He led a squad of five other snipers, all surrounding different corners of the property in case Chris tried to run from a different exit.
“When the time comes, he shouldn’t actually know that he’s mortal. We’re gambling on an eight-hour window until he learns he’s mortal again. He’ll feel things like physical hunger and fatigue.” Commander Strike had informed him of the plan when he arrived, and by all accounts it made sense. When it came down to it, all Andrei cared about was if his slug would indeed kill the main leader of the Revolters. And there was only one way to find out.
None of these past events stuck in his mind as he currently sat in the tree. His senses heightened, and his eyes focused on the house through his scope. Andrei drew long, heavy breaths, an exercise he had learned to keep his heart rate down when sniping enemies from hiding spots.
He had watched the grounds since his arrival in hopes of learning a daily routine Chris might have, but nothing was an exact science. Between six and eight in the morning, Chris would step outside to get into his van and leave. Andrei didn’t care where he went. He wasn’t in this business to follow people, but rather learn their schedules and execute them when the time came.
Chris would then return between ten and noon, typically having been gone for two hours each time. Beyond that knowledge was a crapshoot. Some days Chris would leave again in the afternoon or night, other times he’d never come back outside until the following morning.
It was 6:15 in the morning when Andrei had last checked his watch, and he waited for the voice in his ear to buzz through and give the order. If they could authorize it within the next fifteen minutes, Andrei knew Chris would be dead within the next 90 minutes.
You can take that to the bank. After the morgue, of course.
All week, the other Road Runners who were assigned to this mission had discussed it like middle school children excited for summer break. They were happy just to be a part of history, and didn’t take the necessary preparations as seriously as Andrei expected for such a delicate mission.
None of it mattered—he was assigned the prime shooting location. The only reason Chris would go out a different door was if he knew something was going on. Andrei knew the cameras on the mansion didn’t reach this far into the woods, so no one had a reason to alert Chris of any foul play taking place outside.
Carry on as normal, my friend.
Now was the waiting game. Andrei had an earpiece as a direct line of communication to Julian back at the headquarters. He didn’t like Julian, thought he was too book smart for such a high position of power as the Commander’s number two.
The earpiece finally crackled to life and Julian’s squeaky voice echoed in his head.
“Andrei, it’s time. I repeat, it’s time. You have the green light.”
The voice left his ear, leaving the silence and steady breeze as the only audible sounds. Somewhere under his three layers of jackets was a small microphone that the other snipers could hear him through.
“Gentlemen, we’re all set. Fire on first sight, and kill anything that tries to get in the way.”
Andrei grinned as he lowered his head down to look through the scope.
* * *
Forty minutes passed before there was any movement from the house, but when it came, Andrei sat ready with his finger on the trigger and his scope focused on the mansion’s front door.
Come to Daddy, he thought, still keeping his breathing under control despite the sudden realization that he was about to become an international hero among the Road Runners. They would ask him to speak at events, to offer his training services to the others who trained for combat. He would decline all of this, jumping right back into his daily routine of exercising, eating, and sleeping until the war was officially declared over.
Until then, there was no point in resting on his laurels; that was a surefire way to get killed.
These thoughts briefly rushed through his mind before the front door opened and the familiar white hair of Chris appeared. He was surrounded by his usual posse of four guards. They all checked the surroundings in search of anything out of the ordinary.
Andrei wondered why they did this if Chris was supposedly immortal. Perhaps it was for their own good and not necessarily for their leader.
He drew one final deep breath and held it in his lungs, a ritual he had done every time before lining up a long distance shot. From the tree to the front door was just under 600 yards, a range he was comfortable shooting within, but still required more concentration than most shots. He had to factor the wind, altitude, temperature, and weight of the slug to project the perfect shot. Fortunately, for him and the rest of the world watching, the altitude, temperature, and ammunition were nearly identical to his set up in Russia. The only difference, as it could change any given day, was the wind.
The breeze had been steady, no more than ten miles per hour, but there had been instances where it stopped altogether. He had maybe ten seconds to calculate all of this data as Chris strolled from the front steps to his van.
Under five miles per hour, he thought as he zeroed on Chris’s head. Almost no breeze, but not quite nothing.
He still hadn’t exhaled, now with the perfect shot aligned.
Pull, he thought, squeezing the trigger and exhaling in unison.
Chris’s guards whipped their guns out at the crack of the sniper rifle, but it was too late. Chris had been struck in the head and his body fell to the ground four steps shy of the van.
The Revolters started shooting blindly into the trees, clearly unsure of where the kill shot came from. They were shouting, but the sounds were nothing but gibberish by the time they reached Andrei.
He lowered his jaw back into his jacket and spoke into his microphone. “Take them all out.”
Andrei had a clear shot and took down one of the guards. Four other shots fired within the next ten seconds, and each Revolter had fallen face down onto the cold ground.
“Nice work, men,” Andrei said.
Somewhere underground, all around the world, Road Runners were screaming and shouting at the TVs. If they could riot in the streets to celebrate, they would. But no one else in society would know what was going on.
