Chase (ChronoShift Trilogy)

by Zack Mason

  Warring emotions battled inside as Mark studied his rescuer. He would have much preferred it to have been Ty who saved him. The relief he felt was strong, but anger over the past swirled against it, clouding his vision.

  Mark started to speak, but was interrupted by the sound of more electric crackles. Seeing the figures of two men phasing into their time right behind Hardy like something out of Star Trek, Mark dove straight into his former friend and tackled him. They rolled down the slope and into the forest.

  Bullets spat up plumes of dirt where they'd stood just moments before. Knowing their best hope was to not break momentum, both men let themselves continue rolling down the slope as far as possible.

  "Defense!" Mark called out.

  Hardy understood immediately. They'd slowed sufficiently to control their descent, so both men dove toward each other, throwing themselves into a crouching position, back to back. Together, they had a full 360 degree view of the surrounding terrain. Hardy passed Mark one of his handguns.

  The shots from the top of the hill had ceased, but neither man expected the attack to resume from there. Their attackers wore shifters like them. Any second, they could hear the electric static from a new shift, and from any direction.

  If they heard that, they would have a fraction of a moment to respond, but if Rialto's men shifted into their time far enough away from their position, Mark and Hardy would never hear them coming. With one good sniper rifle, their enemies would be able to pick then off like fish in a barrel.

  "We've got to get out of here," Mark breathed.

  "No kidding," Hardy replied.

  "What year are we in?"

  "1834."

  Mark began adjusting the settings on his watch. "All right, same day. Twenty years back. We shift on the count of three."

  "Roger that."

  "One, two,...three."

  The woods shifted oddly in their vision, most trees shrinking, some larger, more mature ones appearing out of nowhere. One that had lain collapsed on the forest floor in front of Mark was suddenly upright and healthy. It was an effect that was still difficult to get used to.

  Hardy looked at Mark. "What now, hot shot?"

  "Time is the justice that examines all offenders."

  ~ William Shakespeare

  November 22nd 1963, Dallas, TX

  Ty groaned. He wanted to lift his bloodied face up in defiance of his abusers, but he couldn't summon enough strength. He refused to let them think they'd broken his spirit.

  Earlier, Ty had shifted back to the day of the Kennedy assassination in search of traces of their newly discovered nemesis, John Smith.

  Unfortunately, Smith had turned the tables on Ty. He didn’t know these men who had kidnapped him, so he’d never seen them coming. He and Mark hadn't even known Smith had henchmen working for him until now.

  For all Ty knew, there could be an army of men out there with shifters on their wrists. What if Smith was just the tip of the iceberg?

  These men hadn't divulged any info so far, not even their names. Smith was nowhere to be seen, and their apparent leader sported an odd, squarish patch of grey above his brow amidst what otherwise was a solid bush of jet black hair, so Ty mentally dubbed him Grey Tuft.

  Grey Tuft had a shifter just like Mark and Ty's, but the other hirelings didn't. Which was a good thing. That would seem to indicate there was a limit on the number of time-traveling goons opposing them.

  It was these other hirelings who beat him mercilessly now. He didn't think Grey Tuft even knew they were doing it. No doubt he was a cold one. He had made it clear he was going to kill Ty and bury his body in concrete so it would never be found, but in spite of the man's cruel tone, he didn't seem to have a lot of passion invested in the deed. To him, it was a job, following orders. A senseless beating requires anger.

  These other two, however, were a different story. They were the hired help. Lowlife scum scraped up from the dregs of society. They hadn't dared lay a finger on him before Grey Tuft left the room, but once that door had closed, the racial slurs and blows flowed forth.

  Ty now heard a new voice outside the room. He went limp, feigning unconsciousness, hoping to stop the beating so he could hear what was being said. The two goons kicked him a few more times in the gut for good measure and then retired to some chairs in the corner where they lit a couple cigarettes.

  The voice outside the thick door bore clear authority in its tone. Was that Smith? Ty could barely make out the muffled words.

  "...know what I said...plans changed...No."

  "We should...at least..."

  "Can't die...cause too many problems...clear?...Take him..."

  "... the others?"

  "No problem...just...him..."

  The conversation stopped. The door opened. Grey Tuft entered by himself.

  Peeking weakly through swollen eyes, Ty didn't see any sign of Smith or anyone else outside the door.

  "You idiots! What did you do?"

  Grey Tuft kneeled and turned Ty's face up, examining the extent of the damage. "You two are lucky he's alive or you'd be headed for a concrete grave yourselves right now."

  "Wuz yur name," Ty slurred, spitting blood through his teeth.

  "What's it matter?"

  "Wanna know whoz gonna kill me."

  "Torino. Vincent Torino, and there's been a change of plans, your highness. You ain't gonna die, but you still ain't gonna see the sun for a long, long time. Boss has got different plans for you."

  He let go and Ty's head sagged, lolling from side to side. This time, he truly did fall unconscious.

  ***

  August 14th 1834, Virginia Woodlands

  "I thought we were prepared for this kind of thing," Rialto growled, glaring a hole through his men.

  "Rialto — you, of all people, should know how difficult it is to pin down someone who’s got a shifter."

