Stolen Time

by Keith Hughes

  “Shit!” Ness’s imprecation echoed loudly in the quiet room, and he inhaled and exhaled deeply to calm his jangled nerves.

  He watched as the little girl gave the senator a small American flag before scampering back to her parents, then he selected a spot in front of the politician again, made sure his line of sight was clear, and squeezed the trigger. The gun gave a loud report, and the stock drove painfully into his shoulder.

  The effects on the parade were immediate and dramatic. Like a flock of small birds evading a hawk, people ran everywhere. Most of them were screaming, with parents trying to shield their children. Security personnel scrambled to the political figures and hustled them out of the line of fire. Cops barked into their radios and scanned nearby windows.

  Initially, Ness had been unsure of his success. He surveyed the street with the scope and saw neither a body nor any blood. Mission accomplished, from his vantage point.

  He stood and turned away from the window. As he leaned over to retrieve the spent shell casing, he heard glass shattering and another gunshot from a distance. He dived to the side, bruising his elbows on the hardwood floor, then twisted to look at the window, which now had a jagged hole in the center. A shot by a police sniper, most likely. He had mere seconds to escape.

  Ness took apart the gun and slid the parts into his pockets in less than a minute. Then he rolled up his left sleeve to access the PDA and set the date and time to February 16, 2015, at 10:45 a.m. He should arrive with enough time to get into position before his older counterpart arrived at the building. As booted feet pounded toward him on the stairs, he pressed the launch button and disappeared.

  * * *

  Every fiber of Angie's body screamed with agony, and she could not imagine that the pain would be any more intense if she were being torn limb from limb. Her inner turmoil had become so overwhelming that she offered no resistance as they replaced the hood over her head and led her from the van. Angie’s mind oscillated between the unbearable pain, anger at her captors, and worry for Ness. What will they make him do for me? What will it cost him to do whatever it is these men want?

  But Angie had no answers. She yearned for the blazing affliction to go away and for her husband to be safe. Intuitively, she doubted either would ever happen.

  They led her to a chair, and she gratefully sat. Once again, the unexpectedly gentle maneuvering surprised her. Whoever was leading her did only the minimum necessary to direct her movements without resorting to shoving and pushing. It felt professional, for lack of a better word.

  The hood was lifted from her head, and she blinked in the light. Dark figures stood around her, but her eyes were not adjusted enough to see anything more than silhouettes.

  “You administered the serum?” She didn’t recognize that voice.

  “As you instructed,” the German answered.

  Gradually, Angie’s eyes adjusted, and she could make out the trio from the van. The German regarded her impassively, but the black brute smirked at her. For an instant, Thomas's expression looked almost regretful, but she blinked, and his face became as blank as stone. Was his display of emotion real or my imagination? And where’s the driver?

  “Excellent.”

  The cultured voice drew her attention away from her abductors. Another figure stepped into view, and a new face peered at her curiously. He cut an impressive figure, dressed in an expensive-looking black suit with a bright-red tie and sporting perfectly groomed hair and manicured fingers. Leaning over to gaze calmly into her eyes, he looked like someone watching an animal in a zoo or perusing the various pieces of meat at the butcher shop.

  Fueled by a surge of anger, Angie lurched forward to smash her head against his, but strong hands gripped her shoulders and pulled her roughly back before their skulls could collide. She twisted her head around to see who was behind her.

  Ah, there's the driver. Angie grimaced at him. He grinned and gave her a wink.

  “Angela Relevont.” Her head whipped around at the sound of her full name. She instantly regretted the quick movement, as her neck burned with poison-induced agony.

  The suited figure captured her eyes with his intense scrutiny. “Yes, I know who you are. My name is John Fletcher, CEO of Intellisys Research. Your husband has taken something from me, and I want it back. He also caused the deaths of key Intellisys employees two years ago. Because of this, I will require the return of the missing property and some small services from your husband as recompense.”

  “I don’t know anything about what Ness might have done.” The pain caused her words to sound like a groan.

  “So I gather from Karl.” John indicated the German. “Nonetheless, it is the truth. What your husband holds is invaluable, a device created by Dr. Bertrand at Intellisys’s labs. It is our rightful property.”

  “Even so, you don’t have the right to abduct me or to inject me with your poison.” Giving in to her anger buoyed Angie’s spirits, and she almost forgot about the pain. “You won't get away with this.”

  John laughed at her bravado, and his cronies joined in.

  “Words straight from every crime movie and TV show ever made,” John ridiculed. His manner radiated a malicious undertone. “Somehow, I expected better.”

  “Kiss my ass, you diseased, maggot-infested, megalomaniacal psychopath.” She lifted an eyebrow, silently questioning how he liked those words.

  John's face colored as his anger rose. He lashed out with a slap that wrenched her neck and made her vision blur. But the sting in her cheek was merely a descant to the song of agony reverberating in her body. Blinking the haze away, she saw him ready to deliver another blow, but he mastered his desire and dropped his hand. He straightened his tie and jacket before giving her a little smirk as if he found her droll. Then he pulled another EpiPen from his pocket, a blue one, and held it before her.

