Time of Fate (Wealth of Time Series #6) Andre Gonzalez (best books for 20 year olds .TXT) 📖

the guards’ grips. “I don’t make mistakes,” Chris said, forcing the blade through Thad’s throat, holding it in place as the Liberation’s leader gurgled on his own blood, then pulling it out and licking both sides of the blade clean before returning it to his pocket.

Chris stepped back and watched as Thad’s legs gave out, blood squirting from his throat like a fountain, decorating the living room. Some even landed on Chris’s face, but he didn’t notice, too busy beaming into Thad’s eyes as life slipped away and raw fear emerged from his pores like a seductive gas.

Chris opened his nostrils and took a deep inhale, feeding his soul, lusting for the opportunity to have a similar moment with Martin Briar.

Chapter 9

Chris ordered the team three rounds of drinks for their flight back to Idaho. Flights with his soldiers were typically silent, but Chris encouraged them to celebrate this special occasion by eating, drinking, playing cards, and even smoking cigars. It was a small victory they all needed to boost their morale after the tumult of the past month.

He really needed to return his focus to Briar and the Road Runners. Thaddeus had proven that Chris could be too easily distracted with other threats, and let his guard down for that hour in his Iowa home. Anything could have happened during that hour, and Chris needed to keep that in mind.

They all shared a laugh before landing in Idaho, mocking Thaddeus for thinking he could get away with such ambition.

“Would someone on their last leg as Keeper be able to sniff out that bullshit and put a swift end to it?!” Chris asked his raucous jet of soldiers.

“NO!” they all barked in response.

“Does the Keeper of Time ever quit?!”

“NO!”

“Does the Keeper of Time bow down to his enemies?!”

“NO!”

“Will the Keeper of Time ever die?!”

“HELL NO!”

They broke into chaotic cheering, some of the large men even jumping around, the jet feeling like it had caught a bout of mild turbulence. Chris fell back into his lounge chair, laughing to the ceiling.

As was always the case, celebrations only lasted so long for the Revolution. Once they landed and hit the road for their hour drive to Three Creek, Chris had already shifted his focus to the next task at hand. It was Monday, and that meant an incoming phone call from Sonya was scheduled for exactly 3:45 P.M.

He had twenty minutes to spare once they arrived to the house, and Chris used the time on his laptop, browsing the live feed of the Road Runners’ news network. There were no stories of significance—mostly uplifting crap that he had no interest hearing about.

Sonya had been on her own for over a month now, and had always called at the exact day and time they had agreed on. Chris, a man of his word, had indeed refused to look into Sonya’s whereabouts, trusting their agreement of her checking in once a week to ensure she was breathing and well.

He closed the Road Runners’ feed at 3:44 and leaned back in his office chair, arms clasped behind his head as he waited for the phone to ring. He knew she was in the past, Sonya having informed him she had to jump forward to place the phone call.

3:45 struck and he took a deep breath, rapping his fingers on the desk, grabbing the computer’s mouse to fidget with something. A grandfather clock stood in the opposite corner of the room, the seconds ticking away with the calming—yet torturous—sound of the pendulum swinging back and forth.

When 3:46 hit, Chris stared at the small clock on the lower right corner of his computer screen, the time teasing him. His legs started to bounce underneath the desk. “Where are you, Sonya?” he mumbled, turning on his cell phone’s screen to ensure the time was consistent across all devices.

3:47 came and Chris scratched his head before letting his hand land over his mouth. He pinched his lips as his eyes remained fixated on the time, the minutes seeming to drag.

At 3:48 he unlocked his cell phone and scrolled through his past calls until he found the one time-stamped from last week at 3:45. The caller ID showed as “Unavailable”, but he pressed on it to see where it might ring, bracing for Sonya to answer. It rang fifteen times before Chris hung up and dropped the cell phone on top of his desk, standing up to pace around the office. “Sonya, this isn’t funny,” he said to the phone, refusing to break eye contact with it.

By the time the clock struck 3:50, Chris started grabbing loose items on his desk and hurling them at the walls, cursing under his breath.

He picked up his cell phone and dialed again, faced with the same response. “What the fuck?” he asked the empty office, sitting back down and letting his legs continue their antsy bouncing.

He called Duane, who didn’t answer. He called Mario Webster down at Wealth of Time, who also did not answer—his call went straight to voicemail. The thought crept into his mind that this was the moment Briar had planned for. Alone in his office, he’d have no way of knowing if time was frozen, so he opened the door and trudged into the living room, relieved at the sight of his soldiers gathered around the TV, laughing at a stand-up comedy special of Louis C.K.

Chris grumbled before returning to his office relieved to know it wasn’t time to fight, but panic further bubbling within.

Can she actually be hurt? he wondered. Yes, but there are plenty of other logical reasons she hasn’t called—no need to panic. She could have fallen asleep for an afternoon nap. Could be out at the store and lost track of time. Or maybe she just forgot. She does have the tendency to be a bit scatterbrained at times.

“Or she’s in trouble,” Chris said, his voice drowning out his internal thoughts.

His legs had grown tired from the constant bouncing and pacing, and he