  "If you're prepared, it shouldn't matter."

  "We were, but I couldn't stay with the guy 24 /7. Phillips shifted in and out within a one-second window and took Carpen with him. Even if we'd been in the room with our weapons ready, we couldn't possibly have gotten a good shot off in that amount of time."

  Stanley Graves was sweating profusely, but more from the thick summer humidity than from any pressure put on him by Rialto. Killing another time-shifter was a difficult proposition, especially when the guy had friends capable of intervening. No, he didn't feel bad about Carpen slipping through his fingers.

  "You don't fear me, do you, Graves?" Rialto asked.

  "Huh?"

  "If I ever have to show you why you should fear me, it'll be too late for that fear to do you much good. That I promise."

  Graves involuntarily gulped. "Look, Rialto, we've got all the time we want. You saw how easy it was to capture their shift signatures with this tracker. We almost came in right on top of them last time, and we know they're sitting under those trees over there in 1814. These trackers Irvine gave you are amazing. We have the upper hand for sure."

  Stanley Irvine, a physicist Rialto had hired to study the shifters, had successfully built several small portable devices that Rialto called "trackers." The trackers were encased in black plastic and slightly larger than a car fob. If a tracker was pointed at a person shifting between times, the handheld device could detect tiny fluctuations in the electromagnetic field surrounding the person and interpret those fluctuations to give the exact date and time to which that person had just gone.

  In other words, Mark Carpen could shift through time till he was blue in the face, but all Rialto had to do was point his little tracker at Carpen as he left and he would know to exactly which moment in time the man had gone. It was a powerful device, yet it ran on a simple watch battery.

  "What's the plan, boss?"

  Rialto slitted his eyes, staring at the copse of trees where Carpen and Phillips would be sitting — twenty years in the past. His enemies would be there for just a moment in 1814, but for Rialto, they were there perpetually. He coul
d shift into their "moment" any time he wanted. There was no reason to hurry or be impatient. His tracker empowered him. He was the chaser. They were the ones on the run, frantically wondering which second would be their last.

  "We could play shifting games with these guys for days, but we wouldn't accomplish anything without the element of surprise. Plus, they could get in a lucky shot. When we go after them again, we'll shift in at a distance so they don't hear us coming. If they shift out, we’ll follow. If they don't shift out, we’ll snipe ’em."

  ***

  August 14th 1814, Virginia Woodlands

  Silently, Mark and Hardy moved deeper into the woods. Mark raised two fingers to his eye and motioned sharply in two different directions. Hardy understood the hand signal. They would split up, moving in parallel, but staying about a hundred feet apart. If one of them ran into trouble, the other would be close enough to help, but far enough away not to get caught in the same trouble. Patrolling 101.

  Being mid-August in Virginia, the brush was dense enough to provide good cover. They weren’t visible to each other, but knew vaguely where the other was at all times. They continued stealthily until they reached a natural rendezvous point.

  ***

  "Where are they?" Rialto hissed.

  Graves pointed at a flash of black cloth between some bushes. "I think that's Carpen over there."

  "Where's Phillips?"

  "Not sure. Can't see him."

  Rialto cursed. "These guys are in their element now," he rued.

  "Why don't we go back to when they were under those trees together?"

  "Because they were only there for a couple of seconds. Good chance they'd just shift around us and gain the upper hand if we're not successful with our first shots."

  "What are we gonna do then?"

  "We don't push it. We'll stalk Carpen, one of us on either side. Keep an eye out for Phillips. If you get a good shot at Carpen, take it, but if it looks like that's going to happen, prepare yourself before you take the shot. If Phillips sees Carpen go down, he'll shift back to take you out before you shoot.

  “If we never get a good opportunity, we'll follow as far as we can without giving ourselves away."

  Graves nodded and they split up, Graves continuing along Mark's right flank and Rialto circling around to the left. They didn't dare get too close. Carpen was highly trained in pursuits like this — and they were not.

  Rialto saw him again. He whipped his rifle up hastily. Carpen had momentarily exposed himself in a small clearing through which he had to pass in order to reach a large cluster of rocks. The rocks would make excellent cover, and he knew he had to take Carpen out before he reached them.

  He hesitated.

  He was too nervous. If he pulled the trigger, he might succeed and kill Carpen, but then Phillips would know. Phillips would shift back. Phillips would put a bullet in his head before he pulled the trigger, but that would only happen if Rialto pulled the trigger originally.

  His hand shook with indecision. He cursed as Carpen made it to safety.

  ***

  Hunkering behind some brush in an open space enclosed by the giant rocks, Mark had a clear view of both entrances to the central pocket where he was hiding. Over his head, a rock overhang would protect him if Rialto or his men tried to climb the boulders and attack from above.

  Something moved in the brush by one of the entrances.

  Mark readied himself.

  It was Hardy.

  Stealthily, Hardy entered the rock cluster and joined Mark in his defensive position.

  "Anything?"

  "Yeah, heard one of ’em behind me," Mark replied.

  "How do they know when to find us?" Hardy hissed, "We shifted twice. That should have ended it. It's like they know where we went, but to the exact second."

