Chase (ChronoShift Trilogy)

by Zack Mason

  Half-heartedly, Mark set up his sniper rifle. It was almost time. He didn't want to look. He didn't want to see Ty coming down the sidewalk again. He ignored his friend and limited the scope of his sight to his target only.

  Why wait? Mark pulled the trigger, not really aiming very carefully. It clicked harmlessly as if empty. He knew it wasn't. It wasn't misfiring.

  He pulled the trigger again, and again, and again. Each time, no explosive retort sounded, no bullets sailed Rialto's way. The man still sat comfortably, waiting in ambush. The hated being was at peace when he should be dying.

  Tears streamed down Mark's cheeks as he pulled the pistol out his bag. He stood and pointed it down the hill. Empty clicks were the only result as he pulled its trigger over and over. Disgusted, he threw it to the dirt and reached for the hand grenade. Desperate resignation gave way to fury.

  He ripped the hand grenade up and grabbed hold of the pin, ready to lob it at the enemy.

  The pin wouldn't come out.

  It was as if someone had super glued it inside the clip. Mark was bordering on temporary insanity now, forgetting all training and caution. He stepped on the grenade with one foot and began tugging with all his might on the stupid little pin, but it would not come out.

  He chucked it toward Rialto, pin intact, but it bounced worthlessly off a tree and came back to him. Enraged, he tried to charge down the hill, screaming bloody murder, but he was frozen in place, and no sound would come out of his open mouth.

  He didn't want to see it again. He turned and sat hard on the soil, fury expended. Quietly, he began collecting his tools and weapons and packed them back in the duffel bag.

  September 15th 1100, Essex, England

  For Randolph DeCleary, life was no longer the promising dream it had once been when Lord Geoff was alive. Geoffrey de Mandeville's son, William, was now lord of the lands of Essex and constable of the Tower of London in his father's place. Rumors abounded with regards to King Henry officially naming William de Mandeville the first Earl of Essex. Geoffrey had taken to using this title before the king had given it, believing it was his right, and thus out of spite, the former king, William Rufus, had delayed giving it.

  Now that Rufus was dead and Henry was king, and since the support of Geoffrey de Mandeville had been instrumental in securing the kingship for Henry, it seemed the coveted title might actually be given. Such a silly thing, titles, Randolph mused. Being an official earl wouldn't put any more money in William's pockets.

  Still, William was clearly less than competent when compared with his father. He was young and impetuous, given to revelry and other indiscretions. He was not sufficiently reverent or even concerned when it came to affairs of state and his opinion was easily swayed by the more sophisticated of the nobility, yet he was not wise enough to discern their motives were not always in his best interest. He was a schemer, like his father, but without the skill to pull it off as his father had.

  All of those things could mean a turbulent future for William de Mandeville and anyone associated with him, but that was not what concerned Randolph the most at the moment.

  Randolph's first and foremost problem was that William blamed him for his father's death. Randolph had become Geoffrey's right hand man after Clyde of Dorchester had been killed, but William the son didn't trust him. William had heard the stories of the magical bandits. He'd seen the strange and unexplainable circular wounds in his father and the three men-at-arms who'd been guarding him, but still, it was Randolph alone who'd come down from his father's bedroom reporting the murder. William hadn't necessarily disbelieved Randolph's story about the magical bandit disappearing from his father's bedroom after killing him. What motive could Randolph have? What fantastic weapon had he used and where was it? Still, he didn't quite believe Randolph wasn't complicit somehow either.

  So, Randolph DeCleary, one of the best warriors in eastern England, was relegated to the sidelines. He was clearly not William's trusted right hand. What was worse, William wouldn't even include him in discussions of any official business. It was humiliating being treated like a simple man-at-arms for hire when his prowess as a knight was so well-known.

  All of this meant Randolph was seriously reevaluating his plans. His future in Essex looked dimmer and dimmer by the day since Geoffrey's death.

