Chase (ChronoShift Trilogy)

by Zack Mason

  It had become clear to Mark that there could not be an endless supply of time-shifters out there working for Rialto since Rialto had gotten his shifter from Ty and all of his recent recruits were people Mark had struggled with during his historical escapades.

  Still, they couldn't explain where Rialto had gotten all of his shifters. Mark suspected that Rialto would kill him and Hardy at some point in the future and hide their bodies well. That would explain the lack of death certificates for him and Hardy, as well as how Graves and Torino had gotten their shifters, but the theory still did not explain the others. Where had the other four shifters come from?

  It didn’t look like they would have time to solve that mystery. They had to stop Rialto and they had to stop him now.

  "You think it's a trap?" Ty asked.

  "I'd bet on it."

  They waited expectantly for Mark to lay out a plan. Military protocol had been drilled into them like a second set of DNA. Once he stated the plan, they would comment or recommend changes. In the end, he was like their unit commander and they would do whatever he decided.

  "First thing we're going to do is disarm those explosives and stop this tragedy. Taking care of Rialto will be secondary."

  "We gonna expose ourselves?" Hardy inquired.

  "You got any other ideas? We can't let 200 people die. I'll disarm the explosives myself. I want both of you to take up sniper roosts on opposite sides and cover me. You'll position yourselves as far from the scene as possible, half a mile if you can. We need to make sure Rialto can't locate you, ‘cause you're my only back-up."

  ***

  Mark inspected the wreckage. It was a horrific scene. He peered inside one of the cars and saw blood splashed chaotically across its interior. How any man could be so callous toward innocent life, he could not understand.

  The question that caused him the most struggle, however, was how God could allow such an evil man to have such power.

  He made his way to the crater. It was huge. He never understood how the government could get away with such non-committal in their public assessments. This was clearly no accident, and Homeland Security had to know that.

  Police were stationed outside the perimeter of the scene to prevent curiosity seekers from tampering with it. Evading them was easy, but he made sure he was out of sight before shifting.

  First, he set himself up in an observation post. They needed to identify exactly when the explosives were placed on the track, and by who, but he guessed it would be sometime the night before.

  Sure enough, around 5:00 AM, Vincent Torino approached the track carrying a duffel bag, not with the cowering insecurity of a thief avoiding scrutiny, but with the confidence of a man who knew he was immune to attack.

  The assassin pulled a shovel from the duffel bag and dug out a significant hole underneath and around the track. He shoved C-4 sticks into the hollowed out area and attached an electronic device to them, which was probably a radio receiver that would trigger the explosion. After burying his handiwork with gravel, he faded off into the darkness.

  "Anybody got a bead on Torino?" Mark whispered into his radio mike. Their comm system was encrypted and secure from infiltration.

  "I've got him in sight," Ty replied.

  "Stay where you're at till I'm done here, then follow him. Don't try to take him out, just find out where he's going and scope out who else might be around. This has got to be a set up to draw us out. Hardy, you follow Ty from a distance and keep him covered. Copy?"

  "Roger."

  "Out."

  Mark concentrated on the track in front of him. He trusted his friends to watch his back.

  The explosives appeared simple to disarm — unbelievably so. Wary, he inspected every crevice and crack several times, searching for a hidden tripwire or some other booby-trap, but he couldn’t find any — which only worried him more.

  Oh well, if I blow myself up, at least I'll save the train. Plus, Ty or Hardy would shift back and warn him off before touching anything if he did.

  Holding his breath, one by one, he removed the leads that connected the trigger to the explosives.

  Nothing happened. Too easy.

  He packed up the trigger and the explosives in his own duffel bag and left.

  He had no doubt that if they watched the news later today, there would be no mention of a train derailing and two hundred people would go on living their lives normally, never knowing the mortal danger they'd escaped.

  Torino moved through the streets like a silver fox. His stride was purposeful, yet not swaggering. It was the walk of a professional killer, a man who knew what he was about and had no desire to be noticed.

  Ty followed at a safe distance. Hardy had the most training of the three in covert surveillance, but Ty was no slouch himself. Torino's apparent lack of concern that he might be followed was what worried Ty the most. Most likely, one of Rialto's other team members would be stationed along Torino's path waiting to ambush Ty.

  He followed Torino all the way into town and then through it. The man was certainly going out of his way to walk a long distance. Why wasn't he driving?

  The sun was dawning and a short burst of reflective glare revealed the ambusher up on the roof of a building across the street. It was a poor position for a sniper, but then their enemies' lack of training never failed to amaze him. If it weren't for the superior numbers of the other side, he and Mark and Hardy would have won by now.

  Ty halted his pursuit and ducked into an alley. He approached the sniper's building from the back and stealthily ascended the stairs. Surprisingly, the door to the roof was well-oiled and made no sound when he opened it.

  He slipped off his shoes and stepped softly toward his would-be attacker. The man never heard him coming. Reaching around the man's neck, Ty yanked him up and back, pulling his forearm hard into his throat. The sniper thrashed about helplessly until he fell unconscious. Ty didn't want to kill the guy, at least not yet. That would only attract other dark shifters to save him. No, he would tie him up for now and return to finish him off later.

