Sleep would be uncomfortable in the bucket seat of the car, but at least it would be an escape from the cold and a chance to keep close to Ethan. All that mattered was that he was gone before Ethan came down to leave for his meeting with Captain Fredericks at Jo Ann’s Café.
Blake shoved the keys into his pocket and leaned back in his seat. The movement caused a sudden wave of dizziness, making his head swim, and an unsettled feeling ran a sickly course through him. It was an unfamiliar sensation at first but then evolved into nausea, and he instantly wanted to vomit. He closed his eyes and took several breaths to calm himself. The odd stirring in his stomach finally passed.
It’s nothing. Just anxiety and exhaustion.
Right, the voice in the back of his mind answered.
A beeping disturbed the silence, followed by the clanging of a dumpster being emptied. Blake’s eyelids cracked open slowly and he groaned. He’d slept like shit last night. Getting into the car unnoticed had been easy enough, but catching sleep hadn’t. His malaise from the night before on the metro fluttered back to him and he groaned again.
When the feeling subsided, he got up and glanced around the parking lot. Most of the cars were still here. He wanted to catch more sleep, but he had to go now. The meeting with Fredericks would be soon and he needed to grab something to eat before he got there, even though food was the last thing he wanted.
Blake got out of the car, bringing his pack with him. As he walked away, he patted the roof of the Mustang affectionately. God, how he missed it.
He headed to Jo Ann’s Café after snagging a bite to eat on the go: hot coffee for his freezing bones, a bacon and egg sandwich for a protein boost, and a donut to feed his sweet tooth.
The strange unease flowed through his body again. Maybe it hadn’t been wise to polish off that biscuit with the donut; now it curdled in his belly and wanted to come back up. Blake told himself that his stomach was probably rebelling against the highly-processed foods here. After spending over half a year in the 40s, maybe he wasn’t ready for good old New York food. His concern wasn’t easily abated this time, but he was nearing his destination and couldn’t stop to think about it now.
He spied the building across the street from the diner and noted it was a rundown brick and mortar style apartment complex. The structure was twelve stories high unless his count was off, but Blake only cared about what was inside one of the rooms on the third floor. He glanced up at the window he remembered seeing the sniper rifle poking out of. From what he could tell, it would be the third one from the left.
It surprised Blake that it had taken him so long to figure out how the Russians knew Ethan would be coming here today. The conclusion he’d finally drawn was that the Captain’s home phone must have been wire tapped. Putting a tap on the whole police station would have been too hard for the Russian cell to accomplish unnoticed, and the amount of calls that streamed in daily would have been burdensome to weed through. Sitting back and hoping to catch some chatter about Ethan’s location coming out of his boss’s house would be far simpler.
Perhaps the only reason Ethan — he — hadn’t been killed that day was because he’d been eating with his back to the window. It was likely that the only way the sniper had gotten a bead on Ethan was when he was able to eyeball Captain Fredericks’ visible gold badge through the gun’s scope.
Today would be the true test. So far, Blake had only changed one incident since he returned, and it had been a good one, of course: he hadn’t died on the street in front of his building.
Granted, he could have just avoided going there altogether, but he needed the shootout to happen because when Ethan had witnessed it that day, his decision to stay away from home had been sealed. Blake couldn’t be sure it had been sealed even after the face beating he’d given the guy in the van. A part of him — Ethan — might have thought he could just return home when the coast was clear. However, seeing the guy with the buzz cut and black jacket go down outside the entryway to his condo had confirmed it wouldn’t be safe to return. Not until he could get a handle on things.
Now that he had a glimpse of his own future — and also knew the immediate fate of his Captain — an inkling of frustration and doubt still loomed on his horizon. Had yesterday’s success at changing the present really been a success, or was he creating yet another loop?
He took a look at the cheap watch fastened to his belt. He’d purchased it at a 7-11 last night on his way to The Cozy Clam. Fortunately, this watch lacked the claw hooks that his traveling timepiece had, but he’d been unable to get it to tighten on his arm without it falling off.
It was almost 6:45, and he was now on the third floor of the building across the street. The wallpaper in the hallway was cheap, peeling and bubbling in pockets. The neglected interior was a reflection of the neighborhood as a whole. This worked to Blake’s advantage. Neighbors wouldn’t come running right away at the sound of trouble. Not that they would in an upscale apartment either, but reaction time in a place like that would be marginally better. Here, any ruckus contained within the separate cubicles that passed for apartments would probably be ignored outright.
Blake stood at the door marked 3011, the third one from the end. There was no use checking the handle to see if it was unlocked; it wouldn’t be. He pulled out his gun. Putting a bullet into the chamber would be difficult without a second hand, but he’d already figured out a solution.
He shoved the slider against the chair rail molding of the corridor and pushed the gun downward. Slowly, he released the tension on the gun; there was no need letting the Russian get wind of his presence right outside the room. Now the weapon was ready. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and exhaled. Here goes.
Blake assumed an adjusted stance to accommodate for the handicap of one arm. Then he aimed the gun at the doorknob, fired into the surrounding wood twice in quick succession, and smashed shoulder first into the door. There was a brief creak of resistance before the area around the knob tore away as it relinquished its hold.
Half stumbling, half charging into the room, his brain took hold of his surroundings. It wasn’t quite what he’d been expecting, having mentally prepared himself to come barging into a living room, with the sniper in a corner taking aim at Ethan. Instead, he’d catapulted himself into a narrow hallway, his inertia propelling him ahead until he regained control of his feet before face planting on the ground. The knife wound in his right calf burned from the aggressive demands of his body, slowing his run to an awkward, limping sprint.
In the distance, he heard a bolt action rifle sliding a bullet meant for Ethan — but bearing Fredericks’ name — into place. Blake was reaching the end of the small hallway now. Soon he would be in the living area he’d initially prepared for. Maintaining pace, erratic though it was, he rounded the corner.
The speed of time can be a strange thing. It accelerates when it ought not to and creeps along when it should. In the span of mere seconds, Blake analyzed his backdrop in striking detail. Somewhere in a lecture hall, he figured Dr. Cunningham could be delivering a perfect but boring sermon on the subject.
On the floor between a worn couch and a coffee table was an unmoving body; Blake presumed the apartment’s resident. The woman’s head was at an unnatural angle, the neck blue and purple from internal bleeding and bruising. His eyes followed the rotation of his own neck as he scanned the room.