Time's Divide (The Chronos Files Book 3)

by Rysa Walker

  The second I step into the courtyard, the entire place lights up. My heart hammers in my chest. I jerk my head upward where motion sensor floodlights point down from all four corners. I haven’t even had time to catch my breath from that shock when I hear a clanking noise off to the right. Someone drops from the gate, which is about seven feet high, into the alley.

  Trey and Charlayne sprint toward me. And as happy as I am that they got in, they both look so very wrong with the rifles in their hands.

  If this goes as planned, neither of them will ever have to use them, I remind myself, pushing away that nagging little part of me that’s sure everything that can go wrong will go wrong.

  We enter the office now almost fully lit by the floodlights from the courtyard.

  There are two wooden doors inside the office, one on each side of the massive desk. Charlayne turns toward the first one, which is partially open. “No! I think that’s a closet. The other one is the exit!”

  I push the two of them in that direction and start to follow, but something on one of the bookshelves near the other door catches my eye. The floodlights reflect off the polished silver curves. It looks very familiar.

  “Kate?”

  Trey stands frozen in the doorway, a question in his eyes. Beyond him, shouts and footsteps echo in the hallway. One of the voices is Kiernan’s. Two shots are fired in rapid succession.

  “Go!” I tell Trey. “Back up Charlayne! I’ll be right behind you.”

  He hesitates for a moment, then nods and takes off running.

  I hurry back to the shelf. It’s a communion tray, filled with the same small injection vials as the other five I’ve handled today. If not for the floodlights I was cursing a moment ago—or if it had been made of wood, like the ones at Grandma Keller’s church—I’d have walked right past it again.

  The fact that the communion tray is silver is also why I see the tiny blip of blue and know someone else has blinked into the room. If the stable point had been facing me, I’d have been screwed, but the jumper comes in facing the fireplace, and I have a fraction of a second to slip through the open door on the left.

  But, unfortunately, not enough time to grab the vials. It can’t be Pru or Kiernan—if they’d had a stable point in here, Pru wouldn’t have had to meet me in the hallway. So it’s either the other Templar—and I doubt he’s a jumper—or Conwell. Or Simon.

  I lean back against the wall of the small, dark room. It’s a bit large to be a closet. There’s a couch against one wall, and I see a sink and toilet through an open door at the back of the room. I slide my key back into the leather holder to hide the light, hoping whoever it is leaves quickly so I can grab the vials and blink out. And also hoping Trey and Charlayne don’t backtrack to check on me.

  “What in hell?” It’s Conwell.

  Has he seen Trey or Charlayne? Or maybe he noticed the light from the key before I could hide it.

  I’m about to spring out with the pistol when he mutters, “Why am I the only one who can remember to turn off the damned floodlights?”

  He stalks toward this side of the room, and my heart leaps into my throat when he approaches the door. A hand reaches inside the frame, and I hold my breath, pointing the gun in front of me.

  But he’s only looking for the light switch. His fingers flick the switch closest to him downward and the one next to it upward, turning on the lights in the main room. At least now that the light is on, Trey or Charlayne or anyone else who comes looking will know someone else is in here.

  “So where is she?” he says.

  I don’t even have time to wonder who he’s talking to before I hear Simon say, “Shut up, Patrick.” His voice is tired.

  “No. Like I told you earlier, you need to stop putzing around—”

  “I said shut up. Just shut up and give me the vials.”

  “Yeah. As if.” I press one hand to my mouth to hold in a fit of nervous laughter. Did Conwell get that stupid phrase from his daughter? I can almost picture her tossing her blond hair over her shoulder. “Saul told me to handle that side of things. Apparently he didn’t think you had the—”

  Conwell breaks off. The room is totally silent. When he speaks again, his voice is shaky at first, but then he gets it under control. “Is that a gun of some sort? Put it down, Simon. Be serious. You want to run Cyrist International on your own? That would cut into your playtime a bit, wouldn’t it? We have an agreement. I run the business, and you play time tourist. Just leave me the girl and the keys.”

