Wealth of Time Series Boxset

by Andre Gonzalez

  “Do the Road Runners even know about you guys?”

  “They know we exist, but I don’t think they realize how many of us there are. I wouldn’t say we could overthrow the local government, but we would put up a fight. The Revolters are too consumed with themselves to ever know what’s actually going on.”

  “What’s your name?” Martin asked, the question itching since the man sat down and started accusing him of being a Road Runner.

  “I’m so sorry, it’s an instinct to not give my name. I’m Marcus.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, I’m Martin.”

  Martin didn’t know what protocol was in 2064 and waited to see if Marcus stuck out a hand to shake, which he never did.

  “I really should be going, though, Martin,” Marcus said, standing from the table. “I’ve had a long day, but wanted to make sure I said hi. It’s not every day we get to meet someone from the outside.”

  “It was a pleasure,” Martin replied. “I hope to see you around again.”

  “Don’t count on it. We have strict rules about mingling with anyone in public. I really shouldn’t have come over here today, but to hell with rules, right? You take care of yourself, Martin, and stay strong.”

  Marcus turned and vanished through the bar with a rapid grace.

  Martin watched as the young man weaved through the final tables, then his heart froze when his eyes caught something he thought they’d never see again.

  Sitting alone at a table near the front door, facing Martin’s direction, was Sonya.

  116

  Chapter 23

  The room was illuminated by nothing more than a lone lamp tucked away in the far corner. The damp, murky smell of a basement filled Strike’s nose as she woke up, all four limbs handcuffed to the chair in which she sat. She tugged with her legs to find they only had two inches of range. She flexed her arms and yanked, a piercing pain shooting up from her right forearm to her neck.

  A white bandage was wrapped around her forearm, a small dot of blood appearing in the middle like the Japan flag. She stared at it, longing to touch it, but unable to soothe the pain that throbbed beneath. The pain came from where her tracking device had been, and she knew they had removed it.

  “Good morning, Ms. Strike,” Chris’s voice called out, calm and steady. “We thought you were never going to wake up.”

  Strike felt the crazy old man behind her, and made a conscious effort to stay calm. Part of being elected to office was taking an intense training course on staying calm in the most strenuous of circumstances, including torture, which she suspected might be around the corner. She focused on maintaining her heart rate and breathing, taking long, calculated breaths and exhaling steadily.

  “I will say this, Ms. Strike,” Chris continued. “Your people love you. You should see the hell they’re raising to find you. We dropped your tracking device in the middle of a field in Idaho, and a search crew arrived there within ten minutes. It was quite entertaining watching them flock like birds to a tiny piece of bread.”

  Strike kept her focus on her breathing while Chris spewed his nonsense.

  “I’ve been dreaming about this day for a long time. The Commander of the Road Runners is in my house. I never knew which Commander it would be—you guys rotate out so quickly—but I knew sooner or later this time would come.”

  His footsteps whispered across the ground, approaching Strike until he stood in front of her, crouched down with his evil grin in front of her face. She’d never been this close to a Revolter.

  “One of two things is going to happen today,” Chris continued. “You’re either going to surrender and allow the Revolution to claim its righteous victory, or we’re going to force you to tell us all of your dirty secrets about the Road Runners. I suspect there’s zero chance of you surrendering, so I’ll let you know that option number two is not going to be very fun for you.” Chris held his grin, stale breath seeping from his lips. “It’s only a matter of time before your people come knocking on my front door demanding you back. Anyone who steps foot on my property will be shot dead, so I suggest you talk fast. And if you do decide to give us all of the information, you’ll be free to go, but I can’t say how well you’ll be able to move.”

  Two men chuckled somewhere in the background.

  “So what will it be, Commander?”

  “I’ll never surrender to you,” she replied quickly and confidently, her faith waning. How the hell was she supposed to stay calm and talk her way out of this? She was strapped to a chair with no way out, and who knows what kind of torture on the way.

  Focus away from the pain. Torturers never want to kill you; they need your information. Trust that you can buy the time necessary to be rescued.

  She had never been one to rely on others, but had no choice. She prayed that Bill and Julian hadn’t given up hope yet and would come busting through the door to save the day.

  “Let’s begin, shall we?” Chris said, nodding to someone in the corner. A bright light flashed like a strobe, reminding Strike of going through haunted houses as a teenager during Halloween season. Strobe lights were known to heighten fear, but since she knew this, she managed to block out the constant flashing.

  “Tell me, Commander, where is your main headquarters?”

  Strike had a tough decision to make. She could either feed him answers of things he should already know, to show cooperation, or she could play difficult and let the torture begin.

  “You know where our headquarters are.”

  “I just want to know you’ll work with me, Ms. Strike. Please tell me where your headquarters are.” Chris spoke calmly.

  “Down the street.”

  “Underneath that little shack? That’s your main headquarters?” Chris threw his head back and laughed. “Why not your lavish New York office? Or Miami? Those places look like fun.”

  “Our headquarters is wherever makes sense, and right now it’s keeping an eye on you here.” Strike spoke with disgust dripping from every word.

