“We will get you Briar. We have ways—”
“Stop while you’re ahead and leave.”
The man looked at his two companions and they drew their heads together to whisper under their breath. Chris couldn’t make out what they were saying.
“We’re not leaving,” the man said.
“Excuse me?” Chris stood up from his seat, hands planted on the desk as he gawked at the computer monitor in shock.
“We came here for Strike, and we’re not leaving until we get her.”
Chris felt his jaw hanging, unable to believe that someone would come to his mansion and defy everything he said, threatening to camp out like a protest, as if they could actually get their way.
The group held their blank expressions, sending Chris into a mental frenzy. He had options, and wanted to make sure he made the right decision.
I can bring them in as prisoners. It’s been awfully quiet since letting all the Road Runners go. Unless . . .
He wondered if these three Road Runners were former prisoners, familiar with the basement layout, and trying some elaborate plan to get imprisoned on purpose to free Strike. The Road Runners had always proven to be conniving geniuses. Chris rubbed his face in frustration, desperately wanting new prisoners, but now unsure.
Just do what’s safest. Now’s not the time to get cute and take chances.
“Last chance to leave, gentlemen,” Chris said to the trio before taking off his headset and pushing his finger on the intercom to speak to the whole mansion. “I need all soldiers to the main floor right now. We have business to tend to outside. In two minutes I’m lowering the barricade, and we will be met with guns. Exterminate everyone in sight.”
He slid the headset back on and said, “I suggest you start running.”
“We’re not leaving, Chris. You can kill us, but we’re not going down without a fight.”
I love a stubborn Road Runner, Chris thought. Their pain tastes so much better when they die, like a juicy filet mignon.
Chris didn’t respond and removed the headset again. He was done speaking with these suicidal people and ran through the steps to lower the barricade. The entryway camera showed a dozen soldiers huddled together at the front door, guns resting on their shoulders.
“That’s plenty,” Chris said, and entered the code to initiate the lowering of the steel walls.
The loud humming sound filled the mansion to go along with the slight vibrations from the barricade’s grinding motors.
“Oh, my Road Runner friends, what a bad choice you’ve made today!” Chris giggled like a child excited to open his presents on Christmas morning. He watched the screen, more people running from the woods in the distance, barreling toward the mansion like a stampede of wild animals, rifles waving in the air.
There had to be at least ten others from his quick count on the screen, but Chris grinned, laying his finger on the intercom button. “Take all of them out.”
The barricade completed its descent, and Chris realized the original trio’s main objective was to get the walls lowered, leaving the mansion a sitting duck. He also realized that these people were indeed not on official Road Runner business. Any Road Runner worth their weight knew a dozen soldiers were no match for Chris—he had twenty of his own to deploy. Had they arrived with hundreds, it might be a different story, but these people’s work was lackluster and lazy. Why would they show up to the mansion with no way of actually winning? The thought sparked a flash of paranoia as Chris clicked through the cameras until he found the view of the back of the house. Surely hundreds of Road Runners were charging from that direction. But the screen revealed an open, snow-covered field as far as he could see.
“Let the fireworks begin!” Chris shouted to the screen, watching as these sloppy Road Runners started to open fire on his house.
His Revolters, those trained, robotic soldiers, marched outside with no fear, their own rifles cocked and ready to take lives on their front lawn that was now a battlefield. Gunfire exploded, sounding like a series of fireworks from Chris’s office. He pulled his pistol out of his drawer, ready to fend off anyone who might try to slip into the mansion—not that they would get very far if they did.
“Yes! Yes! Yes! Kill them all!” Chris howled laughter as he watched four Road Runners drop like sacks of potatoes.
The odds of killing a Revolter were slim to none. Ever since that Russian bastard wiped out Chris’s entire team, the soldiers were required to wear full armor whenever the barricades were down. The people running from the woods reached the mansion grounds and were greeted by a bazooka that made the ground in front of them explode, sending their bodies back several feet. The Revolters rushed them while they were down and promptly put bullets in each of their heads.
Chris started dancing, giggling, his euphoria rupturing as he watched each Road Runner drop dead. The gunfire ceased and Chris returned to his computer for a look at the battlefield. The bodies were scattered about, and he counted twelve in total, all of them still except for one that wiggled on the ground.
Chris grabbed his pistol off his desk and made his way outside, where the cool air smacked his face, death and fear so thick it made him drool. He paused in the doorway and opened up his soul to feast on those raw emotions that his latest victims had left. He didn’t like massacres – the cleanup always a bitch – but how sweet the fear tasted as he absorbed it, no different than hosting a barbecue with friends. Sure, the preparation and work afterward were horrendous, but if everyone had a good time with delicious food, wasn’t it worth it?
The wiggling body was none other than the man who had spoken to Chris over the security system. Chris jumped down the steps and stood over the man, fear radiating out of his pores.
“I’ve got to ask, friend, why did you think you had a chance? Did you really not know how this would end?”
The man tried to speak, but could only gurgle blood.
