Once Upon a Time . . . Traveler: Dawn’s Early Light

By Joshua Light

The travelers are back, with supercharged push-button technology to control time and space. A martial-arts prodigy and a counterterrorism agent are swept into the pre-Flood world where hideous giants are at war with mankind, aided by spirits with frightening powers. While history accommodates them, it also constrains them, requiring cunning and creativity to affect justice and to rescue the doomed as their skills are stretched to the limit.

Light deals with the genetic corruption preceding the Flood and how modern genetic enhancement plays into this model in the Last Days. He integrates potential pre-Flood physics and cosmology with the possible technologies available to the first generations of humanity.

The biblical dawn of man included gargantuan animals, strange landscapes, and spirit-born technologies, an early light of brilliance snuffed out by sin and violence. Dawn’s early light will shine again upon the Redeemer's return.

Winner - 2018 Henri Award for Youth and Young Adult Category, Christian Literary Awards

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Sep 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9781973600503

Joshua Light

Joshua Light has spent over thirty years deeply immersed in cutting-edge technology and innovation. He has extensively studied creationism, the end-times and approaches each firmly lashed to the Scripture. He has a sweet and beautiful wife of thirty years, three wonderful children, a daughter-in-law and two grandchildren.

Book preview

Copyright © 2017 Joshua Light.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Scripture taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-9736-0049-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-0051-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-0050-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017913265

WestBow Press rev. date: 06/25/2019

Contents

Chapter 1 Visiting Uncle

Chapter 2 Thief

Chapter 3 Reunion

Chapter 4 Training Day

Chapter 5 Mia McNeal’s First Adventure

Chapter 6 Loose Ends

Chapter 7 Racing the Clock

Chapter 8 Jon in New Enoch

Chapter 9 Mia’s Return

Chapter 10 Spies in New Enoch

Chapter 11 Escape of the Spider Woman

Chapter 12 Rendezvous in Eden

Chapter 13 Nephilim In Newgarden

Chapter 14 Spirit Hunters, Inc.

Chapter 15 Wedding in Eden

About the Author

Dedication

I firstly dedicate this book to the glory and

blessing of our Lord and Savior

Jesus Christ of Nazareth, Who alone is worthy.

I also dedicate this book to my beautiful wife

and three wonderful children, daughter-in-law and two grandchildren –

my living cloud of witnesses here on earth.

Time and Eternity

That which hath been is now;

and that which is to be hath already been;

and God requireth that which is past

- Eccl 3:15

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1

Visiting Uncle

Wish I had more time.

Over seventy miles of fissure stretched into the distance, sliced a mile into the earth’s crust, filled with mountain-fed raging rapids, and a bone-twisting current.

Mia McNeal’s nose almost touched the floor-to-ceiling window, pupils dilated, hands clenched, athirst for a ride on white water.

Thanks Dad, for the luxury suite. Highest floor. Best view ever.

Massive, stylized struts held the resort’s main tower astride the gorge, a one-hundred- fifty-foot span across open air, a hundred feet above the country’s most expensive and harrowing river experience.

Adrenalin-junkies in small kayaks zipped past, followed by more cautious folk in twenty-person rafts. Peppered among them, hapless thrill-seekers bobbed in the drink, tossed from their own raft’s safety by the merciless chop.

Hear that? Calling my name-

She bumped the service cart and clattered eight large plastic water bottles she’d quaffed in as many hours. A last cheese square called from the breakfast carnage. She ordered for two, plenty of protein, no juice or coffee.

Pocket phone chime. Time to go.

Her own noxious sweat, from two hours of hard-core aikido, soaked every towel in a pile by the door.

Pew! The air must have cycled off.

Showered and fresh, a light dress draped her five-foot-eight frame. She pulled her chestnut hair into a ponytail and tied it, snatched a cap and its companion sunglasses from the dresser, stopped in the tiny entryway, and checked her appearance.

And her outstretched fingers.

No shakes. Maybe they won’t come back.

Exposed veins and corded muscle contours betrayed a decade of high-stress conditioning. She flexed a shoulder. Sinews rippled under tightened skin.

Rats! Is that grease? She pulled at the fabric. When I bumped the cart? Great.

She tossed the dress and opted for a light-colored hiking shirt, cargo shorts, and all-sport sneakers.

She grabbed a complimentary water bottle and pulled her pocket-phone. Check weather.

Going down. The elevator opened.

Let’s hope not. She snatched a hotel brochure.

Sunny skies, partly cloudy, and perfect temperature, the phone reported.

