He reached the front door, the porch light making him feel spotlighted like a prisoner attempting to escape a maximum security facility. The door had windows at the top that Martin could see through by standing on his tiptoes.
The glow had indeed been a TV, the screen frozen on baseball highlights. A hand holding a remote lay on the armrest of a cushioned armchair, but Martin couldn’t make out if it was Duane or his mother.
He tried the doorknob to find it locked. Worth a try.
Gerald had prepared him for this, sending him with a lock pick to enter the house without leaving any trail behind. Martin pulled the pick out of his pocket, the size of a small screwdriver with a metal tip shaped like the batarangs that Batman throws at his enemies. “It’s one of the simplest tools you can use,” Gerald had explained, demonstrating on his own office door.
He inserted the pick and drew a deep breath. It was not a matter of jiggling madly until the door magically unlocked. It required concentration, and he was grateful for the silent night to assist him. He felt around for the pins within the lock, starting at the furthest one back and rotating toward the front until all were pressed upward. Five pins were inside from his count and he had them all moved out of place within a minute, turning his wrist for the final blow that slapped the bolt out of position.
He tried the knob again, and this time it gave, the door creaking open, the sound making Martin paranoid to the point of looking over his shoulder to make sure there wasn’t some elderly person just discovering for the first time their ability to resist frozen time.
The odor of bitter cigars immediately rushed Martin’s nose, not the most sanitary decision for someone living with his cancer-ridden mother. Unless she was the one smoking, refusing to give up the act until her dying day. Martin had an older uncle who smoked cigarettes while lugging his oxygen tank behind him, the thought now making him want to laugh.
Just get Duane and get the hell out of here. And stop worrying, you are literally alone in this city. No one is here to even see what you’re doing.
Ready to ride the brief wave of confidence, Martin stepped all the way into the living room, finding Duane in the recliner, his gaze unmoved from the TV screen. Martin needed everything to look legit and turned off the TV, letting the room fall into darkness, only receiving a slight illumination from the porch light spilling through the front door.
“Let’s get you out of here.”
Duane wasn’t as big as he expected. He had seen pictures and thought of Chris’s right-hand man as much beefier than the man sitting in the recliner. He could have let himself go after coming to Florida, falling into the slow-paced lifestyle and all-you-can-eat buffets that surrounded him on a daily basis.
Martin tugged at Duane’s left arm and met a bit of resistance, as if the bones were frozen in place, but it eventually gave way and loosened. He hadn’t done much exercise since becoming the commander, often forced at the end of long days to decide if he wanted to catch a couple hours of sleep, or spend time in the gym. Sleep always won.
He still watched his diet and didn’t lose too much of the strength he had gained from his extensive bootcamp last year. He crouched to Duane’s level, accidentally kicking aside an empty beer can on the floor, the aluminum clanging into a wall and creating chaotic sound that almost made Martin gasp.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered under his breath.
He regained his focus and slipped his arms around Duane’s sides, hugging him around the waist and clenching his fingers behind his back. Martin’s thighs flexed as he tugged and pulled Duane upward, a slight grunt slipping from his lips as he hoisted with all of his energy. “Motherfucker!”
Martin thought his legs might give out and send them both sprawling to the floor, but it never happened. He elevated Duane in his embrace just a few inches above the recliner, but Martin dug into his well of mental strength, willing the body upward and over his shoulder, holding him like a large child needing to be carried to bed after passing out on the living room couch.
He let out a relieved sigh, his arms wrapped around the legs as Duane’s arms dangled over Martin’s back. “I got you, big boy, and next time, we’re going straight for the piggyback method.”
Martin knew he’d have to carry Duane up those stairs to get on the jet, but quickly brushed the thought aside, needing to focus on the present. “Say goodbye, because you’re either going to end up dead or on one of our famous islands.”