  It was never an easy thing to change fealty between lords, and rumors of Geoffrey's strange death and Randolph's role in it had already reached the ears of most of England's nobility. Most lords would not want to take a chance on him in spite of his reputation.

  Perhaps his best bet lay northward. The lords whose lands bordered the Scots were constantly battling their Celtic neighbors and usually short on good fighting men. Those lands were not as prosperous as the southern estates, so his lifestyle would certainly become more dreary should he be forced to serve there.

  He could always enter the service of one of those northern lords for a few years and then, once he'd distinguished himself again through battle, return to the south. He might even be able to enter the service of the king himself.

  The wall on which Randolph sat was an ancient one, low and grey and uneven, full of moss-covered stones. Ignoring the clear blue sky overhead, he twirled the tip of his sword in the dust at his feet, doodling in the dirt with the point as he contemplated his options.

  A sharp crackle, like a muted bolt of lighting singeing the air, sparked directly behind him. He'd heard that sound before.

  He'd heard it a number of times that night in the forest when the bandits had routed his forces. He heard it when the bandit Mark had disappeared from Geoff's bedchambers, leaving the lifeless earl behind.

  Instantly, he was in motion, swinging his sword up into a perfect arc to attack before the crackling noise had even ceased. He spun smoothly on the ball of one foot, knowing his blade would slice through the neck of this bandit without even having seen him yet. It would have too, had the bandit not been standing five feet out of reach.

  Randolph halted his movement, holding his sword outstretched with its point aimed at the man's throat. He did not recognize this man as one of the bandits he'd met before, but that meant nothing.

  "Hwo artou? Hwat wolte?" He growled.

  The use of Middle English was a detail Alexander Rialto had forgotten and thus overlooked. Communicating with DeCleary would be more complicated than he'd ideally want, at least at first, but Rialto would still get the message across somehow. He always did.

  ***

  May 5th 2014, Washington D.C.

  Rialto's team now numbered seven. Stanley Graves and Vincent Torino had both worked for the mafia before he recruited them. Graves was the better planner and thinker of the two, Torino was an assassin, a calm and assured hunter of men.

  Hugh Plageanet was of a different sort. Rialto had recruited him simply because the man was so mean. A plantation owner from the mid-1800's in Georgia, Mark Carpen had killed Plageanet's father, basically ruined his life, and then tried to kill him too. Plageanet didn't need any motivation to get back at Mark, in fact, it would be hard holding him back until the moment was right.

  Randall Cook was his fourth recruit. Back in 1814, he'd been the purser aboard the HMS Huntingdon. Cook had shanghaied Carpen and Phillips from a tavern, forcing them into service in the British Navy during the War of 1812. They’d escaped, however, knocked the man unconscious, and then marooned him in modern 2013.

  Cook wasn't as revenge-oriented as Plageanet, but the sailor still had a serious chip on his shoulder with regards to Carpen. Cook's best asset was his burliness. The man was a rough and tumble street fighter who would barrel his way through any situation. The icing on the cake was that he had no ethics to speak of. What he did have was street smarts.

  Laura was the seductress. She was very pleasing to the eyes, of course, but her cunning and wiles were the real reasons he'd sought her out. Where a man might opt for brute force, she would manipulate and tease and lure, using her femininity as a weapon. Not to mention she h
ad her own history with Carpen. He suspected her talents would prove to be very useful.

  Finally, there was the shining knight, Sir Randolph DeCleary, who owed his professional downfall as well as the severe pricking of his personal pride to Carpen and company. His physical prowess as a medieval knight could make him useful in older historical settings, but Rialto planned on using guns whenever possible anyway, so that wasn't the real reason he'd pulled him in. No, he'd taken a gamble on Randolph because of the history he had with Carpen. There was a certain confidence in the man, a steeliness which would strengthen the team as a whole. Of all those to whom he'd given shifters, Randolph DeCleary showed the most leadership potential, but that actually worried Rialto more than it pleased him.