  He rolled the man over and shock throttled him. Hugh Plageanet.

  Plageanet, the evil, disgusting son of the plantation owner they'd taken out in 1863. Ty double-blinked and rubbed his eyes. The last time they'd seen this piece of human garbage was when the younger Plageanet had entered his family outhouse to relieve himself. Mark and he had blown that outhouse to smithereens. How in the world had Plageanet survived? There had been nothing left.

  There would be plenty of time to contemplate such mysteries later, he decided. For now, he had a mission to complete. He grabbed each of Plageanet's wrists and handcuffed them to iron rails imbedded in the concrete structure of the building. He also wrapped the man's legs up tight in a chain and padlocked it. The final touch was a strip of duct tape over his mouth.

  Without a third party freeing him, little Hugh would wait right here till he got back.

  Back on the sidewalk, Ty continued the pursuit, shifting back to a time when Torino had still been in sight. He was a little more relaxed now, feeling like he'd discovered the trap, but his guard was nevertheless up, wary, ready for anything else Rialto might have up his sleeve.

  Torino arrived at an empty field outside of town. He left the road and disappeared into the wild, unkempt grass. There were no trees in sight, but the grass was tall enough by itself to make it difficult to keep Torino in eyeshot, though it also helped disguise Ty's pursuit. Torino's lack of concern about being followed still bothered him.

  Torino stopped to look around, so Ty ducked out of sight behind a bush. Apparently satisfied he was alone, Torino hit his shifter and disappeared. Ty checked his detector.

  Same day, five years prior. Likely just your typical "shift and evade" maneuver.

  Ty knew how to get around that. He adjusted his own time display to five years ago, but thirty seconds earlier. He would arrive before Torino and scope out the situation. He'd have time to set up a nice little surprise, or simply
shift out to report back to Mark, Torino never being the wiser.

  Ty felt himself being pushed upward a bit as he arrived at the target time. That usually meant there was a floor or some other object below him which hadn't been present previously.

  Unexpected walls suddenly surrounded him on all sides. Dull, grey walls. Something hazy obscured his vision and blurred his view of them.

  He was in a room where there should be a field, and a strange gas, a bitter-tasting gas, filled the air. His lungs jolted from it at the first breath. A moment later, the blurriness in his vision grew worse.

  His hand moved to his shifter, then stopped short. The face of it glowed red, inoperable.

  Panicked, he ran toward one of the walls, desperately looking for a way out of this trap. The room was huge, much larger than he'd realized, and the exertion caused the gas to work even faster on his system.

  He saw a door in the distance at the front of the room. It seemed to be the only way in or out.

  He wasn't going to make it. His knees buckled before he could make a move toward it. The smoky gas overwhelmed his senses, thoroughly permeating his blood. The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was Vincent Torino as he shifted into the room, smiling.

  ***

  Hardy didn't have trouble keeping up with Ty. In fact, he barely watched his friend as they made their way through the Connecticut suburb. His eyes were glued to the rooftops, windows, and the landscape surrounding them. His job was to make sure nobody got behind Ty and ambushed him.

  He spied the sniper about the same time Ty did. He watched from a distance as Ty disarmed the man. Throughout the rest of the surveillance, he spied no one else waiting to get a drop on them, but something about the whole set-up still smelled rotten. He grew more and more concerned as Torino kept walking farther and farther out of the town. Where was he going? Why was he on foot?

  He mentally willed Ty to be extra careful when Torino veered off into the empty field. There had to be a reason behind this odd behavior. They were either being lured, or Rialto's men were completely incompetent.

  C'mon, Ty, what are you doing? Don't shift, he pled silently.

  According to Mark's instructions, Ty was only supposed to follow Torino and then report back to Mark. Instead, it looked to Hardy like Ty was about to shift somewhere in order to keep up the surveillance.

  His suspicions were confirmed as Ty disappeared. Now, he would have to decide if he would follow or just go get Mark. He reasoned he should be safe if he distanced himself far enough back from Ty's position. That way, he'd know what to tell Mark to expect if they had to go after Ty.

  Seventy-five feet ought to do it. Close enough to observe, but far enough not to shift into the same trouble Ty had, assuming there was any. First, he circled the entire field to make sure he was not being observed. Then, he moved to about seventy-five feet away from Ty's point of departure and set his shifter to the time displayed on his detector. Ty had gone in about thirty seconds before Torino, but Hardy thought it safest to choose Torino's time.

  The formidable concrete walls on all sides surprised him, and the gas was completely unexpected. Ty lay unconscious on the floor, and Torino stood over him.

  The only visible door was flung open. Several men outfitted with gas masks and bearing machine guns entered. Torino made his way toward them. He stumbled just as the men reached him, apparently affected by the gas. One of them laid an oxygen mask over his mouth and they helped him to his feet and out the door, which swung shut solidly behind them. Bolts locked into place, echoing hollowly in the gas-filled chamber.

  Hardy began to feel the effects of the gas as well. His head was swimming. The room was huge. Seventy-five feet hadn't been far enough away. He needed to get out of here. He wouldn't be able to help Ty without a gas mask.

