The Price of Time

by Tim Tigner

  “Don’t ever doubt me again,” I said with a wink.

  She kissed me.

  Epilogue

  Six months later

  London, England

  SKYLAR STOOD before the big black door with no number, hesitant to knock. She raised her hand, knuckles flexed, but paused to reflect—on her past, her present, and her future. A series of simple questions had started the complex cascade that led her to this dark doorway—and the ironic ending on the other side.

  The first question had been, “What do we do now?” She’d asked it while standing in Aria’s vault, surrounded by treasure-laden shelves and the owner’s cooling corpse.

  Chase had hesitated to answer, but only for a heartbeat. “We load all this on the boat. Then I close the vault door, wipe our prints, and put Aria back in the pool beside her friends.” His head and eye movements told her he was thinking out loud.

  She didn’t interrupt.

  “I’ll put Tory on the bow of his boat and send it off into the open ocean. The go-fast may never be found, much less the body.”

  That was exactly what they had done. Once Seven Star Island was a hundred miles in their wake, she asked the second question, knowing full well that Chase’s reply would shape the rest of her days. “What happens next?”

  He had that answer ready and waiting. “We keep it simple. We buy this boat, then start exploring the Caribbean, moving place to place and lying low while seeing what shakes out. I’m not convinced that Aria’s servants planned on returning. Depends on whether her death was accidental or suicide.”

  “Suicide! I’d never considered that,” Skylar interjected. “Although, come to think of it, radical behavior could be considered their defining characteristic.”

  “If accidental, then the story will be all over the news. If suicide, we may never hear anything. Between the birds and the bugs and the sun, the bodies may not be found until someone drains the pool and discovers the bones. That could be many months down the road.”

  They stuck to that plan. They stashed the loot beneath life preservers and spare rolls of toilet paper, bought the yacht with Tory’s Amex card—what an amazing call that had been—and spent six months getting acquainted with both boating life and each other.

  Every time they docked, they checked the newspapers and internet. Nothing was ever reported. Not on the deaths. Not on the missing millions in treasure.

  They spent many an evening speculating on that silence. While there was no clear or obvious answer, Chase was certain that the root cause lay in the identity swapping that got them involved in the first place. Aria and the others had gone off the grid, and therefore the grid didn’t miss them. Or their money.

  Skylar had posed the penultimate questions a few nights earlier. Chase was serving rum punch on the upper deck of the C’est La Vie as the sun set over Antigua when she asked, “Are we criminals?”

  He replied with the soft tone of a person who had spent hours thinking through a sensitive topic and was at peace with his answer. “An aggressive prosecutor could certainly get us indicted. But conviction would be difficult. That requires convincing a jury of our peers that we did something they wouldn’t do in our shoes. Our attorney could easily make the case that the real criminals got their comeuppance and we, their victims, were fairly compensated. Justice had already been served.”

  “You’re not concerned then?”

  “I’m rightfully concerned. The legal process would be long, costly, and unpleasant. We’d be living on pins and needles for months if not years. And not on this boat we’ve both come to love. Possibly not even together.”

  She began crying at that point. Not out of worry or fear but out of relief. By voicing his concerns, Chase had affirmed her status, their status, and it filled her heart with joy.

  He didn’t stop there. “But unless and until we’re found not guilty, we have to be very careful. In that regard, these months at sea—just you and me with the islands, waves, and stars—have brought certainty to my thinking.”

  “What certainty?” she asked with a prayer in her heart.

  “I want us to be careful—together.”

  She wrapped her arms around him. One thing led to another and before they knew it both were drained and sweaty. “How do we be careful together?” she asked across the pillow. That was her final question. The one that brought them to the big black door with no number.

  “Go ahead,” Chase said with an affirming nod.

  Skylar knocked, then stepped back, holding Chase’s hand in full view of the discreet surveillance camera.

  The door opened with a click, exposing a short, bare brick hallway. There was a similar door at the other end and a large man standing inside.

