Keeper of Time (Wealth of Time Series, Book 4)

by Andre Gonzalez

  “An immediate special vote?” Murray gasped. “Impossible. We only have seventy-two hours.”

  Martinez raised his thin hand in silence. “It’s more than possible. We can set up a ballot – it’s a simple question with two possible answers. We can have the poll up and running within two hours, we just have to push the word, keep a scrolling message at the bottom of our network, send out emails, text messages, social media . . . we have plenty of ways to get the word out over the next twenty-four hours.”

  “It does make good political sense,” Uribe added.

  “Indeed it does. Quite frankly, I don’t think this is within our purview to make this decision. I understand that the Bylaws state that we’re in charge and can act with complete power under the circumstances, but should the seven of us be the ones to decide the future for millions of people?”

  “I don’t feel this decision will affect the people,” Murray argued. “Sure, everyone has an opinion, but regardless of the choice we make, life will still continue on, either with a return to Strike’s reign, or under a new leader after our election.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not that black and white, Councilwoman,” Martinez said. “This is the kind of topic that sparks pure rage. On one side we have people with a sworn loyalty to Commander Strike, and on the other, people who swear on our Bylaws like the Bible. That’s not including the people who are genuinely split on the issue.”

  “Will any segment of our population act out in any way? Depending on the decision?” Pierre asked. “Do we have anything to reference in our history?”

  “The election of 1978,” Martinez said. “We were a much smaller organization back then, maybe a few thousand across the continent, but the election was so close the ballots had to be recounted three times.”

  “Three times?” Thrasher gasped.

  “Yes. The first results came back with the decision in favor of Commander Collins by a whole six votes. The recount showed Commander Lincoln as the winner by two votes. A third and final recount was agreed upon, and ended up giving the election to Commander Collins by a heavily disputed three votes. It is still the closest election we’ve ever seen, and probably ever will see. The couple thousand people who had voted for Lincoln boycotted the organization for three months, refusing to carry out missions or have any involvement. Some ran to the Revolution, citing us as a corrupt organization. We got most of the boycotters back—it doesn’t take long for sensible people to realize how slimy the Revolution is—and life continued as normal. My fear this time around is how many more members we have. We already have a group threatening to break out Strike on their own. What if there is a group on the opposite side wanting to bring Briar back home, or do anything to defend their interpretation of the Bylaws?”

  “There could be riots,” Thrasher said. “People taking it to the streets to protest.”

  “I like to think the Road Runners know better than to bring our issues into the public world,” Uribe said. “That’s one thing I know we’ve never had an issue with.”

  “This might be the tipping point, Chief,” Martinez said. “People are already on edge, paranoid for themselves and their families. Combine that with something as traumatic as watching their own commander get battered like a piñata on live television – it’s hard to say what the reaction will be.”

  “This is one option I want to come back to,” Uribe said. “I like it a lot. Is anyone in favor of saving Briar and sacrificing Strike?”

  Councilman Ryan raised his hand slowly, but confidently. “I don’t like the phrase ‘sacrifice’, but I do think what’s best for the long run is to move forward. We lost Strike, and that’s something we have to live with as an organization for the rest of our existence. A rescue mission will risk too many Road Runner lives. It’s just not worth it for the remaining half of Strike’s term.”

  Murray shook her head in disgust, but others nodded around the table. Uribe showed no emotion and continued writing on his notepad.

  “I’m calling for a formal vote,” Uribe announced. “We have three options: Strike, Briar, or let the people decide. Due to the sensitivity of this subject, we’ll cast our votes anonymously, myself included, so that the public record will not know who voted for which option. Strike will be option number one, Briar two, and a deferment to people, three. Please write your vote on a piece of paper in the form of tally marks. You have five minutes to cast your vote and place it in our ballot box. Time begins now.”

  Before the advances of technology, this exact method was used by the Council to settle their votes, an old school action that Uribe brought out from the woodworks. Safety was key. Not that a Council member had ever been assassinated, but Uribe had no intent on being the Chief to oversee such a crime. They had no interest in making these swaying decisions for the organization, being in their positions to provide fair checks and balances. A vote of this nature could cause immediate death threats for any members of the Council if their votes reached the public.

  He cast his vote and slid the paper into the drop box in the center of the table, waiting for the others to follow suit.

  6

  Chapter 6

  Chris made his way down to the basement using the stairs. He could have taken his private elevator for a quicker trip, but decided now was probably a good time to mingle with the many soldiers who had stayed by his side. He might need them now, not quite sure how exactly the Road Runners planned to respond to his threat. Surely they had entered an instant state of chaos.

  He hadn’t visited Commander Strike in three days, and imagined she must be recovering from the last round of torture. They had tried everything from electric shocks to Chinese water torture, but she refused to give any information. Chris had given up, but authorized some new form of suffering every few days just for fun. It wasn’t often that you got to welcome your sworn enemy with a twisted hospitality.

