Chasing Time: Chase Wen Thriller
Page 1
Chasing Time
Brandt Legg
Contents
Copyright
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
A Note From the Author
About the Author
Books by Brandt Legg
Chasing Time (A Chase Wen Thriller)
Published in the United States of America by Laughing Rain
Copyright © 2021 by Brandt Legg
All rights reserved.
Cataloging-in-Publication data for this book is available from the Library of Congress.
ISBN-13: 978-1-935070-69-6
ISBN-10: 1-935070-69-X
Cover design by Eleni Karoumpali
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. Published in the United States of America.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
BrandtLegg.com
CHASING TIME
The 9th Chase Wen Thriller
Brandt Legg
CHASE WEN THRILLERS
Chasing Rain
Chasing Fire
Chasing Wind
Chasing Dirt
Chasing Life
Chasing Kill
Chasing Risk
Chasing Mind
Chasing Time
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One
Washington DC - April 2nd - 2:42 am - Eastern Time
The strong scent of cherry blossoms filled the warm, surprisingly humid night. He pictured their beauty, wondering if he’d ever see them again when they were drenched in sunlight. They want to kill me, he thought, looking back into the darkness. Washington in the spring was a beautiful place, even in the middle of the night, but not if you were running for your life.
The Astronaut tried to calm himself, pressed up against the black granite wall of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. Breathing in the perfume of the trees, he could almost pretend it was going to be all right. Yet The Astronaut knew better. He was an intelligent man; logic, odds, calculating the countless potential outcomes of his predicament, came easily.
The CIA referred to him as an ‘Astronaut’ even though he’d never even piloted a plane, much less a spaceship. The odd moniker was due to his “out of this world” mind. His brain came wired a little differently than most—capable of extraordinary feats, able to detect patterns and see answers normal folk couldn’t imagine.
But as he ran from people intent on doing him harm, The Astronaut felt anything but special. He felt ordinary. So ordinary it was as if he was nothing. For years, he had worked with the CIA and other intelligence agencies around the world, helping them do what even the super computers and advanced AI could not. He—and a few others like him—was able to use his mind in ways that programmers were unable to force machines to do. Something about human intelligence, mixed with human emotions, mixed with instincts and uniquely human experiences, mixed with one other ingredient, perhaps the most magical (The Astronaut was on the spectrum, a neurobiological type, gene variant of autism), had formed a mind that was indeed exceptional.
The math savant did not like to be touched, yet embraced numbers, which to him were a secret language expressed in colors so numerous that even the most talented artist could not conceive of what he saw.
So as he crouched in the shadows of the wall, he knew there were originally 57,939 names at the time of the memorial’s dedication in 1982, but now there were 58,318, each etched in chronological order of their deaths on 140 panels. He knew the wall was constructed at a cost of $232 million, he knew how many members of Congress had voted to allocate funds, he knew that it attracted more than 78,000 visitors every month, he knew how high each letter was and the total number of letters on the wall, and The Astronaut also knew that this was where he would die.
But how many are trying to kill me? It drove him crazy not to know that answer to input the critical data into his mind, so he could accurately calculate the odds.
The Astronaut was close enough to the cold, monolithic surface that his warm, panting breaths clouded three of four names. The black granite had been so highly polished that in daylight it acted as a mirror, but at night its ominous structure might swallow him.
His entire life, The Astronaut had known he was “unique.” In some ways that had made him fragile and weak, but he’d always believed that in any fight, the smartest would prevail.
I am one of the smartest.
However, on this balmy night, on the National Mall, in the capitol city of the most powerful country on earth, there was no solution that he could see . . . no way out.
What if my mind is not going to be able to save me this time? He scanned the area, sure they were closing in on him. Maybe it will be my lungs and my legs that save me . . .
He heard shouts. There were so many of them. It didn’t make sense that a single unarmed mathematician could attract that kind of force against him, but nothing in The Astronaut’s life made sense. A strange, a
wkward man outside of his realm, he ran with spies, secret agents, assassins, brilliant scientists, rogue revolutionaries . . . his life had been extraordinary because he had something so rare. And people, both good and bad, were attracted to rare things.
The Astronaut didn’t even know who was after him, who was going to kill him. He had been running from them for days, weeks—in fact, it had actually been months if he admitted to ignoring the earliest signs.
How did I let it come to this? I am not ready to go. I don’t want to leave this world . . . I like it here.
The panic began to take him. He fought its greasy claws, knowing that if he got lost in the terror, there would be nothing left.
Two
Another part of the world
“It’s the middle of the night there,” a gray-haired man said. His expensive black suit added an appearance of importance. He studied the faces on a giant monitor occupying a section of wall surrounded by rich, red, floor-to-ceiling draperies.
Another man in a bright red necktie nodded. He, too, looked at the faces as though they were pieces on a chessboard. Although the large table could easily accommodate thirty-six people, they were alone in the vast room. An eight foot wide bronze sculpture of a hammer and sickle hung on the opposite wall, mounted on a slab of wood, also painted a deep red.
“Have we heard from Tolstoy?”
“Not since this morning,” the gray-haired man replied. “But as I said, it is nighttime there now.”
“There is a situation beyond them,” the red tie man said, motioning to the pictures on the monitor. “This Astronaut could unravel Blackout.”
“Tolstoy’s operatives will have The Astronaut soon. This is not a problem.”
“But Tolstoy has not reported.”
“We have another contact through our embassy in Washington.”