“I see,” Chris said. “It’s too bad. You may have come a day too early. I plan to recruit those of you Road Runners who are upset. We’re gonna have a grand ol’ time wreaking havoc on the system. No commander and an upcoming election that we plan to infiltrate will just be the start of the fun. Your team probably would’ve made the perfect fit. But here we are.”
Chris whipped his pistol in front of the man’s face and immediately tasted a renewed wave of fear, as if someone had opened an oven of freshly baked bread. He pulled the trigger and marched back into the house.
“Don’t clean up the bodies. Leave them as a reminder for anyone who thinks they can trick us with lies.”
The soldiers nodded and followed him inside, the barricade ready to go back up within a few minutes.
14
Chapter 14
Martin packed his suitcase with everything he had accumulated on the island, smashing it down to get the damn thing closed. The morning after viewing the results to spare his life, Commander Blair from Europe had called to let him know that he would be freezing time to allow Martin to move in safety.
“Get ready to leave in one hour,” Blair had told him. “I’ve already spoken with your security team, and they are also preparing for next steps. A route has been planned out, and the jet to get you off that island is already waiting for you at the local hangar. Your team will meet you at your door once they’re ready.”
Martin wasn’t ready to leave, but understood the target on his back. There were too many Road Runners in high positions who knew his location, and no one knew who to trust. People had become so glued to their opinions in this debate, that it no longer seemed a far-fetched idea for someone to betray the organization and take matters into their own hands.
Julian had initially sparked the wave of distrust when he killed Bill, a stain that would remain on the organization forever.
With no commander in charge of North America, all other commanders had taken on various responsibilities, along with the Council, until an election sorted matters out. Commander Blair made it clear
his sole focus was keeping Martin alive, and played it close to his chest, refusing to let any of his staff know the grand secret of his whereabouts.
Martin’s two guards picked him up shortly before ten o’clock in the morning. Their car was ready to take them all to the hangar where the jet was running and ready for takeoff. During the quick, five-minute drive, they filled him on what was to come.
The plan was for Martin to jump around from place to place, until they deemed it safe for him to return to the United States. He felt like a fugitive on the run, especially upon hearing that he’d be in a different city every night for at least the next two weeks. Upcoming locations included Jamaica, Haiti, Dominican Republic, Aruba, and the Virgin Islands, and ended in Mexico where the team would gauge the situation unfolding in the States. From there, they would either bounce around Mexico, or return to the United States where they hoped to introduce him as an official candidate for the commandership.
“Have you ever flown a plane before?” Antonio asked while they continued to drive toward the hangar.
“No,” Martin replied, his mind distracted as he stared out the window. “Why?”
“You’re going to fly one today.”
“Excuse me?”
“Orders from Commander Blair. He said anything that’s in direct contact with you while he freezes time is immune to the freezing. We need to travel while the rest of the world is frozen, so you’re going to fly the plane.”
Martin let out a nervous laugh. “I don’t think so. You want me to kill us all during my own rescue mission? I don’t see the logic.”
“Relax, you’re simply going to tend to the autopilot. I’m going to get us in the air, get us at cruising altitude, and even program the plane for our destination. From there it flies itself. We just need your hands on the control wheel when Blair freezes time.”
“Why can’t I just touch you and not have to worry about it?”
“That rule doesn’t work on other people, only objects. Trust me, we’ve tested this out with just about everything you can imagine.”
“Where are we even going?”
“Aruba will be our first stop. Ever been?”
“No.” Martin rarely traveled. This was actually his first time visiting the Caribbean islands.
“It’s a beautiful place.”
They sat in silence for the next two minutes until they arrived to their private jet, excessively large for carrying an entire three passengers. Antonio parked the car in a designated space, and they each lugged their bags onto the jet. This wasn’t a luxurious flight like he had experienced with Chris. There was no fine dining or expensive alcohol, but the jet itself sparkled clean and looked more than capable of hosting such an event.
They walked in a diagonal line, Martin in the middle for protection. Antonio and Everett were concerned someone might try to snipe Martin from a distance, and urged him to run toward the jet.
The engine was already fired up and rumbling, and they wasted no time dashing up the stairs and settling into their seats. The whole process only took a couple minutes until Antonio pulled Martin from his seat and into the cockpit. They had called ahead to have a local pilot prepare the jet for takeoff, but Antonio was the only pilot on the island that they could trust to remain aboard.
Martin watched from behind as Antonio pushed various buttons and flicked switches on the panel.
“We’re ready,” Antonio said, dropping into the pilot’s seat. “C’mon.” He patted the co-pilot seat for Martin to join him.
“What do I have to do?”
“Let me get us in the air first, and I’ll show you.” Antonio checked his watch and nodded. “We’re one minute ahead of schedule and need to keep it that way. Commander Blair is going to freeze time at the top of the hour, and give us two hours until he unfreezes it.”
Martin wished he could be anywhere besides having to fly this plane. If red lights flashed or alarms sounded, Martin was prepared to grab a parachute that he knew was stashed in the back of the jet, and jump to save his life.
“Let’s go!” Antonio barked, moving the jet forward out of the hangar and onto the narrow strip of concrete that served as the runway. He floored the accelerator, the jet gaining steam as it charged forward. “Hold on!”