The elevator collected more people.

Cool. Glass-bottomed hotel. Says here the window can hold ten adult African elephants. Yeah, right. Where’d they find ten African elephants in No’th Ca’olina? Ha!

The doors opened with everyone laughing.

Expensive tile floors led into the main lobby atrium, dominated by a flat, circular window, eighty feet across, of eight-inch thick, crystal-clear polymer glass. Two gantry-style walkways spanned it, for those who would behold the gorge without braving a walk on the window’s surface.

A giant screen scrolled events for Whitewater Gorge Resort and its sister venues.

A text chimed from Mom:

Long pause - Oops - Mom didn’t want me to-

Total lie.

been a few months

doc said you’d feel like your

old self soon enough

What did he even mean?

She stepped onto the massive window, above ten stories of open air, a yawning gorge, and a million-gallons-per-minute torrent.

That’s a rush. Her breath shortened, lips parted, and upper body tightened. The invisible barrier at her feet defied all other senses.

She arrived on its center and performed several slow turns. Forty feet of transparent glass in every direction.

Like standing on nothing.

She kneeled and set the water bottle on the surface. Light refracted through it into dancing lines on the ceiling.

A family of five approached the window’s edge. A preadolescent boy shook his head while his father encouraged him onto the glass.

Twin teenage girls stood alongside their mother. Short, jet-black hair, sparkling blue eyes, and dressed for a hike. One focused on her father, and the other locked gaze with Mia.

Mia beckoned her with a finger.

It’s okay. The father leaned to the boy. Nothing can hurt you.

The girl stepped onto the window and walked.

Wide-eyed, the mother put a hand to her mouth.

The girl dropped to her knees and put her nose to the glass.

Amazing, huh? Mia poked her shoulder.

Yeaaahhhhhh.

What’s your name?

Faith.

Sweet name.

The father beamed, but the mother’s face scrunched, eyes misted, as though withholding her objection.

Mia winked at the second twin and beckoned her.

The girl strode and kneeled alongside Faith. Hi.

And what’s your name, young lady?

Hope.

Faith and Hope. Pretty names.

"What’s your name?" Hope poked her shoulder.

Mia.

You’re very pretty.

Thank you, Hope.

Green eyes like our grandmother. Faith popped eyebrows.

Your brother doesn’t want to come. What’s his name?

John.

He’s a fraidy cat. Faith glanced back.

A fraidy cat? Well, I’m no fraidy cat. Bet you’re not either.

Nope.

This is soooo cool. Hope’s shoulders shook.

"You know it. The height-induced vertigo tingled Mia’s neck. Where you guys from?"

Florida.

Our dad works for the space people. Faith drew a short breath and pointed.

A large raft, filled with life-jacketed riders, heaved on the boiling current.

"I want to do that."

I’m with you. Space people? Oh, cool. He been in space?

No, silly. People don’t go to space.

Not anymore. Hope rolled her eyes.

Yeah too bad. Space is cool. Is your dad a cool dad?

Yeah. Their eyes radiated affection.

Is your dad a cool dad? Faith said.

Oh, yeah, the coolest dad ever. Wait ’til you get my age. Your dad will be sooo cool.

They giggled.

Wish I could go to space. Mia ripped the cap off the water bottle.

Wish I could be on TV. Faith raised her gaze behind Mia.

"Yeah, you’re pretty and famous," Hope said.

Above the sports bar’s lobby entrance, a Jumbo-Tron displayed a three-foot rendering of Mia’s face.

Uh-oh.

The scene cut to a press conference. Jim Maddox, head of Ultimate Fighting Championship, addressed an anxious press. We’ve not yet notified the contenders. The news reached us minutes ago.

The bottom news-feed in all caps:

BREAKING NEWS: MCNEAL POISONED PRIOR TO TITLE BOUT.

Mia stood, eyes wide, neck-hair bristled.

Mia? Hope’s face scrunched. Are you okay?

Mia strode off the glass and stopped below the giant screen. Blood throbbed in her neck and temples.

What?

A secondary blood screening on McNeal showed an advanced medication for Tourette’s Syndrome. Would’ve slowed her reaction time.

Mia’s eyes became slits. Beads of sweat formed on her scalp.

Affected her speed and timing. She had extreme jitters in the post-bout triage. This is just a side-effect.

A side-effect? Seriously? Mia watched her fingers.

Diagnosed permanent neural damage.

BREAKING NEWS: OUTCOME VACATED! MCNEAL REMAINS UNDEFEATED CHAMPION!