  It’s not until Conwell says the word keys that I remember I could just jump back to a moment before Pru and I entered the library, before I let Trey and Charlayne in the door, and grab the tray of vials. It would be risky to make a jump right now, since Simon and Conwell would almost certainly see the glow of the key if I pull it out in this dark room, but I could probably jump out before they reached me.

  Probably.

  But . . . if I do that, wouldn’t Simon just jump back to before I took the vials and put them somewhere else? And even if jumping back gets the vials, it won’t get me answers. I need those, along with the keys around Conwell’s and Simon’s necks, if we’re really going to end this. Unless Saul brought a large amount of the virus with him when he sabotaged CHRONOS, which seems unlikely, then someone had to jump forward to 2070 and steal it. The two most probable candidates are in that room. What’s to stop them from jumping forward and grabbing more of it once they discover we’ve destroyed the last batch? Or jumping back to kill us at some previous point in time?

  We can’t stop this without information, and I’ll never have a better chance than now to get it—and hopefully the vials, too. So I shove the key pouch back into my shirt and listen, something that’s not as easy as it might seem. My heart is pounding so loudly that I can barely hear anything else.

  Breathe, Kate. Calm down, and breathe.

  Simon is saying something about renegotiation when I tune back in. “. . . have your Sister Prudence. This one’s even younger than the other one. She’s not pregnant, but that can be remedied easily enough if you really think the whole Madonna Pru bit makes a difference to the sheeple. And the keys aren’t a problem. Pru’s people don’t have keys anymore—hell, most of them don’t even exist anymore. Kiernan helped me get the keys from CHRONOS, and almost all have been deactivated now. Like I told you and Saul before, when you play things smart, when you use your head, you can get other people to do your work for you.”

  I grit my teeth at that last bit, thinking how very much I like Prudence’s name for Simon. Rat Bastard pretty much nails it.

  “Aside from this bit about the girl,” Patrick replies, “that’s the deal we had before. So why are you waving a weapon?”

  “Like I said. I need that last tray. We’re not going to distribute those vials.”

  “What?”

  Conwell echoes my thoughts exactly. My mind starts reeling through the possibilities. Has Simon changed his mind about the Culling? Is that why he killed Saul? Does he know we’ve destroyed the other vials? Was that more work he was waiting for me to do?

  “Think about it, Patrick. We don’t need to distribute the last set. What was Saul’s goal? Wipe out the weak. The parasites. Reshape history. Fix the future. You dropped your little viral bomb on the other five regions. Within the next few days, they start dropping like flies. But here on this continent . . . we’re not the weak. We’re the doers. The idea people. There are exceptions, of course, but we’ve got the strongest military, the strongest economy. With that virus wiping out most everyone in the other five regions—everyone except those already loyal to us—we’ll have rolled the clock back on pretty much every environmental problem there is within the next quarter century. The ones left out there around the world will be our people, Patrick. Handpicked. No religious wars. No sectarian conflicts. A perfect little paradise, just like Saul wanted.”

  “I’ll admit you have some valid points, Simon.”

  I want to scream, No, he doesn�
�t! All he has is a callous disregard for the rest of the world, a flawed assumption that might makes right, that we can solve all global problems simply by eliminating those who are different. Dead bodies are okay elsewhere, but not here. Not in his playground.

  “But,” Conwell continues, “there would be spillover. Our borders are porous. A deadly virus in Europe, Latin America? It’ll reach us, too.”

  “So Patterson steps up border security. I’ll go back a bit, give her the vaccine, let the CDC start producing it. And yes, we’ll lose some people, but not as many as overseas. We come out on top.”

  The phone rings as Conwell says, “I’m willing to take it to Saul. If you can convince him, we do it your way.”

  It rings a second time, and Simon says, “Answer it! On speaker. And careful what you say.”

  “Hello.”

  The woman on the phone sounds a little hesitant. “Templar Morton?”

  “No, this is Templar Conwell. I’ve taken over for Morton effective immediately. Permanent reassignment.”

  “Well, that explains why she asked to speak to you. Video call. On the secure channel. It’s Sister Patterson, sir.”

