He reached the terminal and entered three minutes later, having slowed toward the end of his long run, huffing and puffing as the building’s warmth coated his shivering body. He took a moment to gather himself before heading for the ticket counter.
A tall, slender woman greeted him, reminding Martin of Sonya at first glance, thanks to her flowing blonde hair and big, blue eyes. “Bonjour, how can I help you?” she asked with a slight French accent.
“Good morning,” Martin said, still catching his breath. “I’m looking for a flight to Denver, Colorado. Do you have anything direct?”
“One moment, please,” she said, pursing her lips and looking down to the bulky mid-90’s computer. The basic technology brought a grin to Martin’s lips as nostalgia swept over him, forever appreciative for having lived through it. “Looks like we have a direct flight that leaves at ten, and one with a connection in Salt Lake City leaving at 8:45.”
Martin closed his eyes and did the rough math. “I’m afraid those won’t work. I’m trying to be in downtown Denver by noon Mountain Time. Do you by chance have any private charters I can take?”
She looked him up and down, clearly judging the raggedy outfit he had worn to lounge around his own private jet. “Sir, a private flight will cost at least 10,000 American dollars.”
“Perfect. Do you have one available?”
She frowned and returned her attention to the computer. “I can have one ready to leave here in 90 minutes.”
“I’ll take it.” Martin whipped his wallet back out and slapped his credit card on the counter, hoping it would scan in their machine. She stared like it was a foreign object, then shrugged before grabbing it and swiping it through the card scanner.
“Thank you, Mr. Briar,” she said, passing over a receipt for his signature. “Are you traveling alone?”
“Yes. Just me, no luggage. I’ve had an emergency and need to get to Denver as quickly as possible.” Martin felt the need to explain his situation because of his current appearance and odd request at such an early hour.
“Certainly. We don’t normally bring private charters to the terminal, but since it is early in the day and our commercial flights don’t start until after six, I’ve arranged for you to board the charter at gate twelve.”
“I appreciate that. You’ve been a great help. What is your name?”
“Christine, but my friends call me Chris.”
“I’m sure they do,” Martin said with a grin. Good one, universe, he thought before grabbing his ticket and heading for his gate. The terminal was abandoned, only a coffee stand open, so Martin stopped for a drink and pastry. His nerves had actually settled now that he was roaming 1995, his impending duel with Chris the furthest thing from his mind.
Once he grabbed one of the several open seats at his gate, Martin realized it wasn’t 1995 that had brought him joy, but being away from the bustle of the Road Runners and the commandership. With the organization in a blackout, and his team physically with his body on the jet, no one had eyes on him. He could live an entire life in a different era and avoid the showdown in ten-minute increments at a time. He even considered taking one of these farewell tours to get the closure with everyone he had lost in the past few years.
Mom and Sonya.
The temptation was certainly strong, but he’d resist. Pushing his worries off only prolonged the subconscious stress that he had so far managed to ignore. Also, no one on his team would believe that he had to spend ten minutes in the bathroom on three different occasions during the afternoon. Questions would come, as would the knocking on the door, and eventually someone breaking it down and catching him asleep on the floor, knowing damn well what he was up to.
That scene would certainly throw all their plans out the window, sparking a chaotic event where everyone on board jumped around time to find their commander who had wandered off on his own.
“Just Izzy,” he muttered, stuffing a bite of lemon cake into his mouth. Just gotta see Izzy one final time and never look back again.
Chapter 23
The rest of the wait and flight went smoothly for Martin. Much to his delight, he managed to fall asleep naturally during the trip. He had met the pilots when boarding the jet, an older gentleman by the name of Albert Fournier who had flown fighter jets for the Canadian Air Force during the tail end of World War II, and another man around Martin’s age who didn’t care to share his name or past, instead focusing on his work in the cockpit while Albert shared small-talk with Martin.
Once they took off, Martin drifted away, his cares gradually leaving his brain, the pressures of his role vanishing as he flew miles above the Earth, alone, not a soul concerned with his whereabouts.
The flight took four hours and he woke just in time to see downtown Denver in the distance as they landed at Stapleton International Airport a few minutes away. Martin had forgotten that the new and improved Denver International had not been opened yet, and this shaved at least forty-five minutes off from his plans, leaving him even more time to kill.
He wished Albert farewell and thanked him for the flight before disembarking the jet and wandering through a terminal he never imagined he’d see again. The airport flooded his senses with nostalgia, remembering the few trips he and Lela had taken before Izzy was born, and the couple they had taken with her as a child.
He arrived in Denver at nine in the morning, and his plans to see Izzy weren’t until noon. The airport bustled with people taking business trips, as he noticed several suits and blazers around the concourse. Martin pushed through the crowds, grateful to have no luggage, and made his way outside where a taxi stand stood, the attendant a short, dark-skinned man running back and forth from his podium to various taxis as he opened the doors for his customers.
Martin stood in line for only five minutes, smiling when he stepped up for his turn.
“Good morning, sir. Where are you headed?” the man asked, Martin catching his name as Jamal from the name tag clipped to his shirt.
“Sixteenth Street Mall, downtown,” Martin said.