Her whole body jolted. Thought this was over. Finally over.

Faith’s hand grasped hers. Mia? Is everything-

Never better. Mia’s heart melted, and her metabolism righted itself. She pulled Faith into a hug.

Footpads approached. The family joined them.

I’m Holly Loman. My husband, Owen.

Mia McNeal.

Is that you?

Not - anymore.

But you’re still tough! Hope said.

You can be tougher! Mia tickled their sides.

They howled with laughter.

Thank you. Holly squeezed Faith’s shoulder. For being so patient. They can be, well-

Ah-dor-ah-bull. Mia laughed. Living dolls. She snatched the girls into a giggling group-hug.

They love you. Owen leaned into Holly.

What can I say? I have an effect on people - thennnn - I open my big mouth.

The boy laughed.

His mother cast a glare.

It was funny! The boy waved.

Mia pulled back and made ping-pong eye contact. Let’s do stuff while you’re here!

Okay! The girls said together.

"Okay - in stereo. Mia laughed. I like it."

She can show us moves! Faith karate-chopped.

You’re both precious. Now give me a five-up-high and let’s catch up later okay? She held her palms out.

The girls complied in tandem, with two loud smacks.

Mia turned, palms-up behind her. Down low, kid-doh!

Two more smacks, and Mia strode off without looking back. Yeah, always leave ’em wanting more. Their giggles hadn’t faded when she exited onto the passenger pavilion and donned sunglasses.

A hotel tower strut ran alongside, the gargantuan-scaled steel extended from the tower’s foundation and impaled deep into the fissure’s banks. The gorge’s roar filled the air.

A male valet eyed her, smirked, and hailed a taxi.

Keep yer eyeballs in yer sockets there, Caddyshack.

Three female guests queued behind her.

A cab spun into the passenger zone and barked tires on the imported stone pavement.

Whoa-ho-ho thah, podnah. Mia tilted back. Keep yer hands and feet clear of the runway.

The ladies chittered.

The driver darted to the back. Its trunk yawned open. His eyes met hers, and his jaw dropped. M-Mia-

She held a finger to her lips. Naaaahhhhtt today.

Right.

No bags. She slid inside.

The cabby caught his breath, slammed the trunk, and hopped in.

Big fan. Seen your bouts. Amazing.

Thanks.

Undefeated Mixed Martial Arts for over a year. Should be proud.

Undefeated until this underdog Petrovich stole my belt, and endorsements too.

Did she poison me?

One of her operatives?

Just wow.

Edge of my seat. He shook his head. So entertaining.

Yeah. Can’t distance my fans, but I could sure use silence right now. Everyone had mixed expectations.

Three black SUVs roared into the pavilion. A dozen men in dark suits emptied and ran inside, weapons-out.

Must be after a nefarious-

Let’s get out of their way.

Where to?

Research Triangle Park, Alexander Boulevard.

On your bout, Vegas odds were across the map.

Could’ve gone all day without hearing it.

Hope you didn’t lose any money on me.

Can this conversation end now?

Oh no. I bet on Petrovich.

Protest surged. "Against me?"

You were on borrowed time. Nobody lasts forever. Betting against you paid off big.

And yet you still drive a cab.

He navigated traffic as if on auto-pilot. You looked surprised.

What do you think surprised me?

Better than you. Faster than you.

Mia stared outside. Please shut up.

How did it make you feel?

Can’t find the words. Follow my example, ’kay?

I’ll bet. So, what’s it like getting your tail kicked on national television?

Did he seriously ask me-

I mean, she totally mopped the floor with you.

Mia’s patience-meter blew a fuse.

How bad do you want to know?

Sorry?

Your question, what’s it like gettin’ your tail kicked? If we pull over at the next parking lot, I can show you first-hand-

He turned pale. Raw fear swept over him.

-and compare notes. Work for you?

The cab entered Alexander Boulevard, she blurted the building’s street number, and the cabbie jolted. She fetched a bottle of Eight-Hour-Energy from her thigh pocket and quaffed it in one swallow.

That’ll energize my body. The rest is mental. She tapped the other pocket.

Empty. What? Left the water behind? Great.

Got any water?

Sorry, no.

Quik Snak! Right there!

Stop here?

And keep it running. Only be a sec.

She darted into the store and joined a line with two chilled bottles. Her pocket-phone chimed.

A man in a hoodie put a pistol to the cashier’s face. All of it!

The patrons stepped back.

The cashier obeyed with deliberate motion.

Pistol’s safety is engaged? How stupid is this kid?