  He tapped a hefty black sap against his palm as they entered but said nothing.

  The door behind them swung shut, then the one before them opened. They walked through it and into a windowless room where a gray-haired man wearing a dark suit and silver-framed glasses sat across a bare table. He motioned to them to sit, then got straight to business. “So, you need new identities.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Dear Reader,

  Are you curious about what’s next for Skylar and Chase? To get my thoughts and stay informed of my new releases, email me at ThePriceOfTime@timtigner.com.

  As with all my newer novels, I kept my research for this one on a Pinterest page. If you’re curious, you can access it here.

  If you enjoyed THE PRICE OF TIME, I hope you will be so kind as to leave a review on Amazon. Reviews and referrals are as vital to an author’s success as a good GPA is to a student’s.

  Thank you for your kind comments and precious attention.

  Amazon Review Link: THE PRICE OF TIME

  ~ ~ ~

  Turn the page for a preview of PUSHING BRILLIANCE, book #1 in the Kyle Achilles series.

  preview of

  PUSHING BRILLIANCE

  Chapter 1

  The Kremlin

  HOW DO YOU PITCH an audacious plan to the most powerful man in the world? Grigori Barsukov was about to find out.

  Technically, the President of Russia was an old friend — although the last time they’d met, his old friend had punched him in the face. That was thirty years ago, but the memory remained fresh, and Grigori’s nose still skewed to the right.

  Back then, he and President Vladimir Korovin wore KGB lieutenant stars. Now both were clothed in the finest Italian suits. But his former roommate also sported the confidence of one who wielded unrivaled power, and the temper of a man ruthless enough to obtain it.

  The world had spun on a different axis when they’d worked together, an east-west axis, running from Moscow to Washington. Now everything revolved around the West. America was the sole superpower.

  Grigori could change that.

  He could lever Russia back into a pole position.

  But only if his old rival would risk joining him — way out on a limb.

  As Grigori’s footfalls fell into cadence with the boots of his escorts, he coughed twice, attempting to relax the lump in his throat. It didn’t work. When the hardwood turned to red carpet, he willed his palms to stop sweating. They didn’t listen. Then the big double doors rose before him and it was too late to do anything but take a deep breath, and hope for the best.

  The presidential guards each took a single step to the side, then opened their doors with crisp efficiency and a click of their heels. Across the office, a gilded double-headed eagle peered down from atop the dark wood paneling, but the lone living occupant of the Kremlin’s inner sanctum did not look up.

  President Vladimir Korovin was studying photographs.

  Grigori stopped three steps in as the doors were closed behind him, unsure of the proper next move. He wondered if everyone felt this way the first time. Should he stand at attention until acknowledged? Take a seat by the wall?

  He strolled to the nearest window, leaned his left shoulder up against the frame, and looked out at the Moscow
River. Thirty seconds ticked by with nothing but the sound of shifting photos behind him. Was it possible that Korovin still held a grudge?

  Desperate to break the ice without looking like a complete fool, he said, “This is much nicer than the view from our academy dorm room.”

  Korovin said nothing.

  Grigori felt his forehead tickle. Drops of sweat were forming, getting ready to roll. As the first broke free, he heard the stack of photos being squared, and then at long last, the familiar voice. It posed a very unfamiliar question: “Ever see a crocodile catch a rabbit?”

  Grigori whirled about to meet the Russian President’s gaze. “What?”

  Korovin waved the stack of photos. His eyes were the same cornflower blue Grigori remembered, but their youthful verve had yielded to something darker. “I recently returned from Venezuela. Nicolas took me crocodile hunting. Of course, we didn’t have all day to spend on sport, so our guides cheated. They put rabbits on the riverbank, on the wide strip of dried mud between the water and the tall grass. Kind of like teeing up golf balls. Spaced them out so the critters couldn’t see each other and gave each its own pile of alfalfa while we watched in silence from an electric boat.” Korovin was clearly enjoying the telling of his intriguing tale. He gestured with broad sweeps as he spoke, but kept his eyes locked on Grigori.