Andrei sat up and looked outside of his scope for the first time in thirty minutes. The dead bodies splayed across the front of the house were the ultimate badge of honor as he admired their stillness in the cold day.
He squinted at the sight of something his brain wouldn’t allow him to believe.
Chris’s frosty head sat up in the middle of the dead bodies, prompting Andrei to lower his eye back into the scope.
“Don’t celebrate quite yet, men. He’s back.”
Through the scope, Andrei watched Chris sit up, take a quick look around, then turn his head directly in his direction with a wide grin. The old man raised a stiff hand and waved to Andrei as he stood. He reached for his head with his scrawny fingers, worked around the side, and plucked the slug out as if it were an annoying hair. Chris examined it between two fingers before flicking it aside and returning another grin and wave to Andrei more than 1,000 feet away.
Andrei felt something he couldn’t recall having ever experienced: goose flesh. Chris locked eyes with him through the scope, freezing him from pulling the trigger again. The others on his team apparently didn’t have the same problem as they all fired their rifles in near unison.
Five bullets tore through Chris’s head and chest, prompting a maniacal laugh from the crazy old man in the otherwise silent night.
“What the fuck?” Andrei whispered, still trying to gain control back of his own mind. He’d never imagined such a thing to be possible, but he had once thought the same thing about time travel.
Chris plucked the rest of the slugs out of his body and head, flicking them aside like pocket lint, and turned back into the mansion. Heavy steel walls dropped down and swallowed the mansion, securing the house as a virtual bulletproof fort.
“What’s going on out there?�
� Julian crackled from Andrei’s earpiece.
“I have no idea. We just shot him six times and he walked back into the house.”
Silence filled the airwaves as he assumed Julian was in a panic, on the phone with Commander Strike. Any celebrations that might have begun would’ve already ceased. Chris lived on, and the Road Runners now had a new list of questions as to why.
91
Chapter 36
“What do you mean he’s not dead?” Commander Strike asked into the phone. She had slipped back into Tarik’s office after watching the previous moments unfold.
She had watched the live feed that had cut out moments after Chris had risen from the ground, but hearing the confirmation from Alaska made it real.
“He’s in his house and has barricaded himself,” Julian explained. He had been the one to cut the live feed that was showing around the world.
“How is this possible?” Commander Strike demanded.
“There are two possibilities,” Julian replied calmly. “Either our theory was wrong, which I don’t believe is likely, or Sonya isn’t actually dead.”
“She’s dead. She’s still flashing red and hasn’t moved in 20 minutes. Are you suggesting our tracking device technology is faulty?”
“The equipment is fine. We need to get someone to Sonya’s house right away. Something’s not right. Briar hasn’t moved either and is still next to Sonya. He wouldn’t just be lying next to her dead body.”
“He might. He was deeply in love with her—or rather the thought of her, I suppose.”
“I’m just suggesting someone goes there to see what exactly happened. Something’s not right, and we need to have an answer ready for the people. They all saw Chris rise before I cut the feed. Although, many might have missed it due to celebrating. I know I almost did.”
“I’ll go myself. Me and Tarik. I’ll call you when I get there.”
“Be careful, Commander. Sonya is very wise and knows her neighborhood better than anyone. It could be a trap.”
“I’ll be fine.”
Commander Strike hung up and rubbed her temples. “How the fuck is this happening?”
This was supposed to be a day of celebration, a future holiday for all Road Runners. As of now, it was nothing but a botched assassination attempt. Chris was alive and hiding in his house now, with dozens of Road Runners trapped in his basement. He might never come out, or maybe was already jumping to another era in time to plan his next move.
Strike slammed her fist on Tarik’s desk, sending pens and paper clips out of place as they hopped around the oak. “Fuck!”
Tarik knocked and entered. “Commander, it’s a dark mood out here. I think you should say something.”
“I have nothing to say. You and I are going to Sonya’s house. Now.”
Strike crossed the office and forced Tarik aside, stepping into the main floor where two dozen pairs of eyes all locked on her. She froze, and debated storming out of the building or addressing the crowd. She had never shown her frustrated side, and even though this was a justifiable moment, decided to keep her cool facade.
“Hello, everyone. As you saw, our mission has failed. We’re not sure why, but I’m going out right now with Tarik to get to the bottom of this. Please save your questions, as I honestly don’t have an answer. We hope to know more when we return.”
The silence that hung in the room could have been cut with a plastic spoon. The hype had vanished, leaving behind a world of terrified and confused Road Runners. For nearly all of them, taking down Chris was their life’s work. To have the illusion of having worked so hard, and come this far, only to see it all fail before their eyes was a gut check none had been prepared for.
Killing Chris had always seemed as likely as winning the lottery, and they understood that. But when Commander Strike informed them that it was finally a real possibility, a sense of fate settled across the room, and hope came out in full force.
I failed these people. I should’ve never said anything, and carried on like it was a normal day.