  He'd had to learn a bit of Middle English just to speak to the man initially, which annoyed him, but it was worth it. He'd had Laura spend a couple of weeks teaching Randolph modern English so they could all communicate and the knight picked it up pretty fast.

  Rialto called this team of his to a meeting at the same abandoned warehouse as he had Torino and Graves once before.

  They belonged to him now. Sure, they would become wealthy and they would have their chance at revenge with Carpen, which would satisfy most of their wants, but the idea of freedom for them was in the realm of myth now. They would have no choice but to do his bidding when he required it.

  At least, that is what he wanted them to think. Stanley Irvine, his resident physicist/technician created another fake shifter, and Rialto blew it up with a remote triggering device during the meeting so they would be sufficiently cowed. Neither Graves nor Torino blanched when it exploded. They'd been through this little drama once before.

  Nevertheless, both men gritted their teeth in anger. Rialto had given them tremendous power in the shifters, but there had been a price. They were his slaves.

  A curt scream escaped from Laura's throat when the watch exploded. She reddened, embarrassed to show weakness among this group of ruffians. Cook jumped at the unexpected noise, and Randolph nearly fell out of his chair. Interestingly, Hugh Plageanet didn't move a muscle, though he was the closest to the explosion.

  Rialto waited until they'd simmered down before continuing.

  "You know our enemy." He tossed enlarged photos onto the table in front of them. "They are Mark Carpen, Ty Jennings, and Hardy Phillips. They've hurt each of us. As I speak, I'm sure you can almost taste the sweet revenge in your mouth, but you will be patient. Regardless of how angry you are, you will not act without my permission. The time must be right. The attack must be well planned."

  "Why do we have to wait?" Cook blurted.

  "Graves, Torino, and I have already battled these guys once. That time, we supposedly had the advantage. We had weapons at our disposal they had not yet developed and we had the element of surprise, yet the fight still ended in a draw. Not only do they have shifters like us, but each of them is a highly trained, former special forces soldier. Plagaenet, Cook, DeCleary, not being from this century, you don't know what that means really, so just trust me when I say they are better trained fighters than any soldier you've ever known and in a one-on-one fight, they could beat any one of us into an inglorious pulp."

  "I have already bested this Carpen once in a fair duel of swords," Randolph DeCleary interjected, "Had his friends not intervened, I would have destroyed him. I can do so again."

  Cook spat on the concrete floor.

  Rialto's expression showed moderate surprise. "I am impressed, but here in the 21st century we fight with guns, not swords. I assure you, you will not best them in an exchange of bullets.

  "Anyway," Rialto continued, "I believe our superior numbers will be enough of an advantage we can take them, but our plan must be perfect. We must kill all three before any one of them can rescue the others. If we kill two and miss the third, that one will be free to shift back and save his friends before we kill them.

  "We've been through a battle like that already, and it's no walk in the park. We no longer have the element of surprise or an advantage in technology. Since then, I'd be surprised if they hadn't built up their defenses as well. We do have Laura, who's an insider. She knows their habits and how they think.

  "Our plan must be flawless in design and in execution. Once they're dead, we'll be free to rule this world as we see fit.

  "Last item. When we do take them, it is extremely important that you do not kill them until I'm there."

  "Why?" Plageanet growled.

  "Because when a man wearing a shifter dies, the shifter becomes highly unstable and will kill anyone close by if it is not handled properly," Rialto lied, "I'm the only one who knows how to handle the shifters. Any other questions?"

  There weren't.

  Rialto stood. "Enjoy yourselves. Get rich. Do what you want. Just stay away from Carpen and friends for the time being. Make sure you shift back to this year once per day at this time. You've each got beepers and I'll page you when I need you."

  Unbeknownst to them, he'd also affixed a unique and tiny GPS locator on the underside of each of their shifters. He could locate their position realtime anywhere on earth via satellite during the past twenty years.