“Come this way.”
Jamal bolted away, passing four other taxis until opening a door toward the end of the line. Martin struggled to keep up, but Jamal waited with the same, wide smile on his face before slamming the door and banging the top of the vehicle as it pulled away.
“Good morning,” the cab driver said over his shoulder. “Headed downtown, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We just missed the morning rush hour—should be ten minutes until we get there. Anywhere in particular on the mall you need to be dropped at?”
“Sixteenth and Welton would be good, and I’ll take it from there.”
“You got it, chief.”
The cab sped away and weaved through cars, not making an effort to the driver’s liking. Martin hung on for his life in the backseat, clinging to the handle above the door to not slide around like a loose bag of groceries.
The driver didn’t say another word until they arrived, letting Martin know he owed eight dollars. Martin stepped out of the car and basked in the energy of downtown Denver. He stood at the exact intersection he had requested, three blocks west of the office building he had worked at in 1995, and only one block away from the investment center he had visited in 2018 to pick up his millions of dollars.
The mall had plenty of business people hustling down the sidewalks, crossing streets with their briefcases or purses clutched in hand, oblivious to a time-traveling man standing on the corner like a lost, out-of-town visitor. Martin rotated around to get a feel—more of a reminder—of his surroundings. A suit shop was across the street—his reason for being dropped at this specific location—so he crossed and entered, a bell over the door chiming to call attention, a salesman approaching like a hungry shark before Martin had taken five steps inside.
“Good morning, sir. How may I help you today?” the man asked. He stood short and spoke in a high-pitched weaselly voice. His black hair glossed under the lights, slic
ked back, a thin pencil mustache to complement it.
“Good morning,” Martin said, scanning the store. “I’m looking for a basic suit to change into right now and walk out with. Don’t need anything fancy.”
Martin couldn’t recall having ever been in a suit store at any point in his life, typically buying his professional attire from department store bargain racks. The vast availability was overwhelming, and he trusted the salesman would do his best to upsell him on things he surely didn’t need.
“Certainly,” the man said. “My name is Gordy, and I’d be happy to get the right pieces together for you. Do you prefer neutral colors, or something more pastel?”
“I like gray suits, nothing flashy.”
“Absolutely, please follow me.” Gordy pivoted and dashed away, Martin taking big steps to keep up with the little man. “Is there a particular occasion? Wedding? Big Valentine’s date in a couple days?”
“Just looking for another outfit for work. I work only a couple blocks down and thought I’d treat myself to a new suit before heading in for the day.”
“Ahh, of course, let’s have a look here. Would you mind raising your arms outward to the side?” Before he could even process the question and react, Martin watched as Gordy knelt down and ran a tape measure from the inside of his ankle up toward his crotch, making him squirm at the unexpected sensation. He was done within seconds and stood up to finish measuring from Martin’s wrist to armpit. “Let me pull some items.”
Gordy skimmed through the rack, pulling pants, jackets, and shirts in rapid succession. Martin looked around to see if anyone else had such an energetic employee helping them, and only spotted two other men in the whole store, one already dressed in a suit, a fedora cocked over his eyes as he browsed a spinning rack of ties. The other in a long, tan trench coat, standing next to the changing rooms.
Just me. How lucky, Martin thought.
“What do you think?” Gordy asked, holding up three suit jackets, each a different shade of gray from light to dark. Martin pointed to the darkest one, and Gordy’s face lit up with joy. “One of my favorites. The color is called gun metal. A bit aggressive of a name, mind you, but definitely a powerful color, great for delivering presentations to large groups.”
It occurred to Martin that this suit was actually more than something to wear as a decoy. He’d be able to keep and deliver his victory speech while wearing it, a new look for the winning commander.
Or be buried in it, his conscience reminded.
“I give a few presentations,” Martin said. “This one should work just fine.”
Gordy smiled, satisfied with once again matching the perfect suit to a client in need. After another fifteen minutes of upselling ties, shoes, and a pocket square, Martin stepped out of the store and back onto the mall, ready to see Izzy for the final time, unaware that the two other customers inside were now following him.
* * *
Martin had three hours to kill until noon when he planned to make his move and bump into Izzy. He had taken a moment to find a diner and dove into a breakfast burrito much bigger than his head, and to think of how this morning had played out all those years ago.
The date was easy to remember. It was Izzy’s eleventh birthday, in which she and Lela had come downtown to visit Martin before grabbing lunch as part of a fun-filled day. Martin had to work, and his earlier shift didn’t allow him to take his break at a good time to meet them, leaving him to settle for a quick five-minute chat before getting off at two to join them at the movie theater for a showing of Billy Madison. Martin remembered this detail because he and Lela had gotten into a small argument about taking Izzy to see it, since she was right on the cusp of the age to see a comedy of that nature. Izzy had wanted to see it, and since it was for her birthday, Martin had caved in and agreed to it, so long as they waited for him to join.
His frustration that day was due to having a meeting at noon sharp, another reason he wasn’t able to take the rest of the day off, as the meeting was between the CEO and Martin’s team. Lela and Izzy had stopped by the office around 11:40 and talked with Martin for about fifteen minutes until he returned inside.
