Chase (ChronoShift Trilogy)

by Zack Mason

  Mark raised a hand. Hardy acknowledged. He wiggled silently into a little better position.

  Rialto saw them and yelled, but it was too late. Mark and Hardy fired their weapons as they dropped, both their bullets and feet slamming home. Rialto snapped off a hasty shot, but missed.

  It was doubtful their bullets had killed Usher and Grey Patch, but they were definitely out for the count. Rialto hightailed it out the door he'd come in.

  "Get him! He's behind all this."

  They raced after Rialto, but he was long gone by the time they got to the alley. They took stock of the situation. Rialto had disappeared again. If they tried, they could probably flush him out. Still, he had an Uzi and they had pistols.

  "Hey, Mark."

  "What?"

  "My shifter's working again. Yours?"

  "Yeah, mine too."

  "You wanna just get out of here?"

  "Rialto's still got a detector. If we shift out now, they'll have time to regroup, heal, and come after us again, right at the moment we shift into 2013."

  "Then what do we do, Kemosabe?"

  "We go back in, make sure Usher and Grey Patch are finished, then get away from London and shift forward to 2013 from a different place."

  Suddenly, the wall next to them disintegrated under a barrage of more machine gun fire. Rialto was back, and he looked half-crazed.

  "Forget it! To the river!"

  The Thames River was and always has been the main artery of London. Large enough to handle large boats, it made London a port city. It was also swift enough to carry them away.

  They plunged into the dark grey water with a splash. It was surprisingly refreshing, even if it did stink a bit from the waste dumped in from the city. There was no sign of Rialto following. Mark finally permitted himself to relax a little as they floated out of London.

  They floated several miles downriver until they were far enough in the country to escape unwanted attention. Then, they walked another ten.

  They had reached a large, rustic barn when they saw a wagon approaching on the road from the opposite direction. They took cover behind some brush, waiting to see which way the wagon would go.

  The barn couldn't be described as anything resembling a modern red barn, though there were some similarities. This barn was two stories high, but it was more triangular in shape than polygonal. It had an enormous thatched roof supported by thick, roughly hewn, unpainted wood posts. The spaces between these posts were covered by the same thin wooden slats they’d seen in London.

  Behind the wagon followed three large, healthy stallions, and astride them were three finely dressed riders. A fourth man drove the wagon. He looked like death itself, wrapped in a dark cloak, hood pulled down so far it covered his face.

  In the back of the wagon lay a prone figure, a sack covering his head and face. When they reached the front of the barn, the small caravan stopped. The riders prodded and pushed the hooded man from the back of the wagon while the driver sat motionless, staring straight ahead. Once on the ground, it became obvious the hooded man's hands were tied behind his back.

  "Let's check it out," Mark whispered.

  Hardy wanted to keep going. Just get far enough away they could shift safely and then go home.

  But Mark was different. Mark couldn't stand by and let someone be victimized. If an innocent person were in danger, Mark would find some way to insert himself into the middle of it.

  This fact Hardy knew all too well, so he just sighed and followed his friend as he scurried over to get closer to the action.

  Near the barn, all they could make out were muffled voices. They circled around to the back and found a door ajar. Through it, they could not only hear the discussion more clearly, but also observe the drama as it unfolded.

  "Thes ær bith the cild?"

  "Yi, thes the vilein bith!"

  "The murtherour af Rufus, eh smæl cild?"

  "Anhenghim bi the nekke."

  Not that they understood what was being said though. Their ears distinguished the syllables, but it sounded like a foreign language of some kind.

  "What are they speaking?" Mark asked.

  "Not sure. Don't recognize it."

  "Sounds kind of like English — but not quite. Know what I mean?"

  Hardy snapped his fingers, understanding having dawned.

  "Dude, they're speaking Middle English."

  "Middle English?"

  "Yeah, English hasn't always sounded like it does today."

  "It changed enough that we wouldn't understand it?"

