans formulated to drag out the protests until word was received that Chris Speidel had been killed. Then it would turn into a mass party. Until then, they had to hold their ground and keep focused.
In Denver, the gathering had swelled to just over six thousand people at Civic Center Park, right across the street from the state capitol. Several Road Runners made the trip to Denver, sensing something magnificent on the horizon, wanting to be in the city of their new headquarters for whatever might ensue.
One Road Runner in particular, Kelly Winters, made the trip down from Casper, Wyoming, where she lived alone, enjoying life as a Road Runner in a cozy cottage where she spent the days painting pictures, writing books and poems, and cooking challenging meals every night.
She had heard about the protests well before the blackout was issued, and was already on her way, not willing to turn back. Kelly wanted to be part of the movement that would lead to the Revolution’s downfall, and understood that any gathering of Road Runners would come with little to no risk of personal harm. She had seen the initial march down Sixteenth Street Mall on the Road Runners’ network, and that’s what prompted her to pack an overnight bag and get in the car.
Kelly arrived downtown at eight in the morning, after having spent the night at a hotel, unsure where exactly to go or who to meet up with. She simply found the crowd and joined in, her thin frame and short height not ideal for pushing her way through a crowd of thousands. Helicopters circled above, Denver police manned the perimeter, and a group of four Road Runners stood on the stage of the park’s small amphitheater, speaking into a megaphone that echoed across the way.
The closer she got, the sturdier the wall of Road Runners became, making her move down the line to seek any soft spots that would allow her to inch closer to the stage. She didn’t drive all this way to stand in the back and not hear anything, let alone have no idea who was speaking. A woman’s voice carried from the front. “We’ve been here for two days now, and we think change is finally on its way. We must remain strong in this fight and demand the outcome we want to see. We have what it takes to stay here for much longer. The longer we fight, the harder it becomes for them to deny our needs.”
People applauded at different moments, but everyone was engaged, heads glued to the stage, nodding, minds open to the new day’s wave of confidence. It uplifted Kelly, being part of something so much bigger than herself, and she focused on the speaker, a middle-aged woman with short gray hair and a pair of glasses that kept needing to be pushed up as her head bobbed from speaking with such conviction.
Kelly stood on her tiptoes, now 100 yards away from the stage where she found the perfect gap between two people’s shoulders for a clear view.
The speaker paced back and forth, dropping her head as she spoke into the megaphone, and held up a free hand, index finger pointing high. “Something special is coming. It’s been a long two days, but we have to remain patient. When the news comes that we’ve been waiting for our entire lives, don’t be afraid to bask in its glory. Hug the person next to you. Jump for joy. Scream to the heavens above. Because when we win, we’ll know that we all played a part in making it happen.”
The crowd howled in deafening unison. A sound of fireworks exploded from the back. Kelly looked up to the sky to see, but none ever appeared. It was possible the sun was too bright for a clear view of fireworks, but they kept going off, nearly drowned out by the applause
and hollering of those around her.
“RUN!” a frantic voice shouted from somewhere in the sea of people. Kelly spun around, but couldn’t see anything besides other faces staring ahead, a few others also looking toward the back.
The rapid explosions continued with no fireworks to complement them, and after another thirty seconds passed, a dozen people started charging toward the stage, barreling through the crowd, shoving people aside, blood oozing from their faces and limbs. They never looked back, keeping their heads forward, running for their lives.
Kelly whipped back around to the stage. The group that had been up there watched with dazed confusion before flinging the megaphone aside and sprinting in the opposite direction.
The crowd followed their gaze and reaction, bolting into action. Kelly remained frozen in place, hoping that people were overreacting, partly curious what had unfolded in the back of the audience. As the space cleared within moments, she caught a glimpse of a new wall of people running, mouths hanging open, fear brushed over their faces. The explosions continued, a handful of runners falling dead to the ground.
It wasn’t until this moment she realized the fireworks were not fireworks at all, but the constant chorus of gunfire. Her heart raced as this reality settled in, her thoughts scattering as she processed the fact that had she given up and stayed toward the back of the crowd, she would likely be one of the dozens of bodies lying face down.
A row of black vans barricaded the north side of the park, the easiest route to leave. Side doors swung open, stationary machine guns showering bullets in every direction.
The police had opened fire on the vans, but they were simply outnumbered, several blue uniforms splayed into the mix of death all around the park grounds. “LONG LIVE THE REVOLUTION!” screamed a masked man in the van, waving both of his middle fingers to the crowd that had dispersed.
Fires had been set in the trash cans, and Kelly saw a huddle of people lighting Molotov cocktails, tossing them onto the corpses. Across the street, beneath the glimmering golden dome of the capitol, more people dressed in all black had raided the property, deadly cocktails sailing toward the building and breaking through the glass.
The adrenaline had finally reached its peak, forcing Kelly to look away from the madness and sprint, guns still firing away with no mercy, no rest. The park had become a maze of death, dodging bullets and dead bodies as she fled for safety behind the amphitheater. She tripped on someone’s lifeless limbs, tumbling for a moment and rolling onto another dead body, before jumping to her feet and scampering once more.
A burning sensation struck her left calf, like someone had pressed a hot iron directly to her flesh, but not even that forced her back to the ground. She limped, taking long strides with her good leg, dragging her bad one behind as blood left a scattered trail behind it. A small crowd had formed behind the amphitheater, but the majority of protesters sprinted away from the park, some three blocks away already with no sign of slowing down.
Kelly leaned against the concrete wall, panting for breath, head spinning in every direction as she half-expected someone to walk up and shoot her right in the face. That didn’t happen, but something much worse was already unfolding across the street.