  “Nicolas told me these rabbits were brought in special from the hill country, where they’d survived a thousand generations amidst foxes and coyotes. When you put them on the riverbank, however, they’re completely clueless. It’s not their turf, so they stay where they’re dropped, noses quivering, ears scanning, eating alfalfa and watching the wall of vegetation in front of them while crocodiles swim up silently from behind.

  “The crocodiles were being fooled like the rabbits, of course. Eyes front, focused on food. Oblivious.” Korovin shook his head as though bewildered. “Evolution somehow turned a cold-blooded reptile into a warm white furball, but kept both of the creature’s brains the same. Hard to fathom. Anyway, the capture was quite a sight.

  “Thing about a crocodile is, it’s a log one moment and a set of snapping jaws the next, with nothing but a furious blur in between. One second the rabbit is chewing alfalfa, the next second the rabbit is alfalfa. Not because it’s too slow or too stupid ... but because it’s out of its element.”

  Grigori resisted the urge to swallow.

  “When it comes to eating,” Korovin continued, “crocs are like storybook monsters. They swallow their food whole. Unlike their legless cousins, however, they want it dead first. So once they’ve trapped dinner in their maw, they drag it underwater to drown it. This means the rabbit is usually alive and uninjured in the croc’s mouth for a while — unsure what the hell just happened, but pretty damn certain it’s not good.”

  The president leaned back in his chair, placing his feet on the desk and his hands behind his head. He was having fun.

  Grigori felt like the rabbit.

  “That’s when Nicolas had us shoot the crocs. After they clamped down around the rabbits, but before they dragged ‘em under. That became the goal, to get the rabbit back alive.”

  Grigori nodded appreciatively. “Gives a new meaning to the phrase, catch and release.”

  Korovin continued as if Grigori hadn’t spoken. “The trick was putting a bullet directly into the croc’s tiny brain, preferably the medulla oblongata, right there where the spine meets the skull. Otherwise the croc would thrash around or go under before you could get off the kill shot, and the rabbit was toast.

  “It was good sport, and an experience worth replicating. But we don’t have crocodiles anywhere near Moscow, so I’ve been trying to come up with an equally engaging distraction for my honored guests. Any ideas?”

  Grigori felt like he’d been brought in from the hills. The story hadn’t helped the lump in his throat either. He managed to say, “Let me give it some thought.”

  Korovin just looked at him expectantly.

  Comprehension struck after an uncomfortable silence. “What happened to the rabbits?”

  Korovin returned his feet to the floor, and leaned forward in his chair. “Good question. I was curious to see that myself. I put my first survivor back on the riverbank beside a fresh pile of alfalfa. It ran for the tall grass as if I’d lit its tail on fire. That rabbit had learned life’s most important lesson.”

  Grigori bit. “What’s that?”

  “Doesn’t matter where you are. Doesn’t matter if you’re a crocodile or a rabbit. You best look around, because you’re never safe.

  “Now, what have you brought me, Grigori?”

  Grigori breathed deeply, forcing the reptiles from his mind. He pictured his future atop a corporate tower, an oligarch on a golden throne. Then he spoke with all the gravitas of a wedding vow. “I brought you a plan, Mister President.”

  Chapter 2

  Brillyanc

  PRESIDENT KOROVIN REPEATED Grigori’s assertion aloud. “You brought me a plan.” He paused for a long second, as though tasting the words.

  Grigori felt like he was looking up from the Colosseum floor after a gladiator fight. Would the emperor’s thumb point up, or down?

  Korovin was savoring the power. Finally, the president gestured toward the chess table abutting his desk, and Grigori’s heart resumed beating.