He started for the front door, sure to close it behind him quietly with his one free arm. The front lawns were tiny, Martin grateful for the short walk to the car. He reached the passenger side and pulled open the rear door, crouching once more to lower Duane into the vehicle.
This time his legs did give out, but the backseat caught them both. Duane splayed out on his back as Martin fell forward, catching himself on the floor of the car with one exhausted arm. He ran around to the other side to pull Duane all the way through, an action that sent goosebumps up his spine as he remembered doing the same thing with Gerald in 2064 after their companion, Brigham, had been killed in their apartment while they were out in the city.
With Duane securely in the car, Martin panted for his breath as he returned to the driver’s seat, firing up the engine and skidding out of the neighborhood like he was being chased by the police.
Once the adrenaline wore off, Martin shouted excitedly. “Wooo! That’s how you do it! That’s how you win a fucking war!”
It was only one step, but a big one that would certainly send Chris into a frenzy. He backtracked his route, driving much faster as urgency crept into his mind. The clocks were frozen, but he calculated roughly fifteen minutes for his venture into the house and loading Duane into the car. If all went well, he’d be back on the jet with plenty of time to spare and make the call across the ocean for Blair to unfreeze time.
Why haven’t we been doing this from the beginning? Why is everyone so afraid of using this ability? Strike didn’t want me to use it without proper testing first. They brushed it aside. I could have rescued her this way—but no one wanted to listen.
Martin vowed to never be close-minded to anyone’s suggestions during his term as commander. Nearly every Road Runner was brilliant in their own way, and there was never a lack of good ideas. When he had first joined, they were known for having the highest standards of excellence. Everyone he had met was kind and hard-working, ambitious almost to a fault, so consumed by advancing the betterment of the organization.
“Where did that go?” he asked the rear-view mirror where a frozen Duane held his gaze that had been watching baseball on TV. “Did you bastards take it from us? Or did it just fizzle?”
Martin supposed it was a combination of the two factors, and it certainly didn’t help having the organization’s highest ranking court scurry into hiding like frightened mice.
Chris got to us. He escalated matters to the point where no one wanted to participate in life, let alone the Road Runners.
“Never again. I don’t give a shit if it’s a Revolter or a Liberator. They will never terrorize us again.”
Martin pulled into the hangar, the jet waiting, motivation replacing the paranoia that had clung to him since he arrived in Florida. He pulled the car next to the mobile stairs where Gregory still stood with his hands inches apart, about to clap.
“Let’s go, Mr. Betts,” Martin said as he killed the engine and let himself out. His newfound ambition sparked a fresh wave of energy and strength. The climb up the stairs seemed less daunting, especially now that he would start with Duane over his back like a younger sibling taking a piggyback ride on their big brother’s shoulders.
Duane’s entire body had finally loosened, making it easier for Martin to maneuver his limbs and prop him into the needed position. The night remained still as Martin climbed the steps, the real possibility of ending this war throbbing like a migraine in his head. Part one was complete, and later this morning the fireworks would begin in Alaska.
20
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Chapter 20
As the commander, Martin enjoyed the customization of the jet to his liking. Strike had installed a small corner designated for meditation and yoga. Martin replaced it with a fully-stocked bar and flat screen TVs. Strike had a pantry full of organic and vegan options. Martin ripped that shit out and installed an industrial refrigerator to store the finest meats money could buy.
Martin kept the furniture, however, not caring enough to replace the dark red lounge chairs and matching sofa. He didn’t have a decorative bone in his body and wouldn’t even know where to begin with that sort of project.
Duane lay on the couch, a limp blob of flesh as Martin raced back down to the car to drop a hundred dollar bill on the driver’s seat as a thank-you to Gregory. He dashed back up the steps and closed the aircraft’s door.
His pilot sat in the cockpit, frozen with an open paperback held in his lap. Martin scampered around to make sure everything was in place, and once calm, dialed Commander Blair.
“How did it go? Did you catch your guy?”
“Yes, it was actually kind of easy.”