Mia curled herself into a palsied girl and limped to the counter, as if oblivious to him. She tossed the bottles with gnarled hands.

Jussht the watahh. She slurred.

He re-aimed but hesitated. A crippled girl surprised him.

Mia moved in a blur, struck his pistol hand, and the weapon hit the wall over the counter. In three lightning moves, he met the floor, face-down and out-cold.

Hey! Another hooded assailant appeared from behind the shelves, pistol leveled on Mia.

Her foot flew and shattered bones in his pistol hand.

The weapon slid under a beverage freezer.

He recoiled stinging fingers and missed Mia’s incoming elbow to his temple.

Lights-out.

She ducked and scanned for others.

How much? She straightened her clothes.

Huh? the cashier jolted.

The water?

Oh, it’s uh – never mind. On the house.

God bless you. Mia whipped a business card onto the counter. Police can reach me there.

As patrons applauded, she waved over her shoulder. All in a day’s work.

She slid into the back seat. Thanks a bunch. Let’s go.

Her hands shook. Yeah, but that’s plain old adrenalin.

An elder woman in disheveled clothing tapped on her window.

Mia pressed buttons, but the window didn’t move. She shrugged.

He’s not right, the woman said.

What was that?

He’s not right for you.

You’re mistaken-

Mia McNeal?

Mia’s spine tingled. How do you know me?

Everyone knows you, Mia. The woman grinned with few teeth.

Mia stared. What’s she talking about?

Greasy palms slammed down the glass.

Mia recoiled and whacked the front seat. Drive!

The woman cackled. Magic won’t save you this time!

The cabbie barked tires and zipped into traffic. Who was that?

Beats me. Crazy old lady.

What did she mean?

Don’t have a boyfriend. She’s nuts.

Diverse fan base, I guess.

Whatever.

They passed scenery and entered Research Triangle Park.

Mia marveled at the manicured landscapes.

Ordinance keeps buildings behind the trees, and below the treetops. Beautiful.

This one, Ms. McNeal?

Yep.

Hope he cleared paperwork for me.

She paid cash and sweetened it with a generous tip. Sorry about threatening to kick your tail and all.

Totally get it.

No, he doesn’t. Like most athletes, I bring my best to the match. When it’s done, we walk away, to fight another day.

Will you fight another day?

Wouldn’t bet against me.

Oops. Sore nerve there.

Timely Rescue

She ascended the steep staircase. The taxi screeched onto the street.

On balance, hurt more people than I’ve helped.

Gotta turn that around.

Once inside, a guard accepted her identification without eye contact.

Wow, these guys practically stumbled over themselves last time.

Now, I’m like a leper.

He gave her a visitor badge. Know where you’re going?

Not really. Future is pretty murky-

No. I’ll wait.

He tapped a keyboard. Texting him now.

She strolled to a floor-to-ceiling window. The facility campus sprawled in every direction.

Bet he’s happy here. Can’t wait to see what he’s up to.

honey, check this link

Mia touched it.

Breaking news from the UFC -

Jim Maddox, President of Ultimate Fighting Championship, has vacated the McNeal-Petrovich results. We extend our sympathies to both contenders. Before I take any questions, may I say to Mia McNeal: You are a true champion. God bless you.

McNeal could not be reached for comment. Petrovich said, The world watched me beat her. The UFC better not be twisting truth!

Mia swallowed her emotions.

End on a good note.

A rail-thin man in a black suit and round glasses stepped from a conference room. His eyes widened, as if incredulous.

Mia McNeal?

She raised a playful eyebrow. Who’s asking?

Tim Flander. Dr. McNeal is on the executive level. Follow me.

He led her to elevators, and they ascended. They stepped into a wide concourse and two large men joined, three strides behind.

She glanced over her shoulder. Tall one’s cute. Got a girlfriend?

Flander laughed. No harm in asking later.

The conference room’s double-doors opened. Six men and two women in black suits hovered on the nearest end of a long table. Bulges in their sides indicated sidearms. Lean lines on their faces and necks suggested combat skills.

Built into the wall, a massive aquatic habitat hosted a variety of colorful fish. Six evenly-placed bubble-streams rose through its crystal-clear water. Above the tank, four digital world clocks reported time for North Carolina, London, Beijing, and Tokyo.

Dr. Nathan McNeal sat alone at the table’s farthest end. His blond locks appeared tossed, sweat beaded on his forehead, and he stared at the wall, vacuous. His runner’s frame taut, jaw muscle throbbed.

Uncle Nate? Mia joined him.

