Time Taken

by C B Lewis

Overview

Time travel is a precarious business at the best of times, but when Qasim El-Fahkri's mission to the past ends in violence, it has a ripple effect through every level of the Temporal Research Institute.

Rhys Griffiths finds himself caught in the wake of the disastrous jump, his own career uncertain. With the Supervisory Board breathing down his neck, operatives demanding answers to baffling questions, and life outside of work bearing down on him, his only respite comes from Qasim's company. As the professional slowly becomes the personal, they must confront the echoes of their own pasts to try and move forward in the future.

But another past is waiting for Qasim, and there may be no coming back from this one...

For full enjoyment, it is recommended to first read books 1, Time Waits, and 2, Time Lost.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781950412235
Publisher:	Ninestar Press, LLC
Publication date:	03/18/2019
Series:	Out of Time Series , #3
Pages:	384
Product dimensions:	6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.85(d)

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

THE RAIN HAD finally stopped. The cobbles gleamed in the hazy moonlight, dappled with the warmer glow from the windows of the houses. It was late enough for the streets to be deserted, and the marketplace was silent.

Booted feet tramped by through the streets.

Half a dozen Janissaries. Members of the Sultan's elite guard. All armed with swords and guns. In better days, they would have been a comforting sight. Now, they were the reason people shuttered their windows and closed down their shops at night. With tensions rising across the city, it was better to stay out of their way.

In the shadows between the stalls, a dark figure crouched out of sight.

It wasn't the best idea.

Less than three feet away, there was a broad gutter cutting through the road ankle-deep with the waste of the day. Even with the breeze from the Bosphorus, it stank.

A donkey turd bobbed by.

Qasim El-Fahkri made a face, leaning further back into the shadows and away from the gutter.

It was going to be a relief to get back to the twenty-first century, a time with better hygiene and less danger.

Something brushed against his shoulder.

Only a few years earlier, Qasim would have screamed like a kid, fallen over, or added a sample of his own to the gutter. Thankfully, he'd been on enough missions to know how to control himself, even if his heart was slamming against his ribs and he'd snapped his mouth shut so hard he'd gashed his lip.

There were no shouts and, whatever it was, it didn't have fingers or a grip on him or a knife at his throat.

He twisted around.

A cat was standing on the cobbles, within arm's reach, glowering at him as if he had mortally offended it for getting in its way. Standard cat, then. Relieved, he turned his attention to the soldiers. They were at the edge of the market now. He just had to stay out of sight a little ...

The cat yowled.

Qasim whipped around. "Shh!" he hissed. "Please, shh!"

The cat either didn't speak panicked human or didn't care and yowled again. The soldiers weren't leaving. Their footfalls had turned, coming back, approaching.

Qasim glanced around wildly. There were only two exits from the marketplace, and one of them was definitely not available, on account of the swords and the men attached to them.

The cat wasn't shutting up either.

Some part of his brain must have been operating because he grabbed the sodden creature and shoved it down the front of his robe. It squirmed but, mercifully, didn't remember it had claws. Qasim wrapped his arms over his chest and held his breath.

The footsteps came closer, paused, then moved away again.

Qasim exhaled, closing his eyes.

Too close. Far too close.

Cautiously, he slid closer to the edge of the market stall and peered around it. Between the other stalls, he could see the soldiers heading for the gate. All five of them were marching briskly, and he waited until they were out of sight, then slipped out from behind the stall and straightened up.

Maths.Bollocks! Always a weakness, but he'd never failed to count to six before.

The lingering Janissary — sneaky bastard — grabbed at him.

Everyone thought Qasim was cool in a crisis, which was frankly hilarious. He was the proverbial swan: majestic on the surface, paddling like mad underneath.

Still, there was always a bit of him that seemed to know what it was doing, and it dinged the man hard across the head, hard enough to send him reeling and crashing into the nearest stall.

The cover on the stall gave way, taking one of the support beams with it. The silence shattered as wood and canvas and a full-grown, fully armed man crashed down on the cobbles.