“That’s what I like to hear. I was keeping an eye on you through the tracking software. There wasn’t a soul around you in that neighborhood. Glad everything worked out. Are you ready to let the world keep spinning now?”
“Absolutely. We have a very busy twenty-four hours coming up, and this flight may be the only sleep I get for the next couple of days.”
“You got it. Let me know when you need my help again.”
“You’ll be hearing from me soon. Thank you, Commander.”
“Good luck today. We’ll be following closely.”
They hung up and Martin sat back in his lounge chair, pulling out his pistol and pointing it at Duane. After a few seconds, the jet rumbled as the hum of its engines rose back to life, sending the most subtle vibrations up his back.
A certain tension that lingered in the air while time was frozen vanished, and Martin watched as Duane flailed his arms and sat up.
“What the hell?!” he gasped, his stare bouncing around the jet like a confused bird.
“Welcome,” Martin said with a smirk.
Duane jumped off the couch, but didn’t make a move toward Martin.
“I suggest you sit down. It’s a long flight back to Denver.”
“Martin Briar? What are you doing here?”
Martin laughed. “Been out of the loop for a bit, haven’t you? Does Chris not keep you updated while you’re gone?”
“I asked him to leave me alone while I cared for my mother. Where is she? What did you do to her?!”
Martin raised a steady hand. “Relax. I’m not like you demented pieces of shit. Nothing happened to your mother. She’s still sound asleep in her house. I’ll let you call one of her neighbors later this morning to let them know you had to leave.”
“You had no right! How dare you! That is a dying woman you left abandoned.”
“And you had the right to barge into my house and kill my mother? Don’t give me your sob story.”
“I wasn’t there. I had no involvement.”
“Good for you. But I’m sure you knew about it. And what did you do, turn a blind eye? I didn’t take you tonight for some sort of revenge, although it is good karma for you to have to experience this. We wanted you for the simple reason of having you in our possession. See, that mansion is going to be bombed today and Chris will be on the run, surely looking for you.”
“You’ll never penetrate the outer shield—that’s impossible,” Duane said, pompous.
“Wow, you really don’t have a clue what’s going on. Good for Chris for not bothering you during your difficult time, but I thought for sure he’d at least keep you up-to-date. Let’s see, where to start? First off, I’m the new commander of the Road Runners.”
Duane’s eyes bulged at the words.
“Secondly,” Martin continued. “The shield around the mansion is down. Chris blew up our Alaskan headquarters. Sent a suicide bomber right into the place and POOF! Just like that. Then he brought down our hotel on the Las Vegas Strip. Killed thousands of our people and civilians as well. Your boy is on fire, I’ll give him that. He’s clearly feeling cocky, too, because after our Alaskan office went up, he dropped the shield. It’s probably not the dumbest move, seeing as there is no longer a consistent threat there, but why not just keep them up?”
“Oh my God, Chris, no you didn’t,” Duane said to himself, slapping a hand on his forehead.
“Tell me, Duane… you’re really the brains behind Chris. He’s just a wild dog trying to ruin people’s lives, but you’re the one who brings structure to the Revolution, are you not?”
Duane crossed his arms and slowly nodded. “I’m not one to brag about myself, but yes, it’s true. Chris is nothing but a sociopath. And he is smart when it comes to big picture tasks like plotting major attacks, but the guy has no common sense. I think his invincibility makes him completely reckless. He only worries about himself, and since he can’t die, he doesn’t have anything to actually worry about.”
“I get the sense that you were once a good man,” Martin said, not moving the pistol. “It’s a shame you had to dirty your soul with the Revolution.”
“‘Dirty my soul’? You’re the one who ran away like a coward. You betrayed the Revolution. Chris was ready to bring you into the inner circle. This could very well be you on this couch right now.”
“Looks like I made the right decision, then.” Martin shot a smirk across the way. “You people are nothing more than a terrorist organization. You should have seen the damage you did in Las Vegas. Zero regard for the innocent lives lost that had nothing to do with this war.”