Nate was startled. Mia? What-

Visiting today, remember, I- hey! Handcuffs ratchet-clicked over her wrists. What are you-

A lackey pulled a chair from the table and pushed her into it.

Uncle Nate?

Huge misunderstanding, Mia. Don’t worry.

Listen to you. Flander cocked his head. Sure, Mia, don’t worry. Special prison cells with name plates, reserved for both of you.

Mia’s gaze drilled into Nate.

A balding, heavy-set man blustered in and whispered instructions to the lackeys. He sat alongside Mia, across from Nate.

Flander departed with all but two.

Mia McNeal?

Mia glared, eyes like daggers.

Dominic Parco. Waited a long time to meet you.

Oh? Big fan are ya?

Don’t follow the UFC. Not where I first saw you.

An odd tingle traced up Mia’s spine. Her body tightened.

Why isn’t Uncle Nate helping me navigate this?

Parco produced a pad computer and brushed his finger on the touchscreen. Dr. McNeal, do you recognize anything here?

Nate scanned the photo, winced, and shook his head.

Or this one? Parco moved to another photo. Or these? He flipped one at a time, but Nate didn’t alert on any. And you, Ms. McNeal?

Mia’s head flushed, as though pumped full of water. Micro-shocks danced between her cranial lobes. She winced.

Feeling okay? Parco flipped photos.

What are these?

Various shots from the past century. See this one? New York in Summer of ’36. Recognize anyone?

Nothing obvious.

Parco zoomed it. How ’bout now?

Mia blinked. Looks like me.

He slid the view to another section. And here?

Uncle Nate. She chuckled. We have doppelgangers in New York.

Nate wagged his head. Showing us photos? In handcuffs?

Parco moved the image back to Mia and zoomed on her leg. Not a doppelganger, Mia. Anything look familiar?

The micro-shocks returned. What is that?

Washed out.

What?

Pixelated. Need a better pic.

Parco reset. And now?

She glanced at her right outer shin and its permanent scar, identical to the woman’s in the photo.

Where’s he going with this? He can’t believe-

Mysterious, no? Parco picked another photo. This one’s a little easier. Chicago, Spring of ’58.

Her back to the camera, a woman in a light coat leaned on a boardwalk rail. Four feet to her right, Nate’s twin faced the camera, with elbows behind him on the rail. Both wore period clothing.

Her face heated. The scar was barely visible in the morning glare.

See what I see, don’t you?

Somebody else, or they’re photo-shopped. Nate leaned back. We’ve had this conversation. Time travel is a fantasy.

Time travel? Mia sank. I’m in handcuffs and you’re-

Parco laughed. Bless your hearts. You two are priceless. The drama I’d expect if you’re hiding it from me.

Get me outta these. Mia shook the cuffs. And you’ll be less sorry than if you take ’em off later!

As I said. Nate raised an eyebrow. If time travel is real, Mia would stay clear.

Photos don’t lie. Parco huffed.

"Photos don’t have a voice. They’re inanimate matter."

Parco glared. An incoming text furrowed his brow.

Problems? Nate sat forward.

Parco shook his head.

Mr. Parco, why are you-

Parco departed, tapping his phone.

Mia adjusted herself. What’s going on?

Misunderstanding. They’ll release us soon.

And after that?

One thing at a time.

Who are these people? You work with them?

Never seen ’em before.

She leaned in. Only two of ’em in here. I can take ’em if you-

Plenty more outside.

She huffed and settled backward. Are we in trouble?

Thinks he knows us. Like they’re stalking us.

Both of us?

You saw the photos. Think we can travel time.

She leaned closer. Can we?

Don’t start.

Be pretty cool.

"Be pretty crazy."

* * *

Parco paced like a cat. Say that again?

It’s not them. No neural activity in the memory scan. No memories of those times or places. It’s not them.

Their photos, and the scar-

Can’t fake it. If they were ever there, we’d get a hit. Mia had it right. You have a doppelganger.

"Who coincidentally has an identical appearance? How would I test it? To be certain? We have them now. Letting them go is unthinkable if-"

Parco paced harder.

Okay, clever idea. Give that a shot, heh, heh. Keep in contact.

Another text arrived.

Journey’s prox-chip alerted

Should we fetch him?

Have to go, catch you later. He beeped-out, beckoned two lackeys, and trotted for the main elevator platform.

Joe Tradit, facility CEO, arrived on the platform. Mr. Parco, is everyone cooperating?

Bringing Dr. Journey topside. Join me?

Certainly.