  “Give him two minutes,” Simon tells her. “Then patch Patterson through, okay?”

  “Oh, is that you, Mr. Rand? You . . . you want to make the president wait?”

  “Can’t help it, Mitzi. The computer has to boot up, so—” Simon breaks off suddenly as a loud whooshing noise fills the air, followed by several loud bangs. A second later, the security alarm sounds.

  What the . . .

  Oh. The jet pack diversion. Which almost certainly means they’re sending someone in after me. Or does it mean they still haven’t gotten Mom and Katherine out?

  Mitzi’s voice cuts through the sound of the alarm. “Sir, the security cameras are picking up a disturbance near the employee parking lot. Not sure what it is, but you might want to follow the standard protocol.”

  “Send someone out to check,” Simon tells her. “Have the other guy check the surveillance cam in the Acolyte Rec Room. And turn off that damned alarm until we’re done talking to Patterson.”

  That settles it. I’ll have to risk using the key. I inch my way along the wall toward the nearest corner, banging my toe on a coat rack and very nearly toppling it.

  “What did you mean about the rec room?” Conwell asks. “And what are we going to tell Patters—” There’s an odd noise—thwommp—and then something crashes into the bookshelves, shaking the wall I’m leaning against. Something or, more likely, someone.

  Once I reach the corner, I turn inward to shield the light of the key as much as possible. Then I set my current location as a stable point and blink back two minutes.

  OUTSIDE THE SIXTEENTH STREET TEMPLE

  WASHINGTON, DC

  September 12, 9:34 p.m.

  Ben is again in the driver’s seat of the van. I don’t see the Subaru, so Dad must be the one over on Seventeenth, getting ready to set off the diversion.

  I push my way out of the bushes, and as I round the front of the vehicle, Mom grabs me into a hug. “Thank God, Kate!”

  I give her a quick return hug—much quicker than I want—and then pull her into the van. Charlayne is in the back with Katherine, and she’s now the one with Trey’s phone. “Charlayne, no. Don’t call my dad!”

  Charlayne stops dialing, and everyone gives me a questioning look. “I was just going to tell him you’re out. We may not need—”

  “This is two minutes earlier for me. Simon will have a double memory if anything changes, so Dad still needs to set off the diversion and I need to jump back in. The vials are on a shelf in the library. I saw them, but couldn’t grab them before Conwell and Simon arrived.”

  “So jump back earlier,” Ben says. “Grab them before you let Trey and Charlayne—”

  “That may not work,” Katherine says as I reach forward to squeeze her hand. She looks drained, and I can tell her head is hurting. “Or at least it won’t work if Kate goes back alone. If Simon doesn’t see the vials, he’ll know something changed. Maybe you could set a trap?”

  “Maybe. But I’ll need Kiernan for backup. Where’s everyone else?”

  Mom pushes into the van. “Your dad and the other . . . you . . . left to set off the diversion. Trey, Kiernan, and Connor haven’t come out yet. I don’t know if they’re trying to get to you or—”

  No, no, no, no, no. I bite my upper lip hard, pushing down the panic so I can focus on what needs to be done now, right this second.

  “Ben, once I’m gone, get out of here. An alarm goes off as soon as they hear the noise from the jet packs. We’ll rendezvous at the cottage.”

  “I’m coming in with you,” Charlayne says.

  “No. I’d appreciate the company, but I can use the key. You can’t.”

  “Do you want a rifle?” She starts to hand me hers.

  “I’ll stick with the Colt. Once you’re down the road, wait about thirty seconds and call Dad to update him, okay?”

  Katherine and Mom are both trying to talk to me, and I hear Prudence’s name, but I can’t wait. “Please,” I say to Charlayne. “Just get them out of here. Keep them safe.”

  INSIDE THE SIXTEENTH STREET TEMPLE

  WASHINGTON, DC

  September 12, 9:34 p.m.

  Something is being dragged. The sound is moving closer, so I shove my key back into the holder, then down into my shirt, and crouch in the dark corner. I pull the Colt from my pocket and hold my breath, waiting.