  "Yes."

  "How do you know that?"

  "Back in high school, they had us read an old version of Robin Hood one time. It was written in Middle English, and it was weird. Impossible to understand in places, at least for me."

  Inside the barn, one of the men held a noose. Another yanked the sack off the hostage.

  "He's just a boy. Can't be more than twelve years old," Mark said.

  "You're right."

  "We've got to do something."

  "Look, we don't know who else is involved. For all we know, there might be an army coming up the road as we speak. We don't know if our shifters are going to shut down again. We don't know what this boy did. We don't know anything."

  "We can't just leave him."

  "I know what you're feeling. I do." Hardy wasn't budging.

  "You don't know what I'm feeling," Mark growled.

  But he did. Mark was thinking about his kids and how he hadn't been able to save them. "We've got to save Ty first, Mark. If something happens to us, he's lost."

  "We can't just let them hang this boy."

  "He'll always be here, in this time, in this moment, ready to be hung, waiting for you to come back and save him. Let's go save Ty while our shifters are still working. If they're still working after that, you can come back and save him."

  A long moment passed.

  Finally, Mark nodded.

  May 17th 1863, Madison, GA

  The weather-beaten, outhouse door creaked on its rusty hinges as Hugh Plageanet opened it to relieve himself. Stepping inside, he never saw the dark figure waiting in the corner. Nor did he have time to, for a shadowy arm shot out, gripping his wrist with an iron grasp as soon as his foot had crossed the threshold.

  His shock was exacerbated by the sudden disorientation he felt. The darkness around him brightened to daylight, and the hand released its grip as suddenly as it had taken his arm. Stumbling, he fell to his knees in the grass.

  Grass! There wasn't any grass in the outhouse. How was the sun shining on him through the walls? Who had grabbed him?

  Turning, he saw him. An olive-skinned man in odd clothing with a fat, silver bracelet on his wrist. The man held a gun on him. A gun like no other he'd seen before.

  The outhouse...was gone. So was the house. Nothing but grass and trees all around. What was happening? Where was he?

  "Who are you?"

  "Name's Alexander Rialto, and I just saved your life."

  ***

  September 17th 2013, Plymouth, England

  Grabbing a handful of dirty blonde hair, Rialto yanked the waterlogged man up off the pavement, and threw him into the back seat of his waiting sedan. He and Torino entered the back seat next, flanking the man on either side. Graves took the driver's seat and whipped the car into motion.

  Their captive was still semi-conscious and groggy from his recent encounter with Mark Carpen. He shook his head several times to regain his bearings. As the fog in his head cleared, puzzlement clouded his eyes, along with a growing panic.

  "Wot kind of carriage be this? War be the horses?"

  Torino and Graves sat like silent sentinels, allowing Rialto to handle the exchange. Rialto ignored his questions, responding instead with one of his own.

  "What's your name?"

  "Randall."

  "Randall what?"

  "Cook, Randall Cook."

  The man was becoming increasingly agitated by his strange, mo
dern surroundings. He glanced nervously back and forth between his captors and the odd sights passing by the vehicle's windows.

  "Profession?"

  "Able seaman, warrant officer. Purser ’board the HMS Huntingdon. Who are you?"

  "You good with that thing?"

  "Huh?"

  Cook wasn't sure what Rialto meant until his saw his knife lying in Torino's lap, covered by the man's left hand. Torino didn't look like he would be willing to give it back to him any time soon.

  "Had mah share o' fights."

  "Good. There's a lot we need to explain, Mr. Cook."

  ***

  April 30th 2013, Boston, MA

  The light breeze wafting through her linen curtains felt like delicate, ghostly fingers brushing across her skin. Her toffee-colored, silk sheets slid over her legs as she pulled them closer to her chest.

  It was the middle of the night, and she couldn't sleep. She couldn't blame her insomnia on being uncomfortable, because she wasn't. She lived in the lap of luxury. The autumn night air was refreshingly cool as it permeated her bed chambers through the open french doors of her balcony.