* * *

Flander entered the conference room with two lackeys. He positioned near Mia and glared at Nate across the table.

Mia tensed.

Precursors to attack practically radiate from-

Flander produced a silenced, nine-millimeter Jericho.

Mia sprang as if electrocuted. Her chair flew toward the wall.

Flander leveled on Nate.

Her foot moved in a blur.

Nate’s eyes widened.

The lackeys reached for sidearms.

Flander’s weapon discharged with a bright, orange plume, but slow as though underwater. Riding the flame, a hollow-point round emerged in a lazy spin and stopped three feet into its trajectory.

Mia’s sidekick struck Flander’s pistol hand.

She expected Flander’s wrist to give, but instead froze like concrete. The kick’s kinetic energy reversed. She rammed the wall and slid to the floor.

Ow-

Nate jumped from the line of fire. Are you okay?

Yep. Mia rolled backward, moved her cuffs behind her legs, and jumped to standing, cuffs in front.

Her chair teetered at a strange angle. The digital clocks no longer flipped second-counters. The tank’s bubbles hung suspended. Every fish stopped, like a three-dimensional still-shot.

Wide-eyed, Mia reached for the bullet, but her flesh stung from suspended gunshot residue particles.

Uncle Nate? What’s-

Stay near me. And said into the air, Anytime, Marcus.

At the fish tank, she pressed a finger on the water’s surface. Feels wet, but not.

Bubble streams skirted a long, striped fish, stopped-still.

Beyond the window, birds frozen in flight. A woman in mid-stride with a stroller. Another woman guarded her dress from a strong gust, her hair a horizontal mop. In the park beyond, a dog hung in the air, jaws-wide, a Frisbee within inches of capture.

The room’s atmosphere compressed.

What’s-

Behind Nate, a seven-foot-square section of wall transformed into a shimmering surface.

Uncle Nate?

Two hands appeared through the wall, grabbed Nate by the shoulders, and yanked him through.

Hey! She darted to it, but the effect evaporated. Uncle Nate! She pounded the wall.

She faced Flander, the frozen plume, the bullet’s stasis, and swallowed.

He’s really done it.

Behind her, the wall shimmered again. Two hands grabbed her shoulders.

Whoa!

And snatched her through.

Time unfroze, and the pistol issued a poomph report.

Mia’s chair slammed the wall.

The round penetrated Nate’s chair. The lackey behind it yelped, grabbed his thigh, and spun to the carpet.

Flander’s eyes squeezed into slits and darted between the empty chairs.

The lackey by the door said, Where - did they go?

I knew it. Flander hissed. "I knew it!"

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2

Thief

High on the Blue Ridge range, on a quiet, moonless night, six carrier drones, tethered to a long, fiberglass pod, climbed to the edge of a two-thousand-foot sheer cliff.

The pod’s passenger guided them to a location near a tree-line.

Sensors scanned for aggressive fauna.

The pod landed and popped-open lengthwise.

A shadowy figure rolled free and flattened. His skin-tight nightsuit conformed to the temperature, color and texture touching it, melding as one with the stony surface. Its sensors collected hydrophonic signals, broad-spectrum light, and geo-spatial information, fed to monitors in the suit’s large-lensed goggles. Mission-time displayed alongside clock-time.

Jonathan Jayne tapped a notification to his handlers.

The pod closed and clicked, ascended with the drones, and disappeared into the canyon.

Jon scanned the surroundings and darted into the tree-line.

Three hundred yards in, ground-level heat signatures appeared.

He accelerated. Make this quick.

Hiding in the shadows, two wolves met his tranq darts and rolled forward in slumber. Another wolf emerged, but third dart dropped him.

Jon poured-on speed. A clearing ahead, he stopped at the tree-line.

Fifty yards distant, a sprawling, multi-million-dollar estate, in disrepair and long-since abandoned by its owners. Unkempt overgrowth and extensive vines covered the structures and served Jon’s stealth.

Mounted infrared scanners however, did not.

Well-armed mercenaries paced its perimeter, each with night-vision goggles.

Guess I came to the right place.

His displays zoomed on a rifle, wrapped it with wire-mesh, and identified it. Advanced weaponry, man-killer rounds, and mini heat-seeking rockets.

Nice.

He squat-crawled to the first and second line of bushes, made for a tree stand and stood against its tallest. The nightsuit’s prismoids conformed. He skirted trees and faced the patrols. His heart rate jumped a notch.

In the open now. Be careful.

Each sentry paces a path and chats with their counterpart. Tight intersections reduce the time between a breach and a first response.