The thought was pure fantasy. People would have known something was going on the moment she arrived at the Denver office unannounced. It wasn’t every day that the leader came down from Alaska to meet a new recruit. The rumors would’ve swirled and prompted her to address them anyway.
No one asked questions as she walked to the exit with Tarik chasing behind. She felt all of them watch her as she fought to bury the stress beneath her confident countenance.
She stormed up the stairs without a plan, hoping and assuming Tarik had a way to get them to Larkwood.
“I’ll drive,” Tarik said from behind as he joined her outside. Somewhere in 1996 Brett McBath would be returning to the same parking space after dropping off Martin Briar at Sonya’s house. But on this cool day in 2018, an all-black Tesla sat in the spot, ready for their trip across town.
Commander Strike didn’t hesitate as she walked straight to the passenger door and let herself in. If Tarik couldn’t sense the urgency right now, then maybe she needed to find a new leader for the Denver headquarters.
He must have sensed it as he ran down the steps from the building and threw himself behind the wheel, clicking the remote to start the engine that quietly hummed to life.
“You know what’s funny,” Tarik said, buckling his seat belt. “They call these the cars of the future. You and I have seen the future, and the cars are nothing like this.”
He chuckled as he put the car in gear and pulled onto the road. Commander Strike didn’t laugh, although she did find the comment ironic. It also reminded her of how grim the future was, thanks to Chris. Why didn’t he just die?
She clenched her jaw and shook her head. Everyone had executed their part to perfection. Even Martin, who she had half expected to back out at the last minute.
“How long to get there?” she asked.
“Should be ten minutes, assuming there’s no traffic.”
There was none, they had that much going for them, at least. She didn’t even look out the window as they drove to Larkwood in silence, keeping her stare to the ground, sulking in confusion.
When they pulled in to Sonya’s neighborhood, she asked Tarik, “Do you have a gun?”
“I keep one in the trunk. Why? Are you thinking we’ll need it?”
“I don’t think so. But Julian was warning me, like I should be ready for something to happen. Do we know if Martin has moved yet?”
“He hadn’t when we left. I don’t know if he has since then.”
“Whatever happens inside that house, we need to leave with an answer, and we need to get back to work. Chris will be killing our people by tomorrow, and we need to have something prepared to tell the community.”
“You mean to tell the world. The whole world was watching. People woke up in the middle of the night on the other side of the globe just to see history.”
“Well, they saw it alright.”
Tarik parked the car at the curb, blocking the driveway. He killed the engine and they both stared at the house as if it were a rare bird. Commander Strike noted the homey feeling from the front yard, with its green lawn, big tree, and front porch with two rocking chairs. A long time ago she had a life just like this, but hadn’t been back since becoming Commander and constantly traveling the world to kill bad guys.
Those memories would have to stay buried in the past with her dead husband.
“Let’s jump back to 1996 and go in. Is someone watching us?” she asked, referring to someone within the organization keeping an eye on their tracking devices.
“Commander, someone is always watching you. Even on the rare days you sleep.”
“Very funny.”
“It’s true. So yes, you’re being watched. I have no idea about me.”
“As long as one of us is being watched then we’ll be okay. Let’s go.”
Strike pushed open her door and went to the trunk where Tarik opened the door for her to get the pistol he kept concealed. Tarik joined
her as she sat down on the sidewalk, unscrewing the lid off of her flask. They both took a quick swig of their Juice. After having taken thousands of trips through time, the process became as seamless as tying shoelaces. They briefly fell asleep and woke up in 1996 within one minute.
Without a word, Strike stood, dusted herself off, and walked up the driveway to knock on the door with a balled fist.
“Sonya, are you home?” she called. Of course she’s not home, because she’s dead, remember?
She knocked again, hoping for Martin to come answer, but didn’t want to call out his name just in case Sonya was alive and hiding. She couldn’t have her know that Martin was sent by the Road Runners.
They waited a minute, knocking a couple more times, before Commander Strike turned to Tarik and shrugged.
“Try the door,” he whispered, creating a stealthy mood.
Strike nodded before turning the knob and pushing the door open with ease.
“Sonya?” she called again as she took her first step inside the house and froze.
The house appeared empty, but the splatters of blood on the kitchen floor and walls made her stop. She cocked the pistol and held it out in front of her body.
“Sonya, is everything okay?”
This wasn’t supposed to be a bloody mess.
Her eyes followed the trail of blood that started at the kitchen table and smeared its way across the house, to the bedroom where the door stood wide open, and she watched the blood turn into it and out of sight.
“Is any one here?” she barked, thinking Martin better damn well respond.
Silence filled the house, the only sound being the hardwood floor creaking beneath her feet. Tarik had stepped into the doorway and couldn’t take his eyes off the apparent massacre in the kitchen.
A thousand thoughts rushed Strike’s mind as she now accepted the possibility of Sonya being alive. She could’ve killed Martin. Maybe the system was glitching because they were so close to each other. Sonya could be hiding in the bedroom over Martin’s dead body, waiting for the next Road Runner to show up and try to end her life.
Wealth of Time Series Boxset Page 53