Qasim turned and ran. Behind him, the fallen soldier was yelling. There was some very vulgar Turkish in there, nearly beyond Qasim's vocabulary, but enough for him to feel offended on behalf of his mother and goats.

The streets were a labyrinth — one he'd memorised as much as possible in the weeks leading up to the mission. Just in case, Dieter and Gulshan had both insisted, and as Qasim ducked down a passage and skidded around a corner into a broader alleyway, he wanted to kiss them both.

There was a wail from inside his robe, and the cat wriggled against his chest, but there was no time to stop or release it. "Shh," he panted as he vaulted over a staircase wall and dropped into the alley below. He ducked under the stairs to catch his breath.

From the street above, the shouts of the men chasing him rang out.

For once, he appreciated the curfew. The drama at the Hippodrome had people on edge. It wasn't official, but with Janissaries raising arms, people preferred to take refuge indoors. A political storm was about to break. No one wanted to be caught in it. It also meant no one would flag the guards down and let them know where he was. Problem was he was out in the dark with roaming bands of Janissaries and had a rendezvous point at least a half a mile away.

"Where are you?" Tahmila's voice was a breath in his ear. "I'm here already."

He sighed with relief. She'd made the rendezvous point. One less thing to worry about. He leaned out cautiously from beneath the stairs. It sounded like the soldiers were spreading out, but none of them had come near his hideout yet. "Half a mile. Long story."

"Fifteen minutes."

No pressure at all. Qasim eased out of his hiding place and glanced around to get his bearings. The trouble with moving away from the main square was so many of the smaller alleys were practically identical. If he went down the wrong one and hit a dead end, he might well end up hitting a very literal dead end a short time later.

The cat shifted under his robes. It felt like it was curling up and making itself comfortable. Of course, it bloody was.

He slunk forward, darting from one patch of shadow to another. The clouds were thinning, and the moonlight was growing brighter. He slipped between two rows of buildings, clinging as close as he could to the walls. People were still awake inside the houses. Lamps were lit. Voices carried. The scents of woodsmoke, spices, and cooking meat made his stomach gurgle.

No one noticed him. The soldiers seemed to have fallen away behind him. Still, there was no reason to be reckless. He yanked his boots off, balancing precariously on one foot then the other. Dirty feet could be washed, but the rap of a boot's heel in the silence could be as deadly as yelling and waving his arms.

He turned into another alleyway and continued north. Under his robe, the cat started kneading at him. He hissed between his teeth as claws dug through his shirt.

"Why haven't I dropped you yet?" he whispered, peering down through the collar of his robe. In the darkness, the cat was damned near invisible.

"Me?" Tahmila. Again.

He made a face as he stepped into another narrow passage and then swore as a rope strung across it caught him right across the forehead. Always with the unexpected clotheslines. He ducked and hurried onwards, hoping to hell it was just rain and not blood or cat doings soaking through his clothes.

Ahead of him, the passage widened into a broader avenue, and he approached the corner of the building with caution, his heart pounding. Two blocks to go and he would be home free.

Boots clattered on cobbles nearby. Qasim slammed against the nearest wall, sinking into the shadows. A low wail rose from his robe, definitely with claws in the skin underneath it, but he held his breath, biting his lips, and tried to work out how screwed he was.

Voices raised. Not close enough to make out their words. Shouted, but not loudly. At least half a block from one another. The thump of running footsteps. Calls for support. He strained his ears, trying to work out how screwed he was. Something about movement.

The cat started squirming and struggling inside his robe.

He grinned down at it.

Movement, eh?

He pressed his shoulders against the wall, counting down from ten to slow his heartbeat, and listened as they drew closer and closer. Two of the voices were clearer now.

Qasim yanked down the collar of his robe and squeezed. The cat erupted, yowling. It shot out into the light. One of the soldiers yelled in surprise, and there was the crack of a rifle being fired. The other snorted in disgust and berated him for a false alarm and for not even being able to hit a target three paces in front of him.

Good. Qasim released a trembling breath. Just turn around and —

"You!"