The sentry about-faced.

Jon laid flat. The nightsuit conformed to the darkened soil. On his fingertips and toes, he moved over the ground, like a spider would climb a wall, slinked behind the sentry, and into the shadows alongside the house.

He pressed his back to the decrepit stucco facing and the nightsuit conformed.

Jon skirted the structure’s perimeter and side-stepped toward the front corner. Fingertip cameras fed low-light images to his goggles.

Three guarded the entrance. Two sat on its large porch, clearly bored.

A third paced, focused on a dark gravel entry. White-knuckled hands gripped an H&K long gun, forehead beaded sweat, temple vein throbbed. Fingers thrummed the grip.

Expecting someone, are we?

Jon moved around the corner.

A sitting guard glanced in his direction, squeezed his eyes tight, as though detecting motion, and returned to his vigil.

Jon took another step, and another.

The guard turned back again, lingered and turned away.

Jon stepped, and the guard snapped his attention back.

Moving too fast. Shadows aren’t tracking.

A text message flashed.

Interior visibility established

Incoming airborne bogies. Two helicopters flew abreast, their rotors in whisper-mode, scanned the ground, and crossed overhead.

Right on time.

He pointed his left fist toward the pacing guard, and his right fist toward the nearest sitting guard. Boresights activated in his goggles and confirmed clean neck shots. Darts hissed to their targets. Another dart for the third guard. Neurotoxin acted in a heartbeat.

Allocated time decremented on the goggle monitor and changed color as it moved to zero.

At the porch, he moved the first unconscious guard into the ground-level shadows. He balanced his six-foot-one-inch, one-hundred-eighty-pound frame on a single foot, with the other foot on the porch’s wood, reapportioned his weight between the two, and guarded for creaks.

The doorknob turned free. A light push opened the thinnest crack. He inserted a camera stem and scanned one-eighty for movement and obstacles, stepped inside, turned the knob, and closed it. No click.

He moved into the nearest shadows and focused.

In an empty, darkened hallway, low light flickered from the second room’s door frame.

He produced a neurotoxin canister from a leg pocket and prepared it for delivery.

One whiff, and it’s lights-out.

He took one, two - a third step toward the target room. The floor creaked. He closed his eyes, grimaced, body tightened. He backed away and moved nearer the wall.

He pulled several feet of retraction wire from his belt, snapped its clip to the canister, and touched a spring-release. A small tube popped from the canister’s base and slid under the door.

Through his fingertip camera, four bored men watched a movie on a plasma screen. He pressed the gas-release button and inched away on a twenty-second countdown. Three. Two. One.

The pressurized payload delivered in moments. A thirty-second timer illuminated in his eyepiece, with red numbers shifting to yellow, and green when harmless.

Hostiles inbound behind you

He touched the retractor. The canister leaped into his open palm. He fell flat to the carpet. The nightsuit conformed.

Three men passed him into the hallway.

One said, All asleep. Let’s get food.

They retreated, oblivious to Jon camouflaged in plain sight.

Three minutes on the mission clock. He darted for the room, closed the door, and scanned with a live feed to his monitoring agents.

Hostiles snored on the sofas.

Far side, table by window

He stepped over litter to the table, its only artifact a large satchel. He rifled through its contents while those on camera examined with him.

not there

wafer is size of clipboard

survey room again

A laptop computer rested on the coffee table’s edge. Sensors don’t see any whirring fan or battery heat. He lifted it, too light for a device.

A few moments seemed like hours.

you have the package

Very clever. Jon removed his backpack and stowed the wafer.

Drone team? Seriously?

The faint whirr of drone rotors approached the nearest window. He placed the pack under the windowsill. Old style slider. Wire mesh screen. He fetched a small laser knife and tripped the window’s hasp.

The house alarm screamed over his earpiece.

Rats - better speed-dial this one!

His knife cut the thick screen like razors on fabric.

drone team at window

toss package now

ten hostiles your six

A floating net awaited. The door burst open and he ducked to the sofa. The drones’ whine dissipated. His nightsuit conformed, half to the sofa, and half to the carpet.

One hostile attempted to wake the men. Another darted to the open window.

Out cold, said the one.

Search the house, said the other.

Jon controlled his respiration. Where did so many come from?

The leader poked his head outside again, scanned right and left, and retracted, hands on the windowsill. He wagged his head.

nine hostiles away

one with you

Jon aimed his right fist at the man’s backside. The boresight activated.

This won’t hurt a bit.