“I don’t know what you want from me. I’ve been in Florida for the last two months—I didn’t even know these things were happening.”
“I want nothing from you. You don’t owe me an explanation. I have what I want by you being on this jet with me. We’re not going to hurt you—or your mother. You’ll be living in one of our holding cells as long as needed. We’ll keep you fed and give you a comfortable place to sleep.”
“Then what is this really about? Because at the end of the day, Chris doesn’t give a shit. If you told him that you had me as prisoner, he’d probably just laugh and tell you to kill me. This is a man who killed his own wife and shunned his only child to get where he is today. I’m nothing compared to those two.”
“Good to know, but it has nothing to do with that. We know Chris is afraid. We’ve been sparring with words since I came into my position a couple weeks ago. I haven’t backed down or cowered to his commands like others. Perhaps I’m making the same mistake as him in thinking I’m invincible.”
“But you’re not.”
“I know that, but I have nothing to live for, so there’s not really much of a difference, in my opinion. See, I didn’t want this job—they forced me to run in the election and I humored them by agreeing to it. Somehow I ended up winning, and I still don’t understand how. I’m never getting my daughter back, you people killed my mother, and Sonya is likely gone forever. So I might as well try to do the right thing by destroying the Revolution. If I die in the process, then I get what I’ve been afraid to do myself for the past two decades. It’s a win-win for me.”
“You know, your Road Runners aren’t as innocent as you think. They may not physically harm people as often as we do, but they play the mental game. I think everything you told me is the exact reason they asked you to run for the commandership. They study people’s lives extensively. They probably know things about your life that you’ve personally forgotten. A man with nothing to lose is the perfect candidate to make a move on Chris. That way if you die, it doesn’t look like an intentional sacrifice—but it is. I’ve never encountered a more deliberate group of people than the Road Runners. Every single decision is made with a purpose.”
“We’re just forward thinking and prepared for everything. We have to be when dealing with terrorists
like you on a daily basis.”
But now Martin wondered. Was he really a pawn in some sort of plot being run from the European Road Runners? Was someone else pulling the levers from across the ocean? He couldn’t show any doubt, and instead shouted for his pilot. “We need to get back to Denver – is the jet ready?”
The pilot emerged from the cockpit, eyes studying Duane and the pistol pointed at him. “We’re ready, Commander.”
“Perfect, let’s go!”
The pilot nodded and disappeared to prepare for takeoff.
“You know, Duane, I think we could have worked very well together, whether it was in the Revolution or the Road Runners. I suppose we’ll never know, but I feel like we complement each other quite nicely, don’t you think?”
Duane stared at Martin with no response.
“You don’t need to be so serious,” Martin said. “Lighten up—this isn’t the end of the world. If we can actually kill Chris, I don’t see why we wouldn’t let you go.”
“You still haven’t told me what you need me for.”
“My apologies,” Martin said with a grin. “We think Chris might seek someone else to inject his blood into to keep his invincibility. We’re just picking off people we know he trusts. We’d appreciate your help in naming any other people you might know.”
“Fuck you,” Duane said sharply, not moving a muscle.
“That’s the spirit. Put these on.” Martin reached into a bag on the floor and tossed a pair of handcuffs to Duane. “Cuff one to your wrist and the other to the foot rail at the bar.”
He nodded toward the bar where Duane looked and saw the shiny golden rail drilled into the floor.
“Are you shitting me? I have to lay on the ground?”
“It’s either that or I have to cuff your wrists and ankles together so you can’t move. I just want to take a nap. You decide.” Martin cocked the pistol, the threatening click lost in the sound of the rumbling jet that started down the runway. “It’s a three-hour flight. You can get some sleep, too. Didn’t seem like you had gone to bed yet for the night anyway.”
Zero Hour (Wealth of Time Series, Book 5) Page 13
