In the corner, just as he imagined, was Gernot, sniper rifle in hand. It was surreal to see the man that he’d had a hand in killing still alive and vertical. The rifle in Gernot’s grip was supported by the window sill, but he wasn’t looking through its scope. He was staring straight at Blake, eyes wide, mouth agape. Now he collected himself as he realized what this encounter meant.
“Not a step closer, I’ll kill him!” Gernot rasped, his Russian accent coming out harsh in his anger. The calm demeanor of the man Blake had witnessed in Amhurst’s lab coldly preparing to kill the old doctor was gone. This didn’t even seem like the same person. And it wasn’t, just another version. Minus the grotesque burn scar.
Blake’s gun came up and he trained it on the Russian. “No you won’t. You miss. How do you think I’m here?”
For a split second Blake’s own words snagged in his mind. Was this the reason Gernot had missed before? Had he already done this as well? Were the loops just sequencing one after another — where if he failed once and corrected his steps, he only locked himself into another loop?
No! He had to be changing something this time. He could feel it … even the air seemed to be charged with expectation.
The assassin stared, his eyes twitching. The question on his face was clear: Do I really miss?
“Your friend Wallace,” Gernot said with a dry voice.
“He’s not my friend, and he can join you in Hell when I’m done with you.”
Gernot sneered. “You can’t stop me. Neither can Wallace. He and I are exactly the same.” He gave a harsh bark of laughter. “Ha! Wallace and his five.”
Wallace and his five? Blake didn’t know what Gernot was talking about. There were more than five members in Jackman’s squad. But he no longer cared, and he was done talking with this scumbag.
He pulled the trigger. Blake didn’t know how many bullets he fired, but he knew the sound of an empty weapon when the first —click— emanated from the gun. He also registered one shot of Gernot’s rifle ringing out along with his own fire and for a heart-stopping moment he feared things were repeating.
Blake rushed toward the dead Russian, yanking the sniper rifle away from the man’s lifeless hands. He peered through the scope, down at Jo Ann’s Café. The glass window had been blown out, Ethan was scuttling beneath the table, and then …
He let out a breath as he saw Captain Fredericks moving to shelter as well and sagged against the window in relief. He’d done it!
There was no time to celebrate though. If he wasn’t out soon, he’d have a lot of explaining to do when New York’s finest showed up.
Blake dumped the rifle and ran for the door, ignoring the protest from his injured leg.
55
The Green Bile
The Mustang’s driver side door was almost ripped from its hinges as Ethan jerked it open. He slid down, sitting half inside, half outside the vehicle, and tossed the file folder Fredericks had brought to their meeting onto the passenger seat. Then he took the CB off the hook and was about to speak when an expression of deep thought settled over his face.
He reran the events of that morning back in his mind. The last few moments had been a blur and he was feeling the effects of adrenaline — that strange shaky yet exalted sensation that made the heart and muscles fill with boundless, crazy energy.
He’d felt this way before, when the call of duty took him to dangerous places, but somehow this was more … substantial. Personal. That shot had been meant for him; there was no doubt. Thank God no one had been hurt.
After the shock subsided, Fredericks gave the order to call for backup then proceeded to clear out the café. Despite what had just happened, the only thought on Ethan’s mind now was — Didn’t I lock the car? It was the second time today this had happened. Earlier that morning, as he’d left The Cozy Clam, he’d scolded himself for leaving it unlocked all night especially in that area of town. Then, just now, he’d been in such a rush to radio the call in, he hadn’t even bothered to pull out his keys; yet the door was unlocked.
The stinging thought persisted as he began to speak through the radio, “Dispatch, this is —”
“Hang it up.”
The voice sounded intimately familiar, like when someone hears a playback recording of themselves talking. And at the same time there was a rasp to it that reminded him of Uncle Tobias.
Ethan started, but didn’t hang up the CB or call for help. He didn’t even think to draw his gun, which was out of character for him. Instead, he let go of the transmitter and spun in his seat. It wasn’t the face of Tobias he saw looking back at him, but a gaunt distressed version of himself taking up residence in the cramped backseat.
His mind went blank as he stared at the man. When coherent thought returned, the only thing it seemed capable of was repeating, What the hell? What the hell?!
He squeezed his eyes shut to silence the internal mantra and clear his vision. He’d been under a lot of stress lately, and now he was not only hearing things, he was seeing them too. Maybe it was time to schedule an appointment with Shelby Bennett, the department shrink. She’d worked wonders for Nathan Tust after he’d shot that kid by accident in the line of duty.
Ethan opened his eyes. No, the apparition was still there. What if he wasn’t seeing things? If that was the case, what the fuck was happening then?
Possible scenarios rocketed through his mind, one being: was it the Russians? Had they managed to put someone under the cosmetic knife to replicate his own facial appearance? If so, why? If not, the question remained: what was at play here? Ethan supposed anything was possible, but the immediate fact remained that a man with his face was still in the backseat, and that needed to be dealt with first.
He finally went for his firearm, but before he had the chance to grab it, his doppelganger read his mind.
A gun came into view, propped on the man’s thigh. The swiftness of the motion was impressive, but the pained expression on the mystery man’s face said that the movement had cost him significant reserves of strength. This was not a well man.
“Let’s remain calm for a moment,” the husky voice said. “We should take a drive; there is much to discuss.”
The car maneuvered onto the busy street, leaving the chaos of Jo Ann’s Café. Approaching sirens wailed and blared as four cruisers passed them on the way to the scene.
“Why don’t you begin by telling me who you are?” Ethan said.
“I’m you, only close to a year wiser.”
“Looks more like a decade,” Ethan quipped as he glanced up at the rearview mirror, but otherwise showed no outward response to the news.
“There’s a lot that will sound crazy, but you’ll have to believe me. You have fears about some Russians in New York, right?”
“How did you —”
“It isn’t a fantasy. That shit is real. They call themselves the Sons of Stalin.”
“It feels pretty fucking fictional to me — I mean, come on, who the hell are you really?”
“I told you. I’m you. I traveled back to 1948 to stop the Sons of Stalin. I failed, but managed to make it back here, to 1986.”
Ethan opened his mouth to shoot back a retort, but Blake cut him off. “I don’t want to hear any fucking Marty McFly reference.”