Reversion (The Narrows of Time Series Book 3) (42 page)

A moment later, a powerful field began to attract all the foreign metal in the room, grabbing hold of the four men, their guns, and their gadgets. Each of the men flew through the air toward the whirring magnet, snapping to its casing like insects stuck on flypaper.

Another ten seconds went by before the Smart Skin Suit energized, taking Lucas to his final destination—Anchor Point Alpha.

Lucas woke up from his trip to the past lying on his back. He opened his eyes and found a dim overhead light flickering back at him. It was attached to a gray, dingy ceiling in a room that smelled like baby powder. He’d expected to find himself standing on the street in front of his parents’ home in Tucson on his third birthday. His first childhood memory and the one Anchor Point in time that Kleezebee and Fuji knew where his parents would be—just a few months before his incursion to stop Drew’s mom from driving home.

But instead, he was somewhere else—and at night. He figured a supercharged magnetic field was the reason. His decision to crank the MRI device to full power must have altered the incursion stream slightly.

Anchor Point Alpha was all about convincing his deadbeat parents to leave the drug trade and do so for the sake of humanity and the future. He knew it was a long shot, but it was the last shot. The only shot. He had to succeed, otherwise, billions would die. If he could somehow make them understand what was at stake across time and space, they’d have to listen to him—right?

He rolled to his side and sat up, locking eyes with a bleary-eyed, male toddler standing in a crib. The boy was holding onto the wooden bars like a convict staring at his warden, expecting a release. The freckled youngster’s hands may have been tiny, but Lucas soon learned that his lungs were larger than life when the cuddly kid starting screaming.

Lucas held a finger to his mouth, trying to shush the boy before his parents came running to investigate. It didn’t work. The baby’s high-pitched wailing only got worse. Lucas smiled and pulled at his face, twisting and distorting his skin to distract the child. His series of funny faces and goofy clownlike antics seemed to work. The baby stopped crying in an instant and giggled. It was one of those cute little laughs that babies make. The kind that melt everyone’s heart.

Lucas took a few of the quiet moments to look around the darkened space, searching for the door. The shadows were overflowing with toys and stuffed animals. Except for a half-full hamper bag and a four-drawer dresser standing in the corner, everywhere he looked—more toys. A homemade sign of paper letters hung on the wall above him. It was held in place on each end with masking tape, and it said HAPPY BIRTHDAY LUCAS.

He’d made it to Anchor Point Alpha all right, but was inside his own childhood bedroom instead of outside his family’s home. He needed to get out now, before his parents found him. If they did, they’d never listen to him—not a strange man lurking around in their baby’s room wearing a Smart Skin Suit. They’d surely have him arrested and this final attempt would fail before it had a chance to get started.

There was also the likelihood of his father owning a gun. Most drug dealers carried, and finding a predator near his son would be all the justification he’d need to use it. The Smart Skin Suit was a marvelous piece of technology, but it wasn’t designed to stop a vengeful father and a barrage of hollow points.

Lucas pressed to his feet and walked on his toes to the door, dodging three piles of playthings and the hamper bag. The door was sitting ajar, letting two inches of light drift in from the hallway. His eyes swung back to check the crib—baby was sitting down and sucking on his thumb, his round, playful eyes watching Lucas’ every move. There was a waft of smell in the air. Was the stink coming from the hamper bag or from the kid’s diaper?

When he’d gotten up this morning, the last thing he expected to do was smell his own baby poop, or stare into the eyes of his toddler self. He didn’t know why, but he had a sudden desire to pass along some wisdom before he left the bedroom. Baby Lucas was only three, but the words might hang around for a while and eventually sink in. Another long shot. But it was worth a try. His entire life was nothing but long shots, so why stop now?

He went to the crib and bent down, putting his palm on top of the child’s thin, soft hair to pat it gently.

“Hey, little buddy. You’re three now. Time to lose the diapers and the thumb. You need to take charge of your life because nobody else will. Trust me on this,” he whispered to his blue-eyed self, feeling a strange tingle crawl across his arm and enter his chest.