  “I believe Karl has explained a bit about the substance in your bloodstream. Poison is hardly the correct term. I prefer toxin. True, it will kill you if untreated. This” — he waved the blue pen — “will quench the fire burning in your veins and smoldering in your joints, for a time, at least. If you don't anger me, and your husband cooperates, you will receive one of these injections daily. This will be enough to ensure your survival if not your comfort.”

  John leaned down until they were nose to nose. The hand on her left shoulder tightened, and another gripped her ponytail, preventing her from trying another head butt. The executive's breath stank like rotten milk.

  “Should you anger me sufficiently with your less-than-ladylike mouth, the inhibitor will be withheld, and you will die within the day.”

  John gripped her jaw and squeezed briefly, adding to her tally of pain. Standing again, the CEO regarded her from his full height.

  “If Ness fails to do as I instruct, you will get no injections, and your life is over. The question is, how much does your husband love you? Enough to keep you alive? Or will he cause your death through his actions? We will find out.”

  “What do you want him to do?” she asked through clenched teeth. The substance blazing through her intensified its effects. Her organs gave off all manner of agonizing sensations, as if they were melting. The effort to keep from screaming left her sweating.

  “Your husband is hoarding the portal to the future,” John said, leaning over again to peer at her. “I know what I am to become. I have a plan. Using the device he stole, Ness Relevont is going to hand me control of the world.”

  You're insane, Angie thought but could not gather enough energy to say the words aloud.

  He grinned as if expecting her to share some sort of jest with him. She stared blankly in return, too deeply consumed by suffering to react.

  “I suppose you've experienced enough already to appreciate what kind of end awaits should you or Ness misbehave. Reed, give it to her.”

  John tossed the pen to the oldest thug. Again, she believed Reed’s eyes reflected sorrow or regret, but if so, it soon departed, like happy notions in the
face of certain doom. He twisted a cap off one end then jammed the black tip against her leg. She did not even notice the needle piercing her skin, only the cool surcease of pain spreading from her thigh like a refreshing breeze in the middle of a desert. She gasped at the shock of it, grateful for the relief.

  Eventually, she lifted her head to look at John. She was drenched in sweat, and her bangs hung limply in her face as she glared at her captor. The overwhelming surge of gratitude that filled her soul because of the respite from her pain disturbed her. The bastard was counting on such a reaction, a mewling dependency that would transform her into a slave. Allowing herself to be manipulated in that way went against every fiber of Angie’s being, yet she deliberated how long she could avoid such a fate in the face of her urgent need. She channeled her uncertainty into hate for John Fletcher.

  “You're crazy.” Her voice sounded rough, as if she’d been running a long time. “Ness will never help you. What is it you’re after, anyway?”

  John gave a little chuckle as if he found her resistance droll. “World domination is such a clichéd term, but there it is.” He leaned in again until his fusty exhalation washed across Angie’s skin like the wind of decay. “And your husband is going to deliver it to me.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT: Future Imperfect

  Monday, February 16, 2015, 10:45 a.m.

  Caught in the grip of the time travel effect, Ness considered the possibility that the small office might not be empty when he arrived in 2015. Should such an eventuality transpire, he would be hard pressed to explain his sudden appearance. He doubted a rationalization based on his ability to trek through time would go over well.

  But his worry over that circumstance proved to be futile, as the room was empty upon his arrival. He had gambled that the office would be closed for President’s Day, and the risk had paid off. After a few unpleasant seconds recovering from his trip, Ness left the room and descended the stairs. He took station in the building's small lobby, peering out the windows. It was a typical February day in Michigan. Snow had fallen recently, and plows had left impressive mountain ranges along the roadside. Cold seeped through the glass panes.

  Sometime that day, his older self would arrive and jump back to attempt Angie's death instead of assassinating Senator Bruce. He guessed Fletcher and his cronies would keep as much control of his future self as possible. Since the time machine did not move through space, he expected the assassin would be brought there to launch his journey. The kill order indicated this time as the moment it was likely created, so Ness hoped he would not have too long to wait. He was assuming the order had been printed just before his maddened copy had left Fletcher’s location to make the hit. As it turned out, he spent an agonizing twenty minutes watching traffic and the odd well-wrapped pedestrian scurrying past before a dark SUV stopped along the curb. A mountainous black man in a dark parka left the driver's seat and trudged around the car. Ness recognized him from his last run-in with Intellisys. He was Thing Two.

  Ness’s neurotic copy got out of the door held open by the black man. Thing Two handed him a piece of paper and the PDA, lips moving with some final instruction. The copy avoided eye contact and trod wearily to the building entrance, his listless shuffle conveying the despair of a broken man. Ness secluded himself in the rear of the lobby, keeping his back turned, listening as his copy entered and ascended the stairs. The footsteps sounded reluctant, and Ness mused on what must be going through his mind as he prepared to kill his soul mate.

  Ness decided to wait a couple of minutes before leaving but risked a peek over his shoulder at Thing Two. He had gone back inside the vehicle to avoid the frigid air. Ness zipped his coat up to his chin and tried to hunch over as his double had done. The weight of the gun in the coat helped, and he shuffled out of the lobby into the cold.