Qasim whipped around. Another soldier at the other end of the alley. One of the men from the marketplace. Well, not quite so clean an escape as he'd hoped. He sprinted out of the alleyway as fast as he could and sent the two cat-startled soldiers spinning.

Adrenaline and a three-second head start were good enough. He pegged it as fast as he could, grabbing at corners of buildings to whip himself into the winding maze of buildings without breaking his pace. They were chasing him now, and, well, who didn't like some added spice in their reports?

"Coming in hot," he panted, running full tilt towards a mound of stacked timbers, praying like hell it would hold as he scrambled up it and onto the wall it was braced against. He glanced back. Still coming, but in armour, they would have no chance. Especially, if some absolute bastard shoved his foot against the pile of timbers and sent them cascading down.

A shot whistling by his ear ensured he wouldn't stay to see the ensuing chaos. He launched himself off the other side of the wall. It was farther than he expected, and he grunted and stumbled when he hit the ground. Pain shot up one ankle, but it was better than being shot. Something brushed his leg, and he flinched, half expecting arrows. No. Small, furry, and glaring at him.

Qasim laughed breathlessly. "Same to you," he rasped, stumbling to his feet. Since it had made itself useful before, he scooped the cat up again and broke into a hobbling run. The familiar warehouse doorway — their assigned rendezvous point — was up ahead.

Without warning, shouts and pounding feet came at him from all directions. His heart plummeted to his stomach. He was close, but so were the soldiers. The white fire of pain in his leg was nothing compared to the thought of the Grand Vizier being ripped into confetti by an angry mob led by the very men he was fleeing.

"Qas?" Tahmila was starting to sound worried. "There are soldiers coming this way."

"Yeah. About that long story ..."

"Qas! What do we do?"

He braced one hand against the wall, wincing. He couldn't run, not when his leg was hurting so much. If he missed this jump, there was no way he'd make it out of the area and to the second rendezvous point. "I can see the door. Get through. I'll follow."

"You're lying."

He laughed, hobbling on as fast as he could. "Bluffing. It's called bluffing."

The door was only yards away, but the shadows of the Janissaries, cast by flickering torches at the far end of the street, also loomed closer. They were coming in fast.

"Go," he repeated, sinking into an alcove packed with baskets and straw. He closed his eyes and took an unsteady breath. There was only one option if he wanted to get out alive. "Tell them I'll try for a jumping flash in two minutes."

"You're insane!"

"Start the count the second before you get through. Two minutes. Go!"

He didn't listen to her protests, glancing out into the street. There was no way to the door without being seen. He squinted around the alley. Straw and baskets. Not exactly useful. He glanced up and grinned. Bloody clotheslines everywhere.

"Qas. Two minutes."

He raised his eyes to the sky, casting up a prayer, and pushed off from the wall. Either he was about to make the most spectacular exit in TRI history, or he was about to die horribly trying.

CHAPTER 2

"ALL RIGHT," RHYS Griffiths braced his hand on the edge of the workstation. "Connection in one minute."

He didn't have to say anything, given the countdown clock glowing on the screen, but it was his first time in charge of a temporal mission. It felt better to do everything by the book.

Rhys had joined the Temporal Research Institute nearly four years earlier, and it had taken a hell of a lot of work to get to this point in his career. He was on the verge of being promoted to Team Supervisor, a big step up from being one of the support team. No more running about for a supervisor. Now, he would have people running about for him.

On paper, Team Supervisor sounded like a tedious job, but no. Not when there was time travel involved, and he was responsible for sending members of his team into the past. He'd seen them through prep, he'd made sure his tech team were all coordinated, and now ...

Right now, the two agents under his supervision were in Istanbul, doing on-site recon into the fall of Sultan Ibrahim in 1648. They had an assigned pickup point. Rhys always hated the wait. Most agents made the first pickup, but if worst came to worst, there were always two later ones, just in case.

Knowing didn't make it any easier.

The countdown clock was getting lower.

Rhys risked a glance over his shoulder.