  Simon crosses in front of the door, hunched forward, dragging Conwell by the feet. There’s a thump, and then he returns to the desk.

  A few seconds later I hear Simon saying, “Sister Patterson! So good to see you!”

  “Where is Conwell?” Her voice is familiar. And yes, I may have heard her on television, but she was only vice president in my timeline. I don’t think I’d remember her voice. And the memory feels more recent.

  “Conwell is otherwise occupied. I’m the one you need to be talking to anyway.”

  A very long pause, and then she says, “My understanding was—”

  “Conwell worked for me. Not your Fifth Column. He was feeding us information all along. If you want to minimize the damage to the country, Madame President, I’m the only one who can help you. See that silver tray on the shelf behind me? The contents will determine whether you come out of this next week on an equal playing field with other nations, or whether you come out as the leader not just of the free world but of the whole damned globe. Would you like me to explain?”

  “Please do.” Patterson’s voice is calm, measured, and I’ve placed it now. She was the woman teleconferenced in at the meeting with the Fifth Column. The one Tilson said Julia answered to.

  Simon launches into a full-blown speech, one I suspect he’s practiced in his head for a very long time. And this speech, while Simon’s all wrapped up in the wonderful sound of his own words, may be my best chance to get those vials.

  “At exactly eight forty-five on the morning of September 11th, Sister Prudence and Conwell distributed a virus to five regional temples. The vials will be introduced into the water supply on each continent. It’s fast moving and lethal, and it mutates quickly. It will be airborne within about a day. I watched it happen in 2070, and it is a masterpiece of efficiency.”

  I move slowly until I reach the doorway and then slip across the opening to the opposite side. I can see Simon’s reflection in the glass walls, staring at the monitor in front of him, giving his sales pitch. The vials are on a midlevel shelf, one row over. If I have two clear seconds, it’s an easy grab.

  Unfortunately, the fact that I can see Simon’s reflection means that he’ll also be able to see me if he glances this way. Possibly even in the reflection of the monitor. I’d gladly trade the CHRONOS key for a cloak of invisibility right now if that were an option. Because even if Simon doesn’t look back, as soon as I pivot around those shelves, the webcam will probably pick me up. Will Patterson r
eact? Will she tell him?

  “The good news is that it doesn’t have to be that way here,” he says. “You have time to lock down the borders. I have the vaccine. If you’re feeling magnanimous, you could even share it . . . maybe save a few allies.”

  I cautiously step over Conwell’s feet and press my back against the bookshelves, watching Simon’s reflection. There’s never going to be a perfect time, so I wait until he’s in midsentence and step out holding the Colt in front of me.

  Shoot him. Just shoot him.

  It shouldn’t be a problem after everything he’s done. I shouldn’t even hesitate. But I can’t. Patterson is watching. Still, even if she wasn’t, even if the president of United States wouldn’t be a witness to the act, I don’t think I could shoot someone in the back.

  And Patterson does see me. I’m banking absolutely everything on the note of shock, of disgust, that I heard in her voice at the Fifth Column meeting when she learned how deep the conspiracy went. If her compassion was an act, I am so far beyond screwed.

  I take two steps and carefully pull the tray toward me, holding my breath, trying not to make even the tiniest sound. It slides silently off the shelf, not even a whisper, but it doesn’t matter.

  Maybe Simon caught movement in his peripheral vision or saw Patterson looking beyond him. Or maybe it was just that odd sixth sense that tells you someone is behind you. Whatever the reason, his chair starts to spin in my direction.

  “So let me get this straight,” Patterson says, in a much louder voice. “You’re saying we could come out of this ahead? That the Culling doesn’t happen here?”

  Simon halts, turning back to the screen. I reverse course, hoping to duck back around the shelves.

  But I don’t make it. The room begins to spin, and it’s all I can do to keep the tray upright as I drop to the floor a few feet from Conwell’s body.

  Grabbing those vials must be what finally triggers the time shift. It’s as massive as the last one, and Connor’s analogy of a train being shoved from the tracks seems dead on.