The leader noticed the backpack, snatched, and unzipped the main pouch. He would realize its contents one instant before the dart’s neurotoxin sent him to slumber.

Jon caught and lowered him, re-zipped the pack, and stuck his head outside.

Where are they?

release package immediately

Jon tossed the backpack. Four camouflaged ellipticals whirred and ascended. A net rose with them and caught it in mid-air. They continued up, and over the house.

3 hostiles closing

He jumped through the window and hung on the outer sill, with one hand on each end. The nightsuit conformed to the wall.

Three men argued over their fallen leader. One looked outside, scanned for threats, and slammed the window shut.

Barking dogs and flashlights came from everywhere.

Jon alighted the remaining six feet, crouched and moved to the nearest corner.

Not many places to dart and hide-

hold position

Three dogs ran within a few feet and assaulted the ground with their olfactory powers. A handler trotted behind and kept them alongside the house. They paced the wall in vain.

Sniff your hearts out.

Another joined him. Find anything?

Sure he escaped this way?

No. Find the scent! Hurry!

He bolted for the thicket and kneeled. The house erupted in pandemonium. A small helicopter spun-up and ascended. Motorcycles ignited and gave chase. Dogs barked and scampered. None toward him.

Decoy team worked. Let’s go-

Tree-line to your south

now

continue

Jon sprinted into the tree-line. Four-footed footpads closed in his wake.

He activated his left fist boresight, jumped with a whirl, and fired.

The wolf accelerated and leaped with him in the air. The dart put him out-cold and he landed in a rolling heap.

Jon poured power into his legs.

Ground runs out in 500 feet

The landscape’s declination helped gather speed. Nearing the path’s end, more four-footed chasers joined him with desperate growls. The ground disappeared, and he pitched forward into a two-thousand-foot drop.

Behind him, a whimpered yelp signaled the end of their pursuit.

He flipped, startled by a she-wolf’s angry scowl.

Did you follow me over the edge?

She snapped, unable to reach him, falling at the same speed. He barrel-rolled and kicked her in the shoulder, separating them by fifteen feet.

He pulled knees to chest, crossed arms over ankles, grasped the small hasps on each side, and yanked them free. He extended, two foils unfurled, and he stretched into an X.

The wings arrested his downward acceleration and pulled him into a glide. Hard inertial pressure overtook his whole body. His eyes watered, and face shook into a grimace.

A large lake below, the she-wolf’s impact delivered a thirty-foot plume.

Nothing personal, sweetheart.

Stay on current trajectory

Rendezvous Checkpoint Delta

Red Tape Treachery

In his director’s office, Jon fidgeted in an uncomfortable chair. Beyond the glass, agents scurried among cubicles or engaged in low conversation. Looks of Concern. Hand gestures indicated Urgent Business. He sipped lemon water and dismissed emails on his pocket-phone.

Director Dirk Chamberlain blustered through the door, average height and build, lean but not muscular, and a full head of jet-black hair.

On his heels, Head Agent Lester Barnes, taller, overweight, and balding.

Will I be him in twenty years?

A fine-tuned instrument, pushing paper in a pasture?

Special Agent Jayne, let’s get to it. Chamberlain’s voice had an unexpected edge. Your credit card debt presents a risk.

Simple identity theft. You have the records.

Chamberlain and Barnes shared a skeptical glance.

Wait, you don’t believe-

Doesn’t matter. Makes you a lightning rod for compromise.

Barnes opened a folder. Foreign agents will satisfy the debt and flip you. Probably stole your identity in the first place.

Right - so long as you’re in the loop, they can’t compromise me. The debt isn’t real.

Spoke with headquarters. They think it’s real.

Can I talk to them?

Already explained the whole thing. Policy.

What are you saying?

Suspended from field duty until further notice.

What? He sat forward.

With pay, of course.

Well, how nice of you.

Want it without pay?

Because of policy, not reality.

Because of evidence.

I’m the most effective agent in this division. Simple.

And a non-issue if you were average?

Rare circumstance. Connect the dots.

People above me did that. Their decision. This division is weaker without you, and I would never set you aside.

So, I’m arguing with the wrong person on this?

Chamberlain fumed.

Can’t challenge my logic but doesn’t want insubordination.

Don’t burn bridges.

Look, I’ll fix it. Never seen myself as indispensable. Square it away sooner with the free time.

All I wanted to hear. He rose, shook Jon’s hand, and departed.

Barnes took Chamberlain’s chair. "Paperwork’s done. Come and go as you please, with full access to department resources. But not