by Zack Mason
Sullen villains are the worst of all enemies, for one way or the other they would seek out the revenge that burned within them on somebody, and that somebody would not necessarily be the one who had provoked it.
May 9th 2014, Boston, MA
Their round table had become so familiar. Mark ran his hand along the edge, sensing the rough spots and dents under his fingertips. Ty had made one of the larger dents playing pool, he remembered. A few months ago, he'd slipped on a break and sent the cue ball sailing through the air right into it.
Hardy was shooting billiards by himself at the moment. Ty and Savannah were already seated.
"Hardy, you'll probably want to sit down for this," Mark said.
One look at Mark's face and Hardy put down his cue and took a seat.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Hardy commented, "You finally going to tell us what's been eating at ya?"
"Yes."
They waited, expectantly.
"We're going to break the truce with Rialto."
Ty grimaced. "Why do you want to start that up again?"
"We're going to kill him and every last one of his crew."
Savannah gasped, "Why, Mark? I thought the truce was working."
"Yeah, what's up?" Hardy pushed.
Mark didn't want to tell them. He stared at Ty. He longed to spare his friend the pain of knowing how he'd die, of knowing Mark couldn't stop it. Deep down, Mark was seriously worried about the whole situation, what horrible ends might await them all.
They were alert now and boring holes in him with their eyes. He was going to have to tell them.
"I shifted to the future."
"How much into the future? Past 2030?"
"No, I still bounce off of 2030 just like you guys. I went to 2029 — to see what I could find out about our futures."
"And?" Hardy was growing impatient.
"I found a death certificate for Ty dating 2027. So, I went back to 2027 to investigate. I...uh...found out how Rialto gets his shifter. He kills Ty." Mark leaned his elbows on the table and started to cover his face with his hands. Then, he changed his mind and instead steeled his expression, while pressing his knuckles firmly into the table top. His gaze turned vacant, staring off into space as he recounted what happened.
"He takes the shifter off your wrist, Ty, and puts it on his own. I watched him do it. I watched him do it too many times. I tried to stop him. I tried everything I could think of, but that invisible force kept stopping me. I can't stop it."
Mark's eyes shimmered. Savannah began to cry. Hardy's fists were clenched so tight they burned white.
"You're not suggesting we give up, are you?" Hardy demanded "You want us to just leave it like that? Let Rialto kill Ty?"
"Of course not," Mark responded. "We're going to do everything in our power to stop him. This truce is off and we won't rest until we've won."
"What about you and me?" Hardy asked. "How did Graves and Torino get their shifters?"
"I don't know. There was no record of death certificates for either you or me in any year."
The anger and emotion was strong in the room, with the exception of Ty himself. The others were too caught up in the distress of the moment to notice the look of peace on his face.
***
Hardy lay 300 feet away on top of a low two-story building. Through a lot of footwork and a few well-placed bribes, they'd figured out where Rialto lived. Right now, Hardy had a great view of his front door. He also had a sniper rifle.
Mark kneeled on the roof of a five-story building about a block away with his own rifle. The black tar under his knees was so hot he kept having to change positions once a minute or so. He couldn't imagine how Hardy was tolerating the boiling roof under his stomach while lying in wait.
In preparation for this mission, Mark had asked Bobby Prescott if he could develop electronic jammers for them that could be carried in their pockets, and Prescott had come through with flying colors. They each had a small jammer now.
If activated during a shift, the jammer would create an indecipherable amount of static noise that would mask the fluctuations from their shifters and make Rialto's detectors useless. In other words, they could shift without fear of Rialto knowing where they'd gone.
As soon as Rialto appeared in the doorway, Hardy would take him out with a single shot. That would not be the end of it, however. Either Graves or Torino would shift in behind Hardy and try to kill him before he shot Rialto. Mark hoped both men would.
He had Hardy's back and he'd take out anyone who shifted in anywhere near his friend. If both Graves and Torino tried to gang up on Hardy, Mark would take them both out, allowing Hardy to finish Rialto off in peace. Boom, boom, boom. Done.
All three men would be out of the picture permanently with no one left to save them. The war would be over.
If only one of Graves or Torino shifted in, Mark would still take that one out. In such a case, he would carefully clean up any traces he'd left of his presence and leave — without shifting. His position was far enough away from Hardy they wouldn't be able to determine his location accurately with only one shot fired.
Then, he and Hardy would reposition themselves on the roofs of other buildings and wait for the third man to make his appearance somewhere. However it played out, they hoped to finish the war once and for all right here. They'd used this strategy once before and it had worked fine. That time, however, they'd been on defense. This time, they would be the aggressors.
Ty remained behind for security reasons. If Mark and Hardy didn't make it back to the next debriefing, Ty would leave a note in Mark's mailbox for him to find before they embarked on this mission warning him not to execute. The plan seemed foolproof. Mark's only worry was that Murphy's Law usually had a way of mocking "foolproof" plans.
A shimmering appeared to Hardy's right. It was the beginning of a shift. Another shimmering appeared to his left. Mark evaluated this in a fraction of a second and noted the time. His elation at the thought of being able to get Graves and Torino together in one fell swoop was interrupted by the unexpected sound of another shift behind himself.