  Thing Two left the vehicle again to meet him. Ness had about a day and a half of beard, and eyes raw with grief. He kept his face slack and hoped he looked enough like the copy to pass muster. Thing Two barely looked at Ness’s face as he stood with his hand out, and Ness placed the decoy PDA in the silently demanding palm. Only then did Thing Two open the SUV's door. Ness slipped inside, and the door shut with finality. No doubt the child locks were engaged, and he was committed to staying in the vehicle until the goon let him out.

  After putting on his seat belt, Ness sat silently, his head down. He doubted his other self had spent much time in conversation with his captor. The brute performed a quick U-turn and drove northbound on Woodward Avenue.

  A host of disturbing scenes slid past Ness's window, drawing his attention to the state of the future. The streets were populated with a few civilians, who were outnumbered by the surprising concentration of patrol vehicles. At the border between Detroit and its northern suburbs, they passed through a National Guard checkpoint, where several Humvees complete with gunners carefully inspected all traffic. Billboards proclaimed a dusk-till-dawn curfew.

  “Martial law.” Ness found the notion profoundly disturbing.

  The slight shifting of Thing Two’s head made it clear that Ness had spoken aloud, and he was determined not to say any more. The vehicle stopped at a light, and a headline on a computerized news kiosk bearing the USA Today logo read, “Right to Bear Arms Rescinded.” The screen changed to another headline proclaiming the collapse of the Chilean government into anarchy after the assassination of its fourth leader in six months. Ness shuddered. John Fletcher's plan was alive and well.

  Another checkpoint just south of Bloomfield Hills stopped them again. Like last time, Thing Two showed the soldiers a paper, and they quickly waved the vehicle onward. Leaving the busy thoroughfare, they drove out of the downtown shopping district. After a short distance, the houses became larger, with more elaborate landscaping. Before long, they were passing estates, and they eventually arrived at Piquand Street. Thing Two turned onto the well-maintained lane and stopped in front of iron gates designed to be equal parts elaborate and imposing.

  The metal had been worked into what initially appeared to be a random pattern until Ness recognized with a shudder that the twisted shapes resembled wailing faces.

  Thing Two admitted a gust of arctic air by opening the window and thumbed a button on the pole-mounted intercom. Someone responded, but the wind stole any chance of Ness comprehending the words.

  “It's Williams,” Thing Two said.

  Ness cataloged the name in his mind as the gate opened. Then they drove along a long, curving driveway, passing elegant shrubberies hiding the house from the road. When they approached the garage, Williams pressed a button on the visor. One of the mansion’s four garage doors opened, allowing them to drive inside. The vehicle stopped, and Williams turned the engine off. The door descended to shut out the weather.

  Ness removed his seat belt when the driver left the vehicle. As he'd expected, the door would not open from the inside. Seconds later, Williams opened it for him, apparently amused that Ness had tried to open the door himself. Ness hoped his captor would chalk up forgetting his circumstance as a prisoner to the supposedly neurotic state of his mind.

  The concrete floor was painted, and heat quickly filled the space again. Williams gripped Ness's upper arm and pulled him through a door into the kitchen. Instead of moving farther into the home, Williams opened a door that revealed a set of basement steps. At an impatient wave from the towering black man, Ness descended clumsily, with Williams coming behind him.

  Ness descended slowly, trying to move with the disheartened shuffle of his doppelganger as he navigated the left turn at the landing and the last few steps. Another example of too much time at the gym stood waiting at the bottom, and Ness experienced a shock of recognition at seeing Thing Three. A sudden flashback of swinging a baseball bat into the tough guy's abdomen had Ness suppressing a small smirk. The bullyboy stopped Ness, sliding the coat off his shoulders and effectively disarming him.

  He took advantage of the pause to look around. The walls were painted a dark gray. An easy-to-c
lean linoleum covered the floors, reflecting the fluorescent lights mounted in the typical drop ceiling. They lit a reasonably large room, and another doorway was on the other side. A classic design from the “Early Lair” period.

  An oversized mitt of a hand grasping his chin brought his attention back to the henchman. “You get a haircut?” Thing Three asked.

  Oh crap. In most other respects, Ness resembled his older self, but hair length was one thing he could not fake. He mumbled something about it bothering him when an impatient sound drew the thug’s attention. Thing Three shrugged and released Ness.

  “He's waiting for you.” He nodded toward the pacing form of John Fletcher.

  After Paul's comments about his boss in Dr. Bertrand's lab two years ago, Ness had done a little investigation into the CEO of Intellisys. He'd found nothing damning in the public record, which was hardly unexpected, but John Fletcher's unwavering ambition could be observed in his precise ascension of the management structure of several prominent defense contractors. The climb eventually landed him the CEO position at Intellisys. John looked pretty much the same as he had in his pictures — the chiseled face, the perfect executive hair. The only difference was the CEO’s angry expression.

  Williams pushed Ness toward a table and onto the single metal chair before it. John threw a newspaper on the steel surface, the latest edition of the Detroit News. The front page bore a grim-faced photograph of Senator Bruce, and the caption read, “Fight to preserve private gun ownership narrowly fails.”