“And one more thing. When some bully calls you a freak, just turn and walk away. Otherwise, you’ll end up looking like me. These scars are more than just skin deep. They never really go away.”

Baby Lucas smiled and giggled again, never taking his thumb from his mouth.

Lucas turned and went for the door. His fingers pushed it open, allowing him to slip into the hallway. He gave baby Lucas one last glance, then shut the door behind him, leaving it open two inches as before.

Before he could take a step, he heard a loud crash. The cracking, splinter sound made him think someone had just kicked in a door. A second later, a woman screamed as heavy footsteps and clatter rang out ahead of him.

“Don’t move!” a male voice shouted.

Lucas froze, wondering if he’d been discovered.

“Who are you?” another man asked, his voice lower in pitch.

“What do you want?” the woman asked, crying through the words.

Lucas heard a whack, then a heavy thump, like something had just hit the floor—all of the sounds came at him carrying a faint echo. However, all he saw was empty hallway, meaning something was happening in one of the connecting rooms ahead.

“Secure her!” the first man commanded.

“Let go of me!” the woman yelled. She sounded like she was struggling.

The next few seconds were filled with scuffling sounds and several more thumps and whacks.

Lucas stayed low and moved silently to an arched opening on the left side of the long hallway. He peered around the wall break and found a tall houseplant next to the opening on the other side. Its thick leaves and branches provided an effective cover as he observed the spacious room. There were leather couches, plush recliners, glass coffee tables, a stone fireplace, and a ceiling-mounted projection TV.

Seven tall, slender men—all wearing dark ski masks, fitted black suits and white, pressed dress shirts—were armed and huddled around a couple in the middle of the room. The man and woman were kneeling on an area rug. Both of them had wedding rings, red hair, and looked to be in their early twenties. The husband’s face looked swollen, and he was bleeding from a cut on his lower lip. His wife was next to him, crying, with heavy splotches of makeup running down her cheeks. Her mouth was covered with a white strip of cloth, and one of the intruders had the barrel of his pistol pressed against the side of her head.

Lucas assumed the couple was his parents. At first he thought this was a drug deal gone bad, but what he was seeing didn’t support the hypothesis. Drug dealers don’t typically wear matching, expensive suits and ties and show this much restraint, at least not in any movie he’d ever seen.

One of the assailants went to the kitchen. It was located on the far side of the room, directly across from Lucas’ position. A suite of stainless steel appliances, beautiful raised-panel hickory cabinets, and stunning granite counters caught his eye first. His parents were rich, at least by his standards—living in a spacious home with modern furnishings and state-of-the-art electronics—at least for 1984. Not exactly the kind of house he expected two lowlife criminals to own.

He was starting to wonder if the information he’d heard about his drug-dealing parents was wrong. If it was, it would mean he’d spent his entire life hating them for no reason. The skin across his chest tightened when he realized the very foundation of who he was and why he was ultra-motivated to make a name for himself had just been eroded to a paper-thin wafer.

If they weren’t drug dealers, then he wasn’t a crack baby. The kid in the room behind him wasn’t out of control. In fact, he was just the opposite—a happy, relatively calm kid who was loved by affluent parents who showered him with toys. Deep down, he knew his subconscious had always used the crack baby excuse as the fundamental reason to live with a bit of an edge, letting his temper roam free whenever it wanted. Had he been an asshole all these years and done so on his own? What kind of man did that make him?

What else don’t I know about them?

The man in the kitchen retrieved a pair of fancy, high-back wooden chairs from the breakfast eating area and brought them to the center of the room. As the man moved, his suit coat rose up and exposed something shiny on his belt. It was a pair of handcuffs, and they were hanging next to a handheld radio.

Cops?

Or feds—he couldn’t be sure. It could also be a hit squad, or a band of well-dressed mercenaries. Could even be the CIA for all he knew. Something definitely felt off, and it wasn’t just the squad of men with guns or the revelation about his parents. The scene playing out in front of him was all wrong. He didn’t know what this was, but it wasn’t about crack junkie parents and their drugs.

His parents were pulled to their feet and forced to sit in the chairs by two different men, who promptly secured their hands behind their backs.