The timing didn’t make sense, then again, she had no way of clearly judging time once the chaos had erupted. Ten seconds felt like twenty minutes.
The capitol’s dome had caught fire, smaller patches of flames spreading across the rest of the exterior as more and more explosives were thrust against the building. Traffic came to a halt on Broadway as mobs of the black-cloaked Revolters swarmed the streets and sidewalks, their numbers trying to match those of the protesters who were assembled just minutes ago.
Not all Road Runners had fled the scene, however, and some engaged in combat, swinging desperate punches, shooting from behind trees. A few Revolters took a beating, some dying next to their own victims, but the remaining Road Runners were no match.
Kelly let her body slide down the wall until she sat on the ground, her blasted leg turning completely numb as blood pooled, running in a small stream toward the bloody footprints scattered across the ground. She fainted, unaware that similar attacks were unfolding all around the continent, the Revolution throwing everything they had as they, too, sensed the major event set to occur in the time travel world.
Chapter 20
The early morning had passed rather uneventfully for Martin and the team on the jet. Two members had wandered into downtown Winnipeg to buy three dozen doughnuts for a simple breakfast to feed everyone.
Before the food arrived, Martin went into the bathroom and vomited into the toilet. He only had consumed one drink the night before, but his stomach flipped cartwheels all night as he speculated on the possibility that his life might end today. And if not his, then that of Chris, which was as equally stressful of a thought. As much as he had wanted a deep sleep, it never came. He woke nearly every hour, staring at the ceiling, reflecting on his life, trying to make sense of how and why it all led to this point. Speculation remained that he had somehow been planted in this role since the beginning, but he had concluded there were too many moving parts to make it all happen, accepting his destiny to remove the madman from the world.
His arms trembled, legs hollow and weak when he stood from the recliner to begin the day. He was the first one up at five o’clock, most of the team sound asleep, some faintly stirring, as they had collapsed straight into their laptops at some point in the night.
After he puked, Martin returned to the recliner to relax. He glanced around the jet cabin, admiring such a phenomenal team who had given their all, pushing themselves to the brink for the greater good. The Road Runners would have found a way to defeat Chris without him—their talent and dedication ran too deep.
People gradually woke up as the morning grew later, Alina among one of the first. Her hair stood in a frazzled mess as she stepped around the sleeping bodies on the floor, offering a polite, but embarrassed, grin to Martin as she made her way to the bathroom. She didn’t say a word, and neither did he.
The jet had two bathrooms, one in the front, one in the rear, and Martin watched as lines formed at both, glad he had been able to beat the rush. He worried about making it all the way to nightfall, his brain already having the slightest itch of fatigue. The day would surely be engaging enough to distract from his urge to sleep. He didn’t know if commanders ever took time off, but if things played out the way they hoped, he might become the first one to start a new tradition. It had to have been at least two years since he last had a full eight hours of sleep in a single night, but he had grown to live with the exhaustion, sometimes thriving in the state of mind that bordered on delirium.
None of that matters today, Martin thought. Throw the playbook out the window. You’ll be on Chris’s turf. Man against a withering old man for all the glory, alone in a frozen world until someone goes home and the other lays dead on the ground.
The thoughts brought a return of the twisting inside. He thought he might vomit again, but there was nothing left.
Alina returned from the bathroom, dressed in athletic pants and a long-sleeved t-shirt. Most everyone on the jet dressed the same way, all of their clothes originally packed from the two-week stay in Chicago. Martin was the only one stepping outside of the jet—him plus whoever was driving him to Angle Inlet. It had been decided he would drive to his destination rather than fly into the local airport. The Revolution’s private jet was already parked in the two-plane hangar and was surely grabbing attention from the locals. Having a second jet of equal elegance would surely prompt a full-blown investigation by the ninety residents who called the small peninsula home.
The main objective for the day was to remain off the radar. Flying literally showed up on radars, and crossing an international border was something they’d rather not deal with after making it to Winnipeg with no commotion from Canadian officials. Driving wasn’t ideal, but a two-hour trip was just reasonable enough to make a case fo
r the method of transportation. Arielle Lucila was the main candidate to drive the commander, but had yet to be formally confirmed.
By nine o’clock, the entire team had woken and the jet hummed with energy and excited chatter. Some continued right back to work, preparing final research before the big presentation was due to be delivered to Martin at 12:30, part of his final preparation before leaving. Others gathered around, chomping on doughnuts, slamming back enough coffee to ride out the rest of the day. Martin made his rounds, partaking in small talk with his team to help keep his mind off the clock and the inevitable task that stood at the end of the road.
The next two hours passed in a blur until time came to a screeching halt shortly after eleven o’clock. “Holy shit!” Arielle shouted. “The capitol in Denver is on fire, and there are reports of hundreds dead at the protests.”
Dozens of hands reached into pockets to retrieve cell phones, wanting to see the story for themselves.
“It’s happening everywhere,” Arielle continued. “The national news outlets aren’t even sure which one to cover. It has to be the Revolution—all the attacks have been carried out on the ‘unknown protesters who have caused a stir the last couple of days.’”
“Settle down, everyone,” Alina barked, moving to the center of the room. “Let’s not jump to conclusions—especially not today. It probably is the Revolution, but let’s make sure. I want everyone to get online and check the local news from whatever city you were born. See what you can find.”
The jet fell silent as everyone brushed anxious thumbs over their cell phones, skimming the news, checking Twitter feeds, all to find out a bigger picture of the incidents.
Time of Fate (Wealth of Time Series #6) Page 12