  The magnificent antique before which Grigori took a seat was handcrafted of the same highly polished hardwood as Korovin’s desk, probably by a French craftsman now centuries dead. Korovin took the opposing chair and pulled a chess clock from his drawer. Setting it on the table, he pressed the button that activated Grigori's timer. “Give me the three-minute version.”

  Grigori wasn’t a competitive chess player, but like any Russian who had risen through government ranks, he was familiar with the sport.

  Chess clocks have two timers controlled by seesawing buttons. When one’s up, the other’s down, and vice versa. After each move, a player slaps his button, stopping his timer and setting his opponent’s in motion. If a timer runs out, a little red plastic flag drops, and that player loses. Game over. There’s the door. Thank you for playing.

  Grigori planted his elbows on the table, leaned forward, and made his opening move. “While my business is oil and gas, my hobby is investing in startups. The heads of Russia’s major research centers all know I’m a so-called angel investor, so they send me their best early-stage projects. I get everything from social media software, to solar power projects, to electric cars.

  “A few years ago, I met a couple of brilliant biomedical researchers out of Kazan State Medical University. They had applied modern analytical tools to the data collected during tens of thousands of medical experiments performed on political prisoners during Stalin’s reign. They were looking for factors that accelerated the human metabolism — and they found them. Long story short, a hundred million rubles later I’ve got a drug compound whose strategic potential I think you’ll appreciate.”

  Grigori slapped his button, pausing his timer and setting the president’s clock in motion. It was a risky move. If Korovin wasn’t intrigued, Grigori wouldn’t get to finish his pitch. But Grigori was confident that his old roommate was hooked. Now he would have to admit as much if he wanted to hear the rest.

  The right side of the president’s mouth contracted back a couple millimeters. A crocodile smile. He slapped the clock. “Go on.”

  “The human metabolism converts food and drink into the fuel and building blocks our bodies require. It’s an exceptionally complex process that varies greatly from individual to individual, and within individuals over time. Metabolic differences mean some people naturally burn more fat, build more muscle, enjoy more energy, and think more clearly than others. This is obvious from the locker room to the boardroom to the battlefield. The doctors in Kazan focused on the mental aspects of metabolism, on factors that improved clarity of thought–”

  Korovin interrupted, “Are you implying that my metabolism impacts my IQ?”

&nb
sp; “Sounds a little funny at first, I know, but think about your own experience. Don’t you think better after coffee than after vodka? After salad than fries? After a jog and a hot shower than an afternoon at a desk? All those actions impact the mental horsepower you enjoy at any given moment. What my doctors did was figure out what the body needs to optimize cognitive function.”

  “Something other than healthy food and sufficient rest?”

  Perceptive question, Grigori thought. “Picture your metabolism like a funnel, with raw materials such as food and rest going in the top, cognitive power coming out the bottom, and dozens of complex metabolic processes in between.”

  “Okay,” Korovin said, eager to engage in a battle of wits.

  “Rather than following in the footsteps of others by attempting to modify one of the many metabolic processes, the doctors in Kazan took an entirely different approach, a brilliant approach. They figured out how to widen the narrow end of the funnel.”

  “So, bottom line, the brain gets more fuel?”

  “Generally speaking, yes.”

  “With what result? Will every day be like my best day?”

  “No,” Grigori said, relishing the moment. “Every day will be better than your best day.”

  Korovin cocked his head. “How much better?”

  Who’s the rabbit now? “Twenty IQ points.”

  “Twenty points?”

  “Tests show that’s the average gain, and that it applies across the scale, regardless of base IQ. But it’s most interesting at the high end.”

  Another few millimeters of smile. “Why is the high end the most interesting?”

  “Take a person with an IQ of 140. Give him Brillyanc — that’s the drug’s name — and he’ll score 160. May not sound like a big deal, but roughly speaking, those 20 points take his IQ from 1 in 200, to 1 in 20,000. Suddenly, instead of being the smartest guy in the room, he’s the smartest guy in his discipline.”