A man stepped forward and grabbed Lucas’ father by the chin, tugging it up with force. “Who’d you give it to, Chapman?”

Chapman? My last name is Chapman?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Chapman said after the man let go of his face.

“The floppy. We are here to reacquire the information you stole.”

“You’ve got the wrong guy.” Chapman nodded at the wall by the fireplace. “See all those certificates? I’m a chemist. I design food preservatives.”

Lucas looked at the man’s display of accomplishments and felt a wave of pride enter his body. His old man was a scientist, like him.

“We know who you are, Chapman. Or should I say, Red Seven. We’ve been tracking you for some time.”

“I told you, you have the wrong guy. I’m a chemist. Not a spy.”

Holy crap! My dad’s a spook? But for what country? Ours or someone else’s?

The lead man looked to his right, grabbing one of his team members by the lapel. “Bring in the doc. Time to expedite,” the man said with no perceptible accent.

The tension in the room rose tenfold. Lucas watched the man’s colleague hustle outside through the splintered door hanging gingerly on its hinges. It was a few feet to the left of the impressive kitchen.

Lucas needed to go get help and save his family from these thugs. The hallway he was hiding in looked like it angled around and emptied into the kitchen from the right. He might be able to make it that far safely, then hide behind the center island where his parents’ six-burner gas stove was installed. But getting to the broken door undetected was going to be next to impossible. He’d need a diversion or a miracle. Maybe both. Then he’d have to figure out how to slip past however many men were standing guard outside.

“What are you going to do?” his dad asked the man in charge.

“Starling’s going to administer a special blend of pharmaceuticals to your wife. Once he does, you’ll have precisely three minutes to tell us what we want to know.”

Starling? Dr. Starling? The guy I knocked down in the hospital?

“What happens after three minutes?” Chapman asked, spitting a patch of blood from his mouth.

“Her heart stops. But trust me when I say this cocktail is designed to induce more pain than anyone could imagine. At least it does right up until the moment when the heart explodes. We call it Protocol 2, and it’s most effective on trained operatives.”

Lucas’ mom starting screaming muffled sounds into the gag, stomping her feet and shaking the chair she was strapped to.

“You can’t do that! We’re US citizens and we have rights!” Chapman snapped.

“Not today, Chapman. Today, all you have is a few minutes. So decide now. Tell us what we want to know, or watch your wife suffer a horrible, painful death.”

“If you harm her, I’ll kill you where you stand.”

“Those are big words from a lowly food engineer. Besides, I don’t think you’re in a position to be making threats. You might want to save your energy for what comes next.”

Lucas turned and looked at the baby’s bedroom door. His mind slipped into analytical mode, sifting through all the data he’d gathered. If this home invasion happened the first time around, he didn’t remember any of it. Why? It wasn’t because he was only three years old. He had other memories from this age, albeit faint and spotty. Still, a home invasion of this magnitude would certainly be something he’d remember, even as a toddler.

That meant none of this happened the first time through history. If it didn’t, then this incursion, along with each of his previous, had caused bigger and wider ripples to bleed back and change the past.

Fuji did mention something about significantly more power being needed to travel further back in time. More power would result in bigger ripples, affecting larger chunks of the past each and every time. With each change, the math would grow infinitely more complex, so much so that even a brilliant man like Fuji couldn’t anticipate all the variables and formulate corrective action.

Then it hit him: time travel was a no-win scenario.

Every incursion, no matter how carefully planned and executed, would always cause timeline changes to bleed back and alter more of the preceding past. The effects would spread and magnify, making the entire process unpredictable and unquantifiable. It was all starting to crystallize in his mind: their plan to target specific anchor points with planned changes wasn’t going to work, regardless of how tightly focused the selection process was.

Time would always find a way to fight back and adjust, like the flow of a river around an obstacle.

Regardless of the temporal mechanics at play, right now his task was the same. He couldn’t leave the child to face a life without parents—a life in foster care. Or face the wrath of the men holding his parents hostage. He needed to take the baby far away and keep him safe, avoiding the orphanage and a future with Drew. To do that, he’d need a car and a modicum of luck.