  She referred to all these things as hers, though Hardy had paid for them all. They were really hers though.

  Hardy hadn't come home tonight. This concerned her for more reasons than Hardy would have suspected, though she reckoned he was probably shrewder than she gave him credit for.

  Time was not an obstacle for Hardy Phillips, just as it was not for Mark or Ty, so when Hardy didn't show up as expected, it lent strongly to the possibility that something might have happened to him.

  This worried her tremendously, but not because she cared that much about his welfare. She did have an affection for him, though her feelings for Mark actually ran much stronger. No, it wasn't that.

  If Hardy disappeared, his shifter disappeared with him, and with it, her access to wealth and the things she loved — the things she needed. She might be able to enjoy this penthouse apartment for a while without him, but that wouldn't last forever. Bills would come due, and she would have no way to pay.

  Once upon a time, Mark had talked about giving her some millions of her own, but they'd broken up before he'd gotten around to it. That had been a miscalculation on her part.

  In spite of her feelings for Mark, she couldn't bear the way he wouldn't bend to her will. She didn't just want a man who could give her everything, she wanted a man who would give her everything, a man who would do whatever she said. Mark just wasn't the type you could push around.

  She'd guessed Hardy would be easier to manipulate than Mark, and she'd been right, though she'd had to wait a few weeks between men. Hardy wouldn't have anything to do with her while she was still seeing Mark.

  Once she'd hooked him, Hardy melted before her material desires like butter on a hot plate. He was more doting than Mark, less prideful, and easier to control in the smaller things. Still, he wasn't dumb. He hadn't even mentioned setting up a bank account in her name like Mark had. She guessed he knew, even if only subconsciously so, that money was the only hold he had on her.

  Now, Hardy was gone. Well...at least, he was not here. And he should have been. That was why she couldn't sleep.

  A tiny whisper broke through her growing anxiety. The sound of a foot brushing against concrete as it stepped across her balcony. Startled, she bolted upright, sheets cascading down her beautifully tanned body in shiny ribbons, revealing a silken nightgown beneath.

  The dark outline of a man stood in the balcony opening.

  "Hardy?"

  "Hello, Laura," the man rasped.

  It wasn't Hardy.

  Her hand shot out for the lamp by her bedside. At her touch, light flooded the ample bedroom.

  The man standing before her was olive skinned, looked to be of Italian descent and had a very prominent nose. He dressed well and her first impression was that he didn't look like a criminal. He held himself more like a policeman...still, his eyes...

  His eyes were criminal.

  That was okay. She knew how to deal with that type. They could be easier to handle than the cleancut ones. She'd seen it all, dealt with it all, and survived it all.

  "Who are you?"

  "I could be the best thing that ever happened to you...or I could be your worst nightmare. It's really up to you."

  This guy was certainly full of himself.

  "Okay, what's your name, big boy?"

  He laughed lightly, and a bit derisively.

  "Rialto. Alexander Rialto"

  "What do you want, Mr. Rialto?"

  "You can call me, Alex."

  "Okay, Alex. What do you want? You did just break into my apartment, remember?"

  "Funny, I thought this was Hardy Phillips' apartment." He saw that comment had pricked her pride. "Are you happy with this set-up, Laura? Are you happy just waiting for Hardy to dole out goodies to you, always dependent on him for your survival?"

  She said nothing, waiting.

  "I've got an opportunity for you, sweetheart. How would you like to be the master...er the mistress, I should say, of your own destiny?"

  Rialto extracted a silver shifter from his coat pocket and held it aloft for her to see. Her eyes riveted to it. She'd never thought she'd see one that wasn't eternally clamped around someone else’s wrist, one that was available. Her mouth began to water.

  "Did you take that from Hardy?" she asked coldly.

  "Would you hate me if I did?"