In that same second, Rialto appeared in the doorway below Hardy. Two figures surrounded him. Somehow, either he or Hardy would miss one of their shots, allowing someone to escape and get behind Mark.
Crap, here we go again. Were they about to enter another lengthy chase through time?
Twisting and flinging himself to the side, Mark saw it was Vincent Torino, a veritable assassin if there ever was one. The pistol in the man's hand was held with the confidence of an emotionless professional who'd taken life too many times before. The distance between him and Mark was only about twenty feet, but Mark doubted mafia experience would trump his own training. He could still finish this here.
The static of another shift caused Mark to pause. A burly figure appeared, a strangely familiar and completely unexpected figure. It was Randall Cook, the purser from the HMS Huntingdon back in 1814. Mark shook his head in disbelief, even as the burly sailor charged.
***
Ty was alone back at headquarters. Mark and Hardy had left a while ago to execute the new plan. Operation Rialto Round-Up was how Hardy had dubbed it. Savannah had gone out to run some errands.
Ty would remain in the protective confines of their building until Mark and Hardy returned. He was their safety net and couldn't take a chance on getting himself killed on some other task.
He was taking the news of his own death fairly well, considering. Mark had written his reaction off as more of Ty's weirdness, as usual. Hardy had learned long ago not to comment. Ty couldn't explain, but knowing when and how he would die didn't really bother him. It actually brought an odd peace to his spirit. Being more of a glass-half-full kind of guy, he viewed the news as assurance of another 15 years of life, which was much more than he'd had before Mark had saved him in ’Nam.
He'd just begun a game of solitaire when the intercom buzzed. Was Savannah back already? Why was she u
sing the intercom?
He pushed the button to talk. "Yes?"
"Ty? It's me, Laura."
"Laura? What in the world do you want?"
"Can I come up? I need to talk."
"Mark's not here."
"That's okay. I doubt he'd want to see me anyway. That's why I need to talk to you, Ty."
"I don't know..."
"Please. I feel really bad about the way things ended between Mark and me. Hardy too for that matter."
Ty paused and then finally hit the buzzer to let her in. "Come on up," he relented.
A minute later, she was on the second floor with him. Ty certainly understood why Mark and Hardy had both wanted her. She was a beauty, whatever a man's tastes might be.
"Speak, girl. You got one minute."
Sheepishly, she fiddled with a gold bracelet on her wrist as if searching for the right words. "Like I said, Ty. I feel really bad about..." She swiftly drew a taser from her purse and squeezed the trigger. The prongs flew through the space between them and plunged into Ty's chest.
"...having to do this," she finished.
Electricity coursed through his body, spasming every one of his muscles.
I never should have trusted her was the last thought to run through his mind before he collapsed to the floor.
Bending over his inert form, she examined his watch. The face of it had turned red, indicating it had gone into "inoperable" mode. Interesting. The electric shock had shut it down. She hoped she hadn't damaged it permanently.
She went back downstairs, opened the front door to let Randolph in, and led him up to where Ty lay.
"What now?" she asked.
"We wait for Rialto. He said he wanted to be here when we kill him."
Cook slammed into him, driving an elbow into his stomach and knocking the wind from his lungs. Mark's plan was going bad fast. Desperately, he tried to draw breath, but couldn't. Torino would have shot him by now if Cook hadn't gotten himself in the way so rashly.
As winded as he was, all Mark could do was shift out. Thankfully, he had the presence of mind to activate the jammer in his pocket before he did.
Torino shouldn't be able to track him, assuming the little devices Prescott had made for them worked correctly. Unfortunately, since Cook had landed on top of Mark, he came along when Mark shifted.
Cook had a full ten seconds to land as many blows and kicks as he could while Mark got his wind back. Fed up, Mark swung the butt of his rifle into Cook's face and knocked his attacker back. He stood and followed it up by ramming the rifle into the sailor's stomach. The final blow was a full swing of the weapon, as if it were a baseball bat, into the back of his neck. Cook fell limply to the roof. Angry determination pressed Mark's forearm hard into the unconscious man's throat as he dragged him toward the edge of the roof, fully intending to throw him over the knee wall.
Then, he spied the silvery shifter shining on Cook's wrist. The sailor certainly hadn't had one back in 1814. Somehow, the man had hooked up with Rialto and was working with him now.
If I kill him, somebody will shift in, save him, and the battle will go on.
He knew leaving Cook behind was the best bet to elude them. He didn't like the realization, but there it was.
Right now, Rialto didn't know where Mark was. Mark just needed to evade so he could get back to Hardy. This fight could wait for another day.
Releasing the choke hold, he chopped down on the back of Cook's neck once more for good measure to make sure he stayed out of commission for a while.
Using the jammer again, he shifted to yet another time and made his way to Hardy's rooftop. He guessed about where one of the figures had phased in behind Hardy and tried to shift in right behind that man.
Bingo! He'd only been off by about a foot. Two more of Rialto's men surrounded Hardy, and in the moment Mark arrived, his friend was still turning to face them. He wouldn't be able to do much. Both men already had their pistols aimed at Hardy's head.