  “How nice of you people. Tell me, Ms. Strike, who’s in charge or your little group while you’re . . . occupied?”

  Strike shrugged her shoulders immediately. “How would I know? I’ve been here with you.”

  “Please. Don’t act like you don’t have a system in place in case the Commander goes missing. You people have systems for everything.”

  “I’m sure there is, but I don’t know the system for this; it’s never been used before.”

  “Tell me right now who’s in charge in your absence,” Chris snapped like a scolding parent.

  Stay strong, Strike reminded herself, and shrugged again.

  Chris grinned and turned his face toward the corner, nodding to someone hiding in the darkness. Footsteps approached as Chris reached out to grab a pair of pliers. “Thank you,” he said to the figure that was nothing but a dark blob from Strike’s view.

  “Pliers,” Chris said, admiring the tool. “A universal tool of sorts. I can break toes, remove fingernails, even play dentist and take out some teeth.” He stroked the pliers with a steady thumb as his grin grew wider. “So tell me, Ms. Strike, who’s in charge of the Road Runners?”

  It was a simple question, but telling him could put the entire organization in grave danger. Should Julian go missing, Bill would take control, but there was no one beyond Bill in the line of succession. Chris could play this game with the Road Runners until there was no one left to lead them.

  “I told you I don’t know.”

  “Very well, Commander,” Chris said, reaching toward Strike’s left hand with the pliers open. “Let’s start at the pinky and work our way up.”

  The cool metal clasped around her pinky finger, right on her middle knuckle. Chris wiggled the pliers to make sure he had a good grip, and then twisted the finger backwards toward her wrist.

  Strike clenched her jaw shut as the tendons stretched and popped, sparking an explosive pain that erupted all the way up to her shoulder. Tears welled in her eyes, but s
he managed to show no emotion aside from a subtle grunt through clenched teeth, choking down the urge to gag.

  “Tell me who is in charge,” Chris said calmly, moving the pliers to her ring finger.

  She didn’t respond, and Chris repeated the action. This time she couldn’t help but shriek as her arm turned completely numb. She looked to her hand to see two fingers going the wrong direction while the others remained in place.

  “Now, Ms. Strike, I already told you someone from your group handed you over. They came right up to my front door and told me what city you were in, what hotel you were staying at, and how to get around your guards.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Strike uttered, her head dizzy. She thought she could withstand more broken fingers if it came to it, as her entire hand was numb with adrenaline.

  “I didn’t believe it, either, but that’s what happened. How else could I have gotten you here?”

  “You’re full of shit.”

  “It was a younger man. He kept a disguise so I can’t tell you at all what he looked like. I don’t suppose it’s a young man who is now leading the Road Runners? Surely a Road Runner would never do such a thing just to get into a position of power.” Chris howled with laughter.

  “We wouldn’t ever do that.”

  “Funny, that’s what he said, too. But he also said you’re too much of a stickler for the rules, that it holds you back from being a good leader. This young man questioned all of your decisions and came to the conclusion that he had to have you removed from office to further the Road Runner agenda. Now, I’m not as dumb as I look, but even I know the Road Runners’ agenda is to kill me. That said, it’s in your best interest to tell me who is in charge over there, because there are strict orders in place for your death should I get killed.”

  Strike paused, the pain in her fingers and arm constant, seemingly permanent. “I thought you can’t die. You sound worried, Chris . . . is everything okay?” She managed a grin through the pain.

  Chris responded with a stern face before nodding to his assistant in the darkness. The footsteps shuffled around as Chris reached out for a box with wires flowing from it. He quietly untangled the wires and pressed the adhesive ends of them onto Strike’s flesh, scattering them across her arms, chest, and head.

  “I’m done with the games, Ms. Strike,” he said. “In my hands is a control panel that decides how many volts of electricity I want to send through your body. Let’s give it a test run, shall we?”

  She tried jerking her body out of it, but it was a waste of energy as her wiggle room remained within a couple inches.

  Chris turned a dial, causing the machine to hum as he raised it in the air like a teasing child. His thumb settled over a red button the size of a half-dollar coin. He smiled like a lunatic, and then pushed the button.

  Strike jolted, her every limb thrusting into the restraints for a quick second as the stinging shock hit her all at once. The sensation reminded her of the time she had stuck a finger in the outlet as a child, the emotional shock more dominant than the physical one sparked by electricity. It was a morbid feeling to get electrocuted, as a quick realization forms around the fragility of life.

  “That was the lowest setting,” Chris said grimly. “Shall I crank it up a notch?”

  “You’re a chickenshit,” Strike replied, her mental stability wavering. She could handle most pain, like the broken fingers, but when electricity flowed, it left her body a seizing mess.

  “Just tell me who is leading the Road Runners. Is this even worth your suffering? You know I’ll find out who it is eventually. Why not just make this easy on both of us?”

  “Go fuck yourself,” she snapped, proud she could still muster the energy to push back against his demands.

  “Okay, very well.” Chris turned the dial again and held down the button.