  Knowing she wouldn’t be in the basement for an extended time, Chris took a different approach to the ambiance, keeping the lights on full blast, compared to the dimness they had when fifty Road Runners were held prisoner. His goal was to keep her from sleeping easily, the brightness comparable to that of a sunny day on Miami Beach.

  A guard sat behind a desk at the front of the deserted basement, Commander Strike a lone fish in the ocean of space that spanned a couple hundred yards. The guard stood when Chris opened the basement door, a sign of respect that he had been brainwashed into every soldier who worked under him. His muscles bulged as he saluted the old man.

  “Good day, Mr. Reynolds,” Chris greeted as he approached the desk. “How is our little butterfly today?”

  “Good afternoon, sir,” Reynolds said, meeting Chris with a confident stare. “Ms. Strike slept in late this morning, hasn’t said a word since she woke up around eleven o’clock, and picked at the food we brought her for lunch.”

  “I see. I want us to take good care of our lovely commander over the next few days. No more pain, and I want her back in the best health possible. Turn the lights off at night for bedtime, take requests for what meals she would like to eat.”

  “I don’t understand, sir.”

  “We’re in a position to win this war, and it will require a healthy commander.”

  No matter what the Road Runners decided, Chris needed Strike back to full strength. If they agreed to turn in Briar, then they expected her back in good condition. He fully expected them to turn in Briar. He had only been a Road Runner for a few weeks. Why would they side with a man they barely knew over their own leader?

  “Understood, sir. Is there anything we need to get ready for a potential release?”

  “No, let’s hold off on anything official. I want her ready just in case—we still don’t know what will happen yet.” Chris nodded before turning and shuffling toward Strike, sitting on the ground with her ankles shackled to a hook.

  “Good afternoon, Commander,” he said, her eyes slowly working their way up from his feet until she met his piercing blue gaze.
She said nothing. “I thought you might like to know what’s happening. I just got off a live broadcast to your little Road Runner network, and let’s just say I’ve done something very naughty.”

  Chris giggled, waiting for a response, but Strike only watched him.

  “Have a little fun, darling,” he said, reaching down and squeezing her cheeks like a grandparent gushing over a baby. “I’ve made them an offer, and now we get to see what your lovely group really thinks of you. I gave them three days to decide if they want to exchange Briar for you. If they do, you can walk right out the door and I’ll never bother you again. If they decide they value Briar instead, then you and I will be going live on television where I will personally execute you. Either way, I get to have a good time.”

  Strike shook her head, eyes brimming with a rage that she had so far managed to keep under control. “You’re sick. One day you’ll get what you deserve.”

  Chris grabbed his stomach and let out a howling laugh. “Oh, Commander, I think I’ve heard that exact threat three hundred times. I appreciate your determination, but get in the back of the line!”

  “It’s only a matter of time. You can’t actually live forever. There are prior Keepers of Time, you do know that? They all eventually died.”

  “The Keeper has always been a member of the Revolution, and that is one thing that will never change.”

  “They said the Roman Empire would never fall. Everything comes and goes. It may take longer for certain things to happen, especially with our time travel abilities, but everything ends.”

  “You are correct, Commander, but I’m afraid it’s going to be your organization that ends. What do you think they will decide? Is it even a difficult decision?”

  “They’ll find a way to ensure both me and Martin are safe. We aren’t afraid of your bullshit anymore.”

  “I love when you talk dirty to me.” Chris bent over and planted a kiss on Strike’s sweaty forehead. “Now, tell me, Commander, who do you honestly think they will choose? Pretend I have a gun to your head and you have to give me an answer. I can get a gun, if you’d like it to feel more realistic.”

  Chris made a pistol out of his first two fingers and pointed it at Strike’s face. She scrunched her expression into a look of disgust, shaking her head.

  “C’mon, Commander, flatter me. I’m merely curious.”

  She looked down to her shackled ankles, apparently giving the question serious thought.

  “I think they’ll choose Martin,” she said flatly.

  “Briar?!” Chris gasped. “You don’t say. Why?”

  “Martin has done nothing wrong. Therefore, turning him over to you would be considered treasonous against our organization.”

  “You people never stop amazing me. They would let their leader die over ethics? Ethics?!”

  “You should try getting some. Being a good person might change your life.”

  “I am a good person,” Chris said. “I’ve built this life for myself and have taken care of those who support me. I’ve never harmed anyone for the sake of pleasure—it’s always a calculated reason, just like when I’ll be killing you for the whole world to see.”

  “You’re a psychotic dictator,” Strike said calmly.

  Chris giggled. “Oh, Commander, your flattery never gets old. Now, just so you know, I’ve authorized some changes for your care down here. No more torture. No more bright lights at bedtime. I want you relaxed and comfortable. Eat whatever you want, sleep in peace.”

  “Gotta get me all fattened up before killing me on TV? What a gentleman.”

  “Not the first time I’ve been called that, and it certainly won’t be the last. All that said, is there anything I can do to make sure you’re happy?”

  Strike pursed her lips and looked to the ceiling before dropping her gaze to Chris. “Yes, one thing actually. If you could go fuck yourself and die, I’d like that a lot.”