Mark recognized Graves as he brought the butt of his pistol crashing down on the back of Graves' skull. The second goon was another newbie. His cruel, ugly sneer was uncannily familiar, but Mark couldn't quite place where he'd seen him before. His more immediate concern was the gun in the guy's fist.
Mark's bullet hit the man in the leg, eliciting a loud howl from the unexpected pain.
"Shift!" He called to Hardy. Hardy would know to use his jammer. They'd agreed in planning that jammers would be standard procedure in a battle like this.
Once he was sure Hardy had gotten out, he shifted out himself to a time different from Hardy's. They'd meet back at headquarters. The sinister guy he'd shot in the leg didn't even have time to recover and reaim before Mark was gone. The whole ordeal took about five seconds.
He was frustrated — and more than a little concerned. Rialto was still out there. Their mission to end this war once and for all was a complete failure. Not only that, but Rialto had at least two more thugs working for him now, thugs with shifters, thugs that Mark apparently knew. Rialto had superior numbers, which meant besting him would now be infinitely more difficult.
He brooded all the way back to the office. They'd lost the element of surprise. It wouldn't take much of a brain for Rialto to figure out Mark had jammers now. Someone had designed the shift detectors for Rialto, and that same someone could make him jammers too.
Mark slammed his fist on the console of his car. They’d lost every advantage they had in that battle, and with nothing to show for it. And the truce was off.
Where had all those extra guys come from? Where had they gotten their shifters? How many shifters did Rialto have? He'd watched Rialto steal Ty's shifter and slip it on his own wrist. Until now, he'd had the sneaking suspicion that Graves and Torino had procured their shifters from his and Hardy's dead bodies, but he couldn't find any death certificates to prove it. Now, he wasn't so sure. Rialto’s team had at least five different watches, so where had Cook and this other man gotten theirs? And who was that last man? Mark could swear he knew him from somewhere.
He slammed on the brakes and twisted the steering wheel sharply to the left, sending his vehicle into a sliding u-turn. He was going to Washington D.C.
***
The sharp point of the Italian's angled nose was just as prominent as ever, but this version of Rialto had much less grey hair. Mark even saw a modicum of kindness still remained in the younger Rialto's eyes, but Mark would have no pity.
There was more than one way to skin a cat.
He'd driven to Washington D.C. and shifted back to 1990 when Rialto was still a rookie agent with the IRS, before he ever had a shifter, before he had even ever heard of Mark Carpen.
For several evenings, Mark tracked Rialto from work to home, looking for the best point of attack. This "innocent" Rialto had no reason to suspect he was being stalked.
The tax agent had a bad habit of cutting through a particularly narrow and dark alley on his way home each night to his apartment in Georgetown. Mark chose an especially dark evening to execute his plan.
He waited in the recess of a doorframe which was partially blocked by a dumpster, dressed in solid black.
At the ideal moment, Mark emerged from the shadows like a nocturnal panther ready to pounce upon its prey. The sight of the automatic pistol drained enough blood from Rialto's face that Mark could see him paling even in the limited moonlight.
"Wha...What do you want?"
Mark did not answer. There was nothing to say.
"Here...t…t...take my wallet, take whatever you want," he stuttered.
Mark squeezed his trigger several times in a row, and joy swept through him as the explosive retorts of bullets successfully fired rang in his ears. No misfire had occurred this time, and the acrid aroma of burnt gunpowder smelled so sweet. Only five feet separated the men. There was no way to miss.
Yet...Rialto still stood. Why was he not down? Mark fired again, and again, and then two more times. Rialto took a step back, almost stumbl
ing over himself, and screamed curt shrieks of bloody murder with each successive shot before racing for the other end of the alley. He didn't appear to be wounded.
Disgusted, Mark slung his weapon to the pavement where it clattered to a stop against the brick wall of the opposing building. He'd worn gloves, so there would be no prints.
It was time to shift out.
Alexander Rialto stumbled in mid-run and almost crashed to the sidewalk, more from an excess of adrenaline than any injury, though he did feel a stinging sensation in his side. Reaching down, his hand came away bloody. Terrified, he stopped and ripped his shirt up to inspect the damage.
Relief came like a flood. It was nothing more than a crease in his skin, a long, shallow bloody cut. One of the bullets had narrowly missed causing some real damage.
How that man had missed at such a close range, and after so many times, he had no idea. How many shots had he fired? Six? Seven? He'd lost count in his panic. All that mattered was he was safe and the guy hadn't followed him. He was even more relieved to see a police cruiser parked a little way up the street.
***
"That you, Hardy?"
"Yeah."
The stink of Boston's sewers wafted around them, its nasty little tendrils periodically assaulting their noses. The smell seemed a little worse today than usual, though the underground entrance to their headquarters was in a section of pipe currently not in use, and the paths they blazed in these forgotten tubes tended to stay far away from actual refuse and sewage.
"I've been thinking, we need to get some air freshener spray for when we come in," Hardy said. "This stench is in all my clothes."
"Yeah, good idea. I'll ask Savannah to pick some up."
"Why, ’cause she's a girl?"
"No, because she's the office manager."
"Get ’em yourself, man."