  He left them stewing in their thoughts.

  ***

  Sir Randolph DeCleary observed the others around the table.

  He didn't like what he saw.

  The eyes of the men Rialto called Graves and Torino were lifeless, black and beady like rats. They were dead men walking, ruthless and without mercy. Paid assassins.

  He'd met sailors before and this Cook fellow fit the bill to a tee. He appeared simple, stupid, and generally unimpressive, at least to Randolph's eyes. He had the look of a London commoner accustomed to frequent brawls in the local tavern. Randolph didn't even perceive in the ruffian the discipline of a simple man-at-arms.

  A cold shiver ran down his spine as he appraised Plageanet. This man was not necessarily physically impressive, more wiry than thick, but in his eyes shone a cruelty that was unmistakable. Something evil lurked deep within that man and Randolph didn't like it.

  Laura was the kindest of them by far. She'd spent a significant amount of time teaching him what they called modern English. He referred to it as crass English. It certainly didn't have the style, the flair, or the subtleties of his home tongue.

  He found her to be easily frustrated during the lessons. She was an essentially selfish woman and patience was not one of her virtues. Still, he appreciated her effort, even if it'd been commanded by Rialto.

  More than exotic, her appearance was almost alien. All the noble women he'd ever known, intimately or otherwise, had pale countenances. The peasant women of England who worked in their fields were a bit browner, having been darkened by the sun, but even they were nothing like the color of this woman. He'd seen a Moor once, a man brought from the far South whose color was as dark as coal, but she was not that dark either.

  Her color was like a honey brown stallion. He'd heard of such women in Spain or Italy, or among the Saracens, but had never seen one, though those women were said to have raven black hair. Hers was golden brown.

  The violet color of her eyes had surprised him the most, for he'd neither seen nor heard of a woman with such coloring, and when she'd appeared to him one day with green eyes instead of purple, a sparkling vibrant green the likes of which he'd never seen either, he'd decided she was some kind of witch.

  Soon, he'd realized her appearance was not so unusual. Many of the women of this time, this "modern" time as Rialto referred to it, had strange and unusual coloring, and even odder clothing. Clothing which revealed more than it hid, advertising a lack of chastity he found simultaneously maddening and disgusting. An English woman would be publically scorned for such manner of behavior. Though he was growing more accustomed to the customs of this time, her appearance still fascinated him.

  Aside from that, there was nothing he liked about this group of people. None would hesitate to stab him in the back if it suited their purpos
es, and they'd probably smile while they did it.

  Desire for power, gold, and fame undoubtedly burned in his heart as well, but he still held a modicum of honor which he would not relinquish easily. These people were not honorable. They had no code, no chivalry. Yet, he was trapped neatly, like a fox with a leg in a snare, and he had no choice but to follow. The object around his wrist held him prisoner more fastly than the Tower itself.

  If left to his own designs, he'd go back to his England and use this "shifter" to acquire gold. A lot of gold. And knowledge. Knowledge was power. Then, he could purchase land and finally become a nobleman. With this device, he could become the greatest landholder in all of England, maybe even king.

  Plageanet broke his reverie.

  "Why do you suppose he wants to be there when they die?"

  "Yeah, there's something up with that," Graves agreed.

  Cook stood and spat again. He left the room. Torino eyed his back darkly as he went.

  "Mark told me once that the only way to get a shifter off your wrist was to die," Laura said, "He didn't say it would explode though. He said it just loosened and fell off the person's wrist."

  "What exactly is your relationship with Carpen, woman?" Plageanet sneered.

  "Was...not is. And it's none of your business," she replied coolly.

  Randolph interrupted, his strong accent holding fast the attention of the others. "Does it matter? We are forcibly in Rialto's service. If we disobey, shall he not do to us as he did to that?" He pointed at the remains of the destroyed shifter.