Everything passed in a blur as they rumbled toward the end of the runway, Antonio pulling back on the control wheel to tip the plane upward, cruising into the sky. Martin watched as his new favorite haven disappeared from sight. The place where he had come to mourn and leave his depressing life behind was already a distant memory, a place to which he’d forever long to return.
Martin watched Antonio navigate into the clear blue sky, but had no clue what his guard was actually doing. His body had tensed up during the takeoff, arms sore as they clenched the entire time.
Antonio kept a studious expression while they elevated, his tongue pinched between his lips until they leveled out and continued forward. In a matter of minutes, nothing but the deep blue of ocean was visible below the scattered cloudline.
“This is it,” Antonio said, checking his watch once more. “In one minute the world will be frozen. Grab hold of the control wheel now, and don’t let go until you see me freeze.”
Martin whipped his hands on the wheel, as if the world’s existence depended on it.
“Relax, Mr. Briar. In fact, relaxation is going to be crucial over these next few days. It’s gonna be a lot of this same routine because Commander Blair wants us to move while time is frozen.”
“Why?”
“So we can guarantee to not get followed. I don’t quite have time to explain—he works like clockwork. The plane is fine and will remain on cruise control for the next two hours. Don’t worry about anything, since you can sit back and relax. Time will be unfrozen when we still have an hour until landing—just to be safe. I’ll see you in a—”
Antonio stopped mid-speech, his lips pursed inward, leaving Martin to assume the next word coming out was bit.
“Yeah, see you in a bit,” Martin said to his frozen guard, his glossy eyes fixed forward out of the cockpit windshield where the world kept moving by. His heart started thumping as panic settled in, the lone conscious person on this moving jetliner. If Chris somehow knew where he was—and remained unfrozen—he could shoot him down like a bird with no one ever knowing what happened. “You’re okay,” he whispered to himself, trying to get his heart rate under control, studying the panels with so many buttons and switches that kept him a foot away to avoid bumping into something that would send them crashing into the water.
A small screen showed their cruising speed at a steady 320 miles per hour, with exactly 998 miles remaining on the trip. Martin did quick math in his head to confirm that Antonio would indeed be unfrozen in two hours before they missed their stop.
With that to comfort him, he settled back into the co-pilot’s seat and leaned back to avoid the panel. He had too much adrenaline to doze off, or really do anything else for that matter. He would sit there like a rock for the next two hours, praying Commander Blair wouldn’t forget about them.
15
Chapter 15
The next morning, Martin was the furthest thing from Chris’s mind. There would be plenty of time to bring his old friend back to the mansion. Today, however, was for Commander Strike. Chris knew the Road Runners were drenched with anticipation, and a few probably figured he was bluffing—those were the ones who didn’t truly understand his ways. He had never told a lie since becoming the Keeper of Time. Deception, sure. Stretching the truth, most certainly. But never a lie. Never a bluff. When he said something was going to happen, it happened, plain and simple.
He waited the full seventy-two hours as promised. When the clock struck four in the evening, leaving him one full hour until show time, Chris made the call to have Commander Strike brought up to his office. Before doing so, he had covered the floor with plastic table covers, stretching them the entirety of the room. He didn’t know how much blood would be shed d
uring her execution. He hadn’t actually planned for it to get this far, certain they would’ve turned over Martin. Now he was stuck carrying out this broadcast murder on the fly.
Well, Saturday Night Live happens on a whim. It’s what people love.
He laughed at the thought. Maybe after Strike was dead, he could close his performance with, “Live from New York, it’s Saturday Night!” That would make the stunned Road Runners at least share a chuckle, right?
Commander Strike arrived in his office ten minutes later, hands cuffed, three guards surrounding her.
“Good evening, Commander,” Chris greeted. “Have you had a good couple of days?”
“I’ll be happier once I’m dead—won’t have to spend another second in this shithole.”
Chris giggled, caught off guard by her snippy response. He imaged she’d be more quiet and nervous, but she seemed to be her usual, loathsome self. “Actually, Commander, I haven’t decided where we’re going to put your body. It could be here, maybe elsewhere. Perhaps in multiple places. We’ll just have to see how the night goes.”
“If only it could end with your fiery death,” Strike snapped back. “Why don’t you just do that? You’re such a showman—that’s what the people really want to see. I can even kick your severed head down the street. That’s a nice touch, don’t you think? Would be great for ratings.”
Chris grinned, openly. “Commander, you need to be careful how you speak to me. You’re making me erect, and I haven’t felt that special in years. Your dirty talk is more than enough to pop my rocket, if you know what I mean.”
Strike stared at him blankly, and Chris recognized that look as one he’d seen plenty of times. He had a way of appalling people beyond their wildest belief. It never got old.
“I appreciate your effort,” he continued. “If that’s what you call this. Most would just roll over and die, and that’s no fun. You should make for a good show. You have quite the fan base, did you know? Some of your own stopped by earlier trying to negotiate on your behalf—they went behind the Road Runners’ back and said they didn’t agree with the decision to not trade Martin for you. I can’t say I’m fond of that choice either.”
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