  She could care less where he'd gotten it. Her mind was fully occupied with scheming of ways to make sure that watch ended up on her wrist.

  "Relax, I didn't get it from Hardy. You never guessed there were more out there, did you?"

  Her breathing had involuntarily deepened, her chest heaving in anticipation.

  Rialto's eyes narrowed like a serpent's. "Do you want it, Laura?'

  "Why wouldn't you take it for yourself?"

  He held up his wrist, letting his shirt sleeve slip down, revealing a shifter already in place.

  "What's the catch?"

  "No catch. Let's just say I like to make people happy."

  Her mind raced, calculating every possible trick Rialto could have up his sleeve. She knew his type. She could see it deep within his eyes. He wouldn't offer his grandmother a brownie without wanting something in return, much less the world to a former stripper he didn't know from Eve.

  "Throw it on the bed."

  He did.

  She picked it up, examining every side of it, comparing it with what she remembered of Hardy's. There weren't any apparent differences and her overwhelming desire slipped it over her wrist before she even realized what she was doing. The band instantly began to whir and contract until it was snug against her skin. It felt good.

  She looked up at Rialto, his wide grin disarming her.

  "Now, Laura, dear. Let's talk about why you're going to do exactly what I say from here on out."

  September 19th 2013, Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean

  "Mark, I've been thinking." Hardy took a sip from the glass of wine the flight attendant had brought them.

  "That can't be good," Mark laughed, grateful for the distraction from the in-flight movie. It was some Mike Myers flick. Hardy though the guy was funny, but Mark couldn't stand him.

  "Seriously, how did Rialto find us in London?"

  "He must have detected our shift again."

  "But we hadn't shifted out yet, we had only shifted in to 2013."

  "Maybe they can detect us shifting in just like they can when we shift out?"

  "Then, why didn't they come after us in Plymouth instead of London. If they detected us shifting in, they would have come to where they knew we'd be. And we know there wasn't anybody on our trail to London."

  "What are you thinking?"

  "What was the last thing you did before you spotted them?"

  "I got us the beers."

  "And you paid for them with a card, right?"

  The truth dawned on Mark. "Of co
urse! And before that I withdrew a bunch of cash from an ATM outside the pub. They must have had surveillance on my bank activity."

  "The question, then, is how do we deal with it?"

  "We've got several options, but the easiest is probably to stick with cash until we get to the U.S."

  "We could set up an ambush for them at an ATM. One of us withdraws money while the other lays out in a sniper position for cover."

  "That could work, but I'm really tired. We've been on the run for months. Let's just get back home, rest, and regroup. We've got a lot of planning to do."

  "Fine." Mark was right after all. There would be plenty of time to deal with these goons now that they knew their game.

  Hardy turned back to the Mike Myers movie and laughed loudly as one of his favorite scenes played out. Mark groaned, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. With luck, maybe he'd get some sleep. Man, he hated Mike Myers.

  ***

  The woman was in trouble.

  She was running, stumbling down the dirt path, away from the village she must have called safe until just now. Smoke rose from one of the thatched roofs behind her. The panicked screams of a few women mingled chaotically with the savage cries of unseen attackers. Somewhere, a baby cried.

  The woman turned, searching for the baby, her face a picture of frantic anguish. She'd taken no more than two steps when her back arched suddenly, the sharp point of an arrow rudely protruding from her chest.

  One more step and she fell, crumpled in the dirt, her life-blood leaking into the dust.

  Mark jerked awake, heart racing, as a bit of turbulence rocked the plane. The hair on the back of his head was wet with sweat. He reached up and twisted the tiny, round vent until it was fully open to get some cooler air.

  "You okay?" Hardy saw the pallid color of his face.

  "Yeah, I'm fine. Just a bad dream."

  This was the second time he'd had that dream. Who was that woman? Where and when was she from? He thought about her, and crying babies, and somehow the smell of burning wood lingered while they cruised at thirty-thousand feet.