  "Rialto must have some kind of detection device that can tell where we shift to."

  "Who's Rialto?"

  "How exactly did you find me, Hardy?"

  "Savannah."

  "What did she tell you?"

  "Showed me the note, told me about Smith, where you and Ty had gone."

  "Where's Ty?"

  "Not sure. He disappeared too. I came after you first."

  Mark studied him. "Smith's real name is Rialto. That's all I know about the guy...other than the fact he's trying to kill us for some reason."

  "Where'd he get his shifters?"

  "No idea."

  "You think maybe our shifters used to belong to him?"

  "How should I know?" Mark pondered the possibility. "No…something's fishy. At one point, Rialto got hold of my old Wal-Mart shares before I'd cashed them in and burned them. It undid all the wealth I'd built, but it also made his shifter disappear from off his wrist. His ability to shift is somehow tied to everything I've built."

  "So, why's he trying to kill you then? That would have to affect him too, right?"

  "Don't know. If he's trying to kill me now, then whatever happened to allow him to get a shifter must have already happened."

  "Man, this time travel stuff is bending my brain."

  "No joke."

  "What are we gonna do?"

  "If he can detect us when we shift, we'll just give our position away every time we do. We need to evaporate into the woods without shifting and put as much distance between them and us as we can. If we can lose them, they shouldn't be able to detect our shifts any more."

  "Agreed."

  "Let's split up. We don't want to give them an opportunity to take us both out in one fell swoop."

  "Good call."

  "Head toward D.C. Meet me in front of the White House at 8:00 PM tonight."

  ***

  "Climb that rock and see if you can get a shot," Rialto ordered.

  Graves ran to the rocks and scrambled to the top. He straightened, ever so slowly, and scanned the area below. Mark and Hardy were concealed by the overhang, so he wasn’t able to pinpoint their position.

  "No sign of them," he reported.

  Rialto cursed. "They must have slipped out. We'll circle around, see if we can pick up their trail again."

  By the time Rialto and Graves settled on their plan of action, Mark and Hardy had already left the rock cluster at different ends and melted into the forest.

  August 14th 1814, 8:00 PM, Washington D.C.

  Mark reached the White House first. At least, it looked kind of like the White House. It was in the right place, but something was off about it.

  Maybe it was the long series of columns extending from either side. Were those there in modern times? They didn't look right. Maybe they were covered by trees in the future and just couldn't be seen. There did seem to be a scarcity of trees here on the southern side, though there were plenty facing the north.

  Hardy walked up, a tuft of foliage sticking out of his collar. "How long you been waiting?" he asked.

  ’Bout an hour. You've got something on your shoulder." Mark pointed to the small branch as if it were a piece of food stuck in his teeth.

  Hardy stopped short of extending his hand to Mark. This was the first time they'd faced each other in a peaceful setting since the fight in Mark's office months before.

  "Are we good, Mark?"

  "You did just save my life."

  "That doesn't matter, and you know it. You've saved mine plenty of times."

  Staring at his shoes, Mark didn't look up or say anything.

  "Mark, Laura didn't cheat on you with me. She did try once...well...never mind. I made it clear I wouldn't have anything to do with her as long as she was with you."

  "So, you told her to break up with me," Mark growled.

  "No..." Hardy grimaced. "I wouldn't give her the time of day till I knew you two were finished. Man, look. What's done is done. The only question now is, are we going to move on from here or not?"

  Mark extended his hand. "Forget it," he muttered.

  Hardy took it, grateful for its significance, though he knew things wouldn't be the same for a while
. Maybe never.

  "What now?" Hardy asked.

  "Rialto and his pal are out there somewhere, and they've got some kind of device that'll detect us if we shift. We're flying under the radar for the moment, but if we shift, we could alert them to our presence."

  "So, how long do we wait or how far do we have to go before we shift out of here?"

  "I don't know. We need to think this through before we do anything. These guys aren't playing around."

  "Let's get a beer."

  "Sounds good." Mark smiled for the first time. "There are probably some bars down near the wharf by the Potomac."

  "I bet they're called taverns in 1814."

  "Let's go find a tavern then and get some ale."

  ***

  The tavern was darkly lit by a scattering of lanterns and candles. It was a rough looking place that likely only the toughest of sailors would call home. Whoever the owner was, he apparently subscribed to the Just-Give-’Em-a-Stool-and-Take-their-Money school of philosophy. The man that wanted more was in the wrong place.

  The barkeep was unkempt and hadn't shaved in over a week. He eyed them warily.

  "What'll it be, boys?"

  "Couple of ales."

  Mark scanned the tavern. There were a few other patrons in the dump. At one side, three burly sailors sat in a booth discussing something of import in hushed tones.

  "I figured we'd find some place a little more lively than this," Mark muttered under his breath.

  "Yeah. Let's down these beers and get out of here," Hardy agreed.

  "Hey, Barkeep!" Mark called.

  The unhappy man brought their beers in a couple of dirty looking steins. "Yeah, what?"

  "Where is everybody? Seems kind of dead to me."

  "It's the war, got ev'ry body in town spooked, ’fraid to come out."

  "War?" Mark queried. What war?