Chase (ChronoShift Trilogy) (30 page)

"Anyway," Rialto continued, "I believe our superior numbers will be enough of an advantage we can take them, but our plan must be perfect.  We must kill all three before any one of them can rescue the others.  If we kill two and miss the third, that one will be free to shift back and save his friends before we kill them.

"We've been through a battle like that already, and it's no walk in the park.  We no longer have the element of surprise or an advantage in technology.  Since then, I'd be surprised if they hadn't built up their defenses as well.  We do have Laura, who's an insider.  She knows their habits and how they think.

"Our plan must be flawless in design and in execution.  Once they're dead, we'll be free to rule this world as we see fit.

"Last item. When we do take them, it is
extremely important
that you do not kill them until I'm there."

"Why?"  Plageanet growled.

"Because when a man wearing a shifter dies, the shifter becomes highly unstable and will kill anyone close by if it is not handled properly," Rialto lied, "I'm the only one who knows how to handle the shifters.  Any other questions?"

There weren't.

Rialto stood.  "Enjoy yourselves.  Get rich.  Do what you want.  Just stay away from Carpen and friends for the time being. Make sure you shift back to this year once per day at this time.  You've each got beepers and I'll page you when I need you."

Unbeknownst to them, he'd also affixed a unique and tiny GPS locator on the underside of each of their shifters.  He could locate their position realtime anywhere on earth via satellite during the past twenty years.

He left them stewing in their thoughts.

***

Sir Randolph DeCleary observed the others around the table.

He didn't like what he saw.

The eyes of the men Rialto called Graves and Torino were lifeless, black and beady like rats.  They were dead men walking, ruthless and without mercy.  Paid assassins.

He'd met sailors before and this Cook fellow fit the bill to a tee.  He appeared simple, stupid, and generally unimpressive, at least to Randolph's eyes.  He had the look of a London commoner accustomed to frequent brawls in the local tavern.  Randolph didn't even perceive in the ruffian the discipline of a simple man-at-arms.

A cold shiver ran down his spine as he appraised Plageanet.  This man was not necessarily physically impressive, more wiry than thick, but in his eyes shone a cruelty that was unmistakable.  Something evil lurked deep within that man and Randolph didn't like it.

Laura was the kindest of them by far.   She'd spent a significant amount of time teaching him what they called modern English.  He referred to it as crass English.  It certainly didn't have the style, the flair, or the subtleties of his home tongue.

He found her to be easily frustrated during the lessons.  She was an essentially selfish woman and patience was not one of her virtues.  Still, he appreciated her effort, even if it'd been commanded by Rialto.

More than exotic, her appearance was almost alien.  All the noble women he'd ever known, intimately or otherwise, had pale countenances.  The peasant women of England who worked in their fields were a bit browner, having been darkened by the sun, but even they were nothing like the color of this woman.  He'd seen a Moor once, a man brought from the far South whose color was as dark as coal, but she was not that dark either.

Her color was like a honey brown stallion.  He'd heard of such women in Spain or Italy, or among the Saracens, but had never seen one, though those women were said to have raven black hair.  Hers was golden brown.

The violet color of her eyes had surprised him the most, for he'd neither seen nor heard of a woman with such coloring, and when she'd appeared to him one day with green eyes instead of purple, a sparkling vibrant green the likes of which he'd never seen either, he'd decided she was some kind of witch.

Soon, he'd realized her appearance was not so unusual.  Many of the women of this time, this "modern" time as Rialto referred to it, had strange and unusual coloring, and even odder clothing.  Clothing which revealed more than it hid, advertising a lack of chastity he found simultaneously maddening and disgusting.  An English woman would be publically scorned for such manner of behavior.  Though he was growing more accustomed to the customs of this time, her appearance still fascinated him.

Aside from that, there was nothing he liked about this group of people.  None would hesitate to stab him in the back if it suited their purposes, and they'd probably smile while they did it.

Desire for power, gold, and fame undoubtedly burned in his heart as well, but he still held a modicum of honor which he would not relinquish easily.  These people were not honorable.  They had no code, no chivalry.  Yet, he was trapped neatly, like a fox with a leg in a snare, and he had no choice but to follow.  The object around his wrist held him prisoner more fastly than the Tower itself.

If left to his own designs, he'd go back to
his
England and use this "shifter" to acquire gold.  A lot of gold.  And knowledge. Knowledge was power.  Then, he could purchase land and finally become a nobleman.  With this device, he could become the greatest landholder in all of England, maybe even king.

Plageanet broke his reverie.

"Why do you suppose he wants to be there when they die?"

"Yeah, there's something up with that," Graves agreed.

Cook stood and spat again.  He left the room.  Torino eyed his back darkly as he went.

"Mark told me once that the only way to get a shifter off your wrist was to die," Laura said, "He didn't say it would explode though.  He said it just loosened and fell off the person's wrist."

"What exactly
is
your relationship with Carpen, woman?"  Plageanet sneered.

"
Was
...not is.  And it's none of your business," she replied coolly.

Randolph interrupted, his strong accent holding fast the attention of the others.  "Does it matter?  We are forcibly in Rialto's service.  If we disobey, shall he not do to us as he did to that?"  He pointed at the remains of the destroyed shifter.

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 9
^th
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.