It was that exact moment that Martin planned to swoop in from behind, perhaps on the basis that he forgot to tell them something, and give Izzy a big hug and proper goodbye. The interaction wouldn’t have any bearing on the future, and he knew he was safe from 1995 Martin who would’ve been staring out the window of a conference room, longing for a better life without so many restraints on his schedule.
The biggest detail he had to take a guess on was the suit. He had no clue what he had actually worn that day, but had always been a fan of gray suits and took the gamble, hoping what he purchased this morning would be close enough to not draw questions from Lela.
At 11:25, Martin paid his tab and left the diner, making his way to his office building a short walk away. He’d arrive around the same time as Lela and Izzy, but would keep his distance from the scene. It seemed like centuries ago he had driven down his block in 1996 and briefly locked eyes with himself, sending Martin speeding away while he thought his head might explode. He learned his lesson the hard way about encountering his past self, and hadn’t even stuck around for the worst of it.
He bolted down the sidewalk, weaving through people taking their sweet time deciding what they wanted to eat for lunch, clogging the pedestrian traffic without a care in the world. Martin also kept his eyes bouncing around, not knowing which direction Izzy and Lela would come from, needing to avoid accidentally bumping into them too soon. He stayed across the street to reduce his chances, but couldn’t be sure until he saw them.
When Martin reached the spot directly across from his office, he slipped into a narrow alleyway, keeping an eye out for himself and his family. They had met right outside the main doors, and if his memory served correctly, Lela and Izzy had arrived first.
Sweat started to moisten his palms, and his legs trembled beyond control as nerves swelled inside of his stomach. Chris, the Road Runners, and the pending fall the Revolution were nowhere to be found within his thoughts. Tension had bubbled all the way up to his throat, forcing Martin to focus on his breathing as he grew somewhat dizzy.
Hold it together. You didn’t come all this way to faint in the alley.
His biggest regret from his very first trip to 1996 was not getting the chance to speak a word to Izzy. He had plenty of opportunities, but was too terrified that approaching her might cause some sort of supernatural resistance from the past. He had learned so much since then, and had a better grasp of how things worked.
His brain took a moment to process what his eyes were seeing, but the floodgates of adrenaline opened when he saw Lela and Izzy had walked right up to the front doors of the office building, staying a few steps back as they waited for Martin. His heart tried beating right out of his throat, causing Martin to swallow over and over as his throat tensed shut.
“There she is,” he whispered, eyes locked on his daughter who was nineteen months away from her absurd death. She faced the building, her back to Martin, but he gazed at her long brown hair, done in a special French braid for her birthday, a couple of gift bags in hand from Lela having taken her shopping before their arrival.
All of Martin’s limbs felt hollowed out as he waited, wishing he had a way to fast forward time and not have to wait in dreaded anticipation for the next fifteen minutes. But no such ability existed, at least to his knowledge, so he stepped out of the alley and took a seat on a nearby bench facing his family, still too far to be noticed.
At that moment, his past self appeared on the other side of the glass doors, a wide grin as he stepped outside where Izzy ran up and jumped into his arms for a hug. The scene made his stomach churn, and he thought he might vomit for the fourth time today. If only moments like these could be captured and stashed away to revisit later in life, all the heartache he had suffered might have been a bit more tolerable.
Martin watched them converse, trying
to recall what their discussion had been about, but unable to remember so much as a word that had been spoken. His mind wasn’t in the right frame for such thinking, and he kept running his hands up and down his new dress pants to wipe off the sweat that kept forming.
He waited the twenty minutes—by far the longest twenty of his life—looking around, trying to not appear like some sort of stalker to any one passing by.
When the time came, his past self bent down to hug Izzy before leaning over to kiss Lela. They waited and watched as Martin returned inside, giving one final wave before he disappeared to his office.
“Okay, this is it,” Martin whispered to himself, standing on wobbly legs, fighting to keep his balance and bowels in check. He shuffled back to the alley and dropped the shopping bag from the suit store, filled with the clothes he had arrived in, knowing Lela would certainly inquire what was in the bag that had magically appeared within the last minute.
Izzy and Lela turned from the office building and started down the sidewalk. Martin dashed toward the office doors to make sure he approached them from the correct angle. His vision pulsed in and out of focus as his eyes locked onto his daughter, his feet moving as if they had a mind of their own.
Martin started jogging, shrinking the gap between himself and Izzy, reaching an arm out as he parted his lips to call her name.
A gun fired, followed by several shrieks as a slug grazed Martin’s shoulder with a deep burning sensation. The chase stopped as he bent over, hand clutched over his shoulder where a small stream of blood started oozing.
“Fuck,” he snarled through gritted teeth, looking up to see Izzy and Lela sprinting away from the scene, Lela running awkwardly as she shielded Izzy’s head with both arms. “No! Izzy! Lela!” His shouts never reached them and they vanished around the corner. Another gun shot rang out, sending people diving under benches, hands over their heads, while others scattered away like frightened mice. The glass behind Martin shattered, falling victim to the bullet meant for his head.
Time of Fate (Wealth of Time Series #6) Page 14