  He shook his wrist in disbelief, wondering if the gas was making him see things. The display looked red. It couldn't be inoperable. This was only his second shift, and he'd only gone back five years. He pushed the shift button.

  Nothing.

  He rocked his head side to side, trying to shake loose the growing cobwebs. The room was becoming confusing.

  It spun and a knee hit the floor, a knee which was now operating independently from his mind.

  That was the last thing he remembered.

  ***

  June 2nd 2014, Boston, MA

  Neither Ty nor Hardy showed up back at headquarters. Mark waited in the lounge alone, knowing something had gone wrong.

  An antique clock Savannah bought a few months ago faced him from the mantle, ticking away the seconds like an eternal metronome.

  If a trap had been sprung it was up to Mark to fix it. They would be depending on him.

  Absentmindedly, he fiddled his fingers, lost in concentrated thought. They were clearly in a precarious position. Rialto had them outnumbered and equally matched in equipment. If he'd killed or taken Ty and Hardy prisoner, then all Rialto would have to do now was finish Mark off and the game would be up for the good guys.

  The buzz of the intercom startled him, jarring his thoughts together like the cars of the derailed train they'd just saved.

  "Mark?"

  "Yes, Savannah?"

  "Two gentlemen are in the lobby waiting to see you."

  Here we go, he thought.

  "Rialto's men?"

  "They claim to be Secret Service."

  "Secret Service?" It had to be a ploy. "You're not in the lobby are you?"

  "No, I'm inside. I've only spoken to them over the intercom."

  That was good. The door between the lobby and the rest of their headquarters was virtually impenetrable. As long as that door was not breached, no one could get in, which is why he'd given Savannah explicit instructions not to go outside or open it for any reason.

  "I'll be right down," he replied.

  When he got there, he saw two men on camera. And they did indeed look like the Secret Service type.

  He depressed the intercom's send button. "Can I help you?" He asked.

  One of them held up what looked to be an official badge, but it was hard to be sure viewing it through the grainy camera image. "Secret Service," the man said, "We're here to see Mark Carpen." His voice was tinny over the electronic communication system.

  "What about?"

  "That's between us and him," The guy with the badge said.

  "Put your badges in the security tray." Mark slid open a small, sliding box, similar to those used in a drive-thru at a bank. Both men placed their wallets in the tray and Mark pulled it back through the wall.

  The badges looked authentic enough, but with Rialto's money, anything could be bought.

  "You'll have to come back another time. We're busy today."

  The men smiled at each other in the way only arrogantly confident government men can. One of them leaned over to speak into the intercom. "Sir, I don't know who you are, but this is regarding a matter of national security. You're either going to let us in right now, or we're coming in after you."

  That made Mark mad. He'd had enough.

  "Sirs, I have no idea who you are. That's exactly the problem. You can try coming in after me if you want, but the steel door between us is as thick as a bank vault. In the meantime, the door behind you is now locked."

  One of the agents turned and tried it, verifying it was locked.

  "Those small round black holes in the walls surrounding you are the barrels of eight different wall-mounted automatic weapons. Each of them is trained on you as we speak, attuned to your body heat, and I can activate them with the push of a button."

  He did. The ominous sound of rounds being loaded into multiple chambers echoed through the small foyer.

  "All I have to do is push a different button and they'll start spewing rounds. Not to mention the explosives buried in the floor under your feet. I'm having a pretty bad day so far — so don't push me."

  The blood drained from the men's faces, their self-assurance deflated as surely as if he
'd stuck it with a pin.

  "Hold up your hands," Mark ordered.

  Reluctantly, both men obeyed.

  "Take off your jackets and roll up your sleeves. That's right. Push your sleeves really high. I want to see your wrists, and I want to see them good."

  They did so. Neither had a shifter, at least not on their wrists. Mark turned to another screen. He'd installed a density scanner in the lobby for a situation such as this. It could scan people or packages for metal or otherwise dense objects using X-ray and other imaging techniques.

  "Put your guns in the tray."

  The agents complied once more, and Mark slid the tray back inside, confiscating the weapons.

  "You've both got ankle holsters. I'll need those too, and you, on the right, you've got something shoved in your waistband behind your back. Fork it over."

  One of the agents cursed audibly, but they did as commanded. They were not accustomed to being told what to do by a citizen, nor did they like it in the least.

  Mark continued with the drill. "The front door is now unlocked. One of you can go back outside and wait. The other can come in."

  The one on the right went out. The other stayed.

  He locked the front door again. "All right. Take off all your clothes except for your boxers and then turn around." He was not taking any chances. "Socks too." The agent grimaced as he leaned down to take them off.

  Finally, when the government man had followed all his instructions, Mark unlocked the vault door to let him in. Unclothed men often found it more difficult to fight as aggressively as they would fully dressed, plus it eliminated potential hiding places for a weapon the scanner might have missed.

  As the agent entered, Mark kept him covered him with a .45, refusing to lower it for even a second. The vault door slid shut solidly after him.

  The agent first looked to Savannah, who maintained her distance at the side of the room, and then Mark.

  "What is the matter with you, man?" The agent was incredulous.