  Laughter erupted from Chris, toppling him off-balance on his thin legs that looked more like sticks, his bony hands grasping his stomach. His face turned bright red as he gasped for breath. “Commander,” he said in between breaths. “You must stop. Your humor is. . . contagious.”

  Chris shot a look behind him toward Reynolds, who had settled back behind the desk. “Isn’t the Commander a hilarious woman?”

  “Yes, sir,” Reynolds called back, unimpressed.

  Chris returned his attention to Strike. “I’m sure in another life you could’ve been a stand-up comedian. I really do hope your people choose to turn in Briar. A, he’s what I really want, and B, you’re just too much fun. I’d hate to see you leave this world.”

  “Then don’t kill me. No one ever has to know. Send me into the forest and I’ll never come back.”

  Chris howled another laugh. “Commander, if you only knew how many times I’ve been made that offer. As if sending you into the Amazon is somehow a fair trade-off. Nice try, but I won’t be postured, especially by Road Runner scum.”

  Strike spit a wad of saliva into Chris’s face, hitting him square on the nose, while another clump dangled from his white eyebrow. He appeared stunned at first, but after wiping it off with his sleeve and examining the liquid, broke into another hysterical round of laughter.

  “Oh, Commander, you’re too precious.”

  Chris turned with nothing further to say, disappearing through the same door he had arrived, leaving Strike alone in the basement where she’d wait with sickening anticipation over the next three days.

  7

  Chapter 7

  Chief Councilman Uribe stood behind a podium in the Council’s chambers, the rest of the councilors watching him from across the room. A camera focused on him as an aide patted a light layer of makeup on his face.

  “We’re on in one minute,” the cameraman called out, prompting Uribe to straighten his tie and pat his gray hair to ensure everything was in place. He took a deep breath and held it in his lungs for a few seconds before blowing it out through his lips.

  The votes came back with a five to two decision in favor of their upcoming announcement, and the final step was to explain those results to the general public.

  The cameraman held both hands in the air and started counting down from ten, one finger dropping with each passing second until he pointed to Uribe with a thumbs up.

  “Good evening, Road Runners of North America, and to any others watching around the world,” Uribe started, his speech now broadcasting live to millions of private streams across the globe. “As you know, Chris Speidel made us an offer to release Commander Strike in exchange for Martin Briar. The Council has spent the last three hours discussing this and looking at the possibilities from all angles. It’s been a trying day, and we appreciate your patience as we worked toward a decision.

  “We had many disagreements, as you might expect, but one thing became clear that we agreed on: this is too delicate of an issue to let seven Road Runners decide. We will be launching an impromptu ballot later tonight where you can cast your vote. We want to hear from you, the people, and will let democracy decide our best course of action. Even though you’ll only have twenty-four hours to vote, we encourage you to take time and seriously reflect on the question at hand. As I stressed to the Council, there is no right or wrong answer. Whichever way this goes will provide its own unique set of challenges for us moving forward. We are giving you twenty-four hours because we will need another day ourselves to ensure all the votes were collected fairly and are reflected correctly in the final count. With just under seventy hours until Chris Speidel moves forward with his agenda, we felt this was the best course of action.

  “In about two hours, you will each receive a unique link to cast your vote. We will send the link to all means of communication we have available, but it will only let you cast one vote. I want to thank you in advance for partaking in this crucial decision for our organization. I look forward to returning to you tomorrow night to announce the results. Thank you.”

  Uribe held a stern
expression to the camera until the cameraman waved his arms and yelled, “That’s a wrap!”

  The decision was officially set in stone, and Uribe felt a wave of relaxation flow throughout his body as he stepped away from the podium to return to the rest of the Council waiting for him.

  “You looked good up there,” Pierre said with a wide grin.

  “Thanks. How did it go?”

  “You delivered the message flawlessly. I can’t imagine people getting too upset over this,” Murray said with a nod.

  “Great,” Uribe replied. “Are we ready to head out for dinner?”

  The Council had reserved a private dining room at Wolfgang’s Steakhouse in New York City. They planned to eat and drink the night away after the horrendously stressful day, knowing the next twenty-four hours would swing the organization to new, uncharted territory.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Martinez said, being the first to stand and leave the chambers.

  * * *

  They all agreed to spend the night in the office after wrapping up dinner. Thousands of dollars of wine flowed throughout the evening while hundred-dollar steaks were consumed without a care in the world.

  Each of their offices came equipped with a pullout queen-sized mattress, providing ample comfort. The entire office that the Council called home was built to serve as an underground fort should the world above ever become destroyed. Hidden pantries housed a six-month supply of food for each Council member, while an entire room was dedicated to storing a mountain of bottled water.

  The Council had a staff of assistants, each carefully chosen based on their age and gender, just in case the future responsibility of repopulating the world fell upon their shoulders. This same staff maintained the pantries to ensure no expired food remained in the building—the last thing they would need during a time of crisis was to deal with food-borne illnesses.