Jacob Ofori, his supervisor, was sitting in to monitor him. He'd been doing spot checks through the whole mission, from the start of prep right up until the temporal jump. Protocol, but it made Rhys nervous in case he cocked anything up.

He glanced at where the empty frame of the temporal gate was visible in the gate room. The gates were all closed up in secure bunkers deep beneath the TRI compound. It wasn't anything special, just a metal doorway rigged with cables.

"Connection in ten, nine ..."

Rhys's heart was pounding as he counted down.

On zero, the gateway filled with a charge of brilliant light as the connection was formed.

"Close on fi —"

A figure leapt out of the shimmering door of light, trailing robes and veils.

"Jumping flash!" she screamed. "Two minutes."

Rhys heart thundered, but everything else seemed to be freezing around him.

Jumping flash. Right. Yes. He'd learned about them, and ... Christ, what did you do when they happened?

The gate winked out.

"Ben —" Jacob called out. "Find me a surplus. Malia, keep the live count." He appeared by Rhys's side, and Rhys knew he'd fucked up. He should have known what to do. "Istvan, we need a med team on standby."

Rhys glanced up at him. "Jacob ..."

"Not now." Ofori's dark eyes were on the screen. "Flash first. Ben, talk to me."

Ben Sanders was staring frantically at a mess of codes on his screens. He was, by all accounts, as brilliant as his father, Tom Sanders — developer of the temporal gates and creator of the TRI. If anyone could find a way to fix things, he was the one to do it. "Early closure on twelve yesterday and leftover from ours now. Should give us a three-second window."

"It'll have to do. Istvan?"

"Med team on standby."

"Count?"

"On-screen now."

Jacob leaned forward, bracing both hands on the desk. Rhys pressed his fist into his twisting stomach, praying he wouldn't be sick, as the numbers winked down. Flashes didn't happen. They'd told him they didn't happen. Urban legends. When an agent ended up in such a dangerous situation, they had to risk an immediate pickup, or they might not make it out alive. Temporal gates were a balancing act anyway, with massive power surges anytime a body passed through them. Opening up a second link within the same twenty-hour window made them even more unstable. Four years in the TRI and he'd never heard of someone being desperate enough to do one.

"Reconnection in ten!"

Jacob's eyes were fixed on the screen. "Ben, ready on my mark."

Rhys's nails were biting into his palms and his teeth into his lip.

"Three, two, one — now!"

The gate flared to life, three heart-stopping seconds of blinding light, then darkness as the gate blinked out.

"Alhamdulillah!" A male voice. Qasim El-Fahkri. "Made it!"

A second figure was visible in the gate room now. Qasim was leaning against the wall as if he had just fallen in, barefoot and filthy. Rhys sagged; he could breathe again. Both agents safely home.

"Thank Christ," Jacob said to murmurs of agreement from the tech team. "Good to have you both —"

"Qasim," Tahmila Samuels, the other agent, interrupted, her voice shaking. "Your side."

Rhys couldn't make out what she was seeing until Qasim pressed his hand to his side. When he turned it palm up, visible to all the cameras, it was dark and wet.

"Um." He blinked owlishly at the camera.

"Get the med team in, Istvan," Jacob ordered. "Rhys, with me."

Rhys fell into step behind him as they headed out of the monitoring hub. Jesus, if Jacob hadn't been there, he wouldn't have gotten the gate open in time or had the med team in place or any of it.

"Don't beat yourself up," Jacob said as if he could read his mind. "You know how rare a jumping flash is."

Rhys wished it made him feel better, but it didn't. "I still froze."

"No one will blame you." Jacob led him into the glass-walled lift. The doors slid closed, and the lift headed up to the more secure communication chambers on the fifteenth floor. "This is an exception, not a rule."

Rhys leaned against the handrail. "Yeah."

"Rhys," Jacob said quietly. "I'm serious. He's home. He's upright and talking. It's going to be fine."

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "Time Taken"
by .
Copyright © 2019 C.B. Lewis.
Excerpted by permission of NineStar Press, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Dedication,
Time Taken,
Author Note,
Glossary,
Acknowledgements,
About the Author,