  The higher voltage created a burning sensation as Strike’s body tensed from head to toe. It immediately felt like she was flexing every single muscle in unison as her head jerked backwards, thudding against the chair. Chris might have only held the button down for three seconds, but she would never know for sure, as it felt like an entire ten minutes.

  Chris cackled when he released the button, even grabbing his stomach to hold in his guts from spilling out. “Oh, Commander, this is more fun than I thought.” He walked circles in place, having virtually no slack from the wires connected to his console, and started conversing with himself. “Can I know who’s leading the Road Runners? No? Okay!”

  He pushed the button, waving the console in the air like a baton and dancing in front of Strike as he shrieked with laughter. Whoever hid in the shadows joined the chorus as electricity pulsed through Strike’s body, leaving her stiff and motionless in the chair.

  117

  Chapter 24

  The sunlight didn’t seep through the windows as it normally did in the mornings. The sky remained gray, clouds pregnant with enough rain to downpour well into the afternoon. Julian still sprouted out of bed at eight o’clock, knowing a long and emotional day awaited.

  He had arrived home shortly before one in the morning and popped a couple of sleeping pills, as he knew he wouldn’t be able to drift away on his own. He felt guilty, but also accomplished and proud. The Road Runners were now free from their ultra-conservative ways and could proceed with a dramatic move to end the war.

  “It’s a great day to become an international hero,” he said to his mirror as he prepared for the day. Everything would change after the realization of Bill’s death. Currently, all of the security detail that followed the Commander was still focused on Strike, working around the clock to find a way to break her free from the mansion. They had offered their services to protect Julian right away, but he insisted that they resolve the Strike matter before making any changes. Once they discovered Bill had been murdered, Julian would no longer have a say in the matter, as the security team would have no choice but to follow and protect him.

  It didn’t matter to him at this point. He had Bill’s recorded voice authorizing the bombs, and no Bill to deny it. It would take a few hours for the decision to be agreed upon by the Committee, but he fully expected to see fireworks before dinner.

  Julian lived in the city of Barrow, a quick five-minute drive to their secret entrance in the middle of nowhere. When he arrived, he jumped out of the car and rushed to the elevator. He entered the office and no one paid him any attention, an immediate good sign that the terrible news had yet to break about Bill, but concerning that his tracking device had not set off an alarm when he died.

  He did die, right? Julian asked himself, remembering Bill had definitely stopped breathing. But what if he started breathing again after he left? That would be catastrophic if Bill somehow survived and remembered who had clocked him over the head with a slab of porcelain. Julian would immediately be put on trial and risk ex-communication from the organization.

  He proceeded to his new office and entered to find a security team rummaging through the desk drawers. “What the hell’s going on?”

  A large man of at least six-and-a-half feet tall, with tattooed arms as big as his legs, crossed the office to meet Julian.

  “Commander, I’m Garrett Anderson, the head of Protection in Europe,” he said in a crisp British accent. “Your team called me in overnight. There’s been a crisis, and they are still working on Commander Strike.”

  “Crisis? What kind of crisis?”

  “I’m afraid Bill has been murdered.”

  Garrett paused. Julian had to make a conscious effort to react as a normal person would, so he moved a hand to his open mouth in shock.

  “I was just talking with Bill last night, right in this office. Why wasn’t I notified immediately?”

  Garrett raised an open hand, fingers the size of bananas. “I’m afraid you’re a suspect, since we believe you were the last person to see him alive. That’s why we’re in here, checking for any clues that might point to his death.”

  “Oh, I didn�
�t realize I was the last person to see him—I thought he stayed here for a bit after he left my office.”

  “We have the video footage of him leaving your office, going to his office to grab his things, and then leaving. May I ask what you were speaking about with him?”

  “We were discussing strategy, both on how to proceed with the war and in the rescue efforts for Strike.”

  “Did he seem worried at all?”

  No,” Julian said, rubbing his head as if in thought. “He seemed like himself—business as usual.”

  Garrett jotted notes down on his handheld pad.

  “May I ask how he died?” Julian questioned, forcing what he believed to be concern in his voice.

  “He was struck on the head with a toilet tank cover. The cover was off and the toilet water was running. We believe he had his head in the tank to try and fix it when someone struck him from behind.”

  Julian let his jaw drop again and moved a quick hand to cover it, acting speechless.

  “Any thoughts on who might have done it?” Garrett asked, an eyebrow cocked at Julian.

  Julian shook his head slowly and thoughtfully.

  “I can’t imagine it being anyone we know. Have you looked into the Revolters? They could very well be plotting revenge for the men we killed on Chris’s property.”

  “We’re looking into all possibilities. We’re going to take his body into the future, study it in the labs there to see if we can find anything. In the meantime, Commander, I suggest you remain vague when explaining this situation to the public. It can create a widespread fear that is unwarranted. Our team is in complete control of the investigation, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Got it.”

  “And please keep your phone on you. We may have follow-up questions about your conversation with Bill.”

  “Of course.”

  Julian’s heart thumped so hard he thought it might burst out of his ears. He shook Garrett’s hand, worried the monstrous man would feel the adrenaline throbbing in his fingertips.