“That is risky.”
The gray-haired man smiled slightly. “Life is risky. They have full surveillance, and twenty-seven minutes ago they located The Astronaut again. This time he is alone, and he is running. We have also discovered where he has been staying.”
“In Washington?”
“Yes. We have people going there now.”
“The CIA and the FBI could pick up on our activities.”
“Yes, they could.”
The red tie man looked at the screen and began to say something, but hesitated.
“What is it?” the gray-haired man prodded. “Speak freely.”
“I don’t know if we can kill all these people and expect to make each one look accidental.”
“Of course not. They will figure it out, but it will be too late.”
“Not too late to blame us.”
“The blame will fall elsewhere. You worry too much.”
Red tie man nodded. “I do, because I am a strategist. I get paid to worry.” He frowned. “Worrying is my life. You are in espionage. Worrying should be your life as well.”
The gray-haired man looked to the portrait of Karl Marx on the other end of the room. “No, my job is to make sure our country, and our philosophy, dominate the world. Our ways during the era of the Cold War were often ignored. We were behind times, even forgotten . . . Ah, but the world has changed so much.”
“When do we meet with the full committee?”
The gray-haired man looked at the clock. We are more than forty-eight hours from the removal. Much can still happen. We have a full meeting scheduled for twenty-four hours prior to removal and again at twelve hours ahead of time.”
“Two meetings so close?” the man in the red tie asked, still uncomfortable with using the term ‘removal’ to describe the attack, although he could not argue with the accuracy of the word. In just over forty-eight hours, an American city, along with a million of its inhabitants, would be removed from the face of the earth.
“As I said, things are moving smoothly, but as we get closer . . .”
“And how will the president be able to deny our country’s involvement?”
“You forget, our country is not involved.”
The man in the red tie looked at him skeptically. “But we are. You more than anyone should know not to underestimate the US intelligence agencies.”
“And you should know better not to underestimate our intelligence agencies.”
The red tie man looked back at the screens. Being a diplomat, he was wary of this plan for many reasons, not the least of which was that a good many of his friends and associates were going to die as a result of it. He worried intensely that they would be discovered. Yet it might also work, and then they would have a whole new set of problems.
He had been against this radical intervention from the start. He was afraid of it. But theirs was not a structure where one could voice opposition to a plan that was already supported by one’s superiors.
“Don’t be so nervous,” the gray-haired man said again.
“I told you, worry is my business.”
“You will have much less to worry about after Five-Fours. We will clearly be dominant . . . the most powerful country in the world.”
The official name for the attack, the removal, the insanity, was “Five-Fours,” since the strike would happen at 4:44 am, on the fourth day of the fourth month. The field ops only knew it as “Blackout,” but the diplomat in the red tie sitting at the long table in that massive room believed it should be called “The End.”
“But you said they will not know it is us,” red tie man said. “And if we avoid the blame, how will we get the credit?”
“The United States will be reeling,” the gray-haired man replied. “You saw what happened after 9/11. They were never the same again. This is a million times 9/11. Five-Fours will finish them.” His voice rose. “The United States will be a wreck, a failed state. They will be scrambling to put some semblance of their former selves back together again . . . and they will be missing almost all of their leadership.”
“Yes, but—”
“Remember, it’s not just Washington DC that will be gone, not just the great symbol of their perceived greatness, but all the people. The president, vice president, the entire cabinet, your friend, the Secretary of State, most of the members of Congress, all those annoying senators, the majority of their intelligence apparatus—that you tell me not to underestimate—will all be gone. Who will be left to figure anything out?”
Three
Washington DC - April 2nd - 2:51 am - Eastern Time
The Astronaut had left clues behind so that those wondering what had happened, curious as to why someone deemed him such a threat that he had to be exterminated, those who simply cared, would be able to find answers. Because the answers are worth more than my life, he thought. The answers are worth everything.
His pursuers were getting closer now, but he had found his breath again, and although he didn’t think he could outrun them, he had to keep trying. It was the only logical thing to do.
Maybe I will discover a place where I can hide. The Astronaut was good at hiding. Intelligence agencies around the world were always trying to find him. Hiding is a science. If he could just find a place, his brilliant mind might have time to work on the elusive solution.
The twist in his gift, the duality, the two sides of the coin: his intellect told him it was over, his human emotions still clung to hope. And his practiced mind could compartmentalize and navigate both.
There is always an answer.
The Astronaut had already hidden the papers, the flash drive, the key. Now there was one last clue to leave, but there might not be time. He ran along the wall in darkness, the humid night closing in on him much the same as the people after him. He heard several more shouts in Russian, which he could understand. They are speaking Russian. . . that doesn’t make sense. Maybe it’s bigger than I think? Maybe Popov . . .
He looked up and saw a figure at the other end of the wall, then turned around. Another was behind him, but they still didn’t know he was there.
Now or never.
&n
bsp; He touched the black granite, felt the letters, somehow hoping the brave soldiers who were honored there might protect him. Might take the bullet for him.
Keeping far enough away from the killers as to not allow them a good shot is my only hope.
Hope. How odd it seemed to him. The logic around which his life had always centered had now given way to hope. The one thing he had never invested much time in was what kept him running when he knew there was no point.
If I can get to the road, Constitution Avenue . . . even at this hour there is traffic. There might be one last chance.
Hope.
The Astronaut checked the distance to Constitution Avenue again. I can make it, he thought. Only because it is dark, and they don’t know exactly where I am.