Read Chapter 1 here
Chapter 2
He picked up the box and the envelope and moved it into his
bedroom. It was a downside to his job. He hated the thought that so many
well-trained operatives had access to his house. Of course, it was a necessary evil so the
technology could be updated and he could receive his assignments.
He lived in a beautiful house that garnered the envy of all
the neighbors in the Old West End—one that had the Parade of Homes calling
every year begging him to show it off—but it was bit much for a single guy and
his dog. There had always been curiosity about the property. There always
seemed to be a remodel of some sort occurring. Unmarked, black SUVs often were
seen pulling in late at night to make a delivery. The home had been in the
hands of the agency since the 1920’s but as far as anyone knew, no one in the
neighborhood had ever been invited inside.
Now Lucky, its current resident, had lived there for the
past 6 years. He had thought he had hit the career lottery when he had first
moved into the house. Only two weeks before he had been walking across the Stanford
campus to his Statistics class when the man in the suit called his name from
the black SUV.
“Lucky Haskins, I’d like to speak with you,” he’d said in an
authoritative tone.
Lucky, afraid he had been caught by campus officials for a
prank he’d played on the Dean of his college, reluctantly turned to face the
man.
“How do you know who I am?” He asked, hoping to gain some
idea of who this person might be.
“I know a lot about you, Lucky. I know you have 8 minutes
until your Statistics class. I know the name of your third grade teacher. I
know that you are allergic to scented fabric softener.” The man looked ahead,
further down the street and sighed, clearly bored by these details. “And I know
about the little prank you pulled. The one you uploaded to YouTube. The one you
thought was Anonymous.”
“So, what? Am I in trouble? Am I expelled?” Lucky asked
nervously, suddenly very anxious for his future.
“Well,” the man held up a manila envelope, shaking it like
Lucky was a cat to be teased. “In this envelope is all the information
regarding who pulled that prank. I can tell you that the President of the
University held a meeting this morning in which he declared that the perpetrator
of this prank will swiftly be expelled if he is ever discovered. Now I need you
to get in the car with me. I have a proposition for you.”
After looking around to see if anyone was watching, Lucky
hurried to the car. The driver immediatlely jumped out and opened the door for
him.
“Uh, thanks, I guess,” Lucky forfeited, as he climbed onto
the seat. The driver shut the door behind him. Lucky noticed a large assault
weapon attached to the ceiling of the car. The man’s pant leg had bunched up
just enough to notice the handgun attached to his calf. “So I take it you are
not associated with the University?”
“No,” the man said with a smirk. “I’m more of Yale man
myself.”
The man just stared at Lucky from behind his sunglasses. The
uncomfortable silence made Lucky more than just a little nervous. He thought about reaching for the door
handle, but instead he gripped his messenger bag more firmly on his lap. His
mind fervently envisioned every item he had in the bag, in hopes of finding a
weapon. Coming up empty, his thoughts then settled on the cellphone in his back
pocket.
“I’m going to be late for class. Maybe we can catch up
later,” Lucky offered, anxious to get out of the car.
“Well, Mr. Haskins, you won’t be going to your class,” the
man casually responded. As Lucky shifted nervously in his seat, the man’s loud
laughter broke the tension, although for Lucky it only added to it. He took his
sunglasses off, inspected them before folding them and placing them in his
breast pocket.
“They said you were courageous, but I see a scared little
boy next to me. My name is Anson.
Lawrence Anson. I work for a top secret government agency called PTI. It stands
for Peace Time Initiative. We use highly
advanced analyses to determine how to better our country and provide more
peaceful, more meaningful lives for all Americans. Once a conclusion is made
about the course of action, a special agent is sent to ensure that the course
of action is set into motion. We would like you, Mr. Haskins, to be one of
those agents.”
“Wait, why me?” Lucky asked. He had a hundred questions, but
this seemed as good as any with which to start.
“Because you have a unique set of skills required for this
job, as evidenced by your life up to this point and that stunt you pulled,”
Anson chuckled.
Lucky smiled, glad that someone appreciated how he
successfully convinced the Dean of Humanities and Sciences at Stanford
University that the world was being attacked by aliens. Simply by making
several phone calls to him, impersonating different countries’ leaders, he
convinced him to draft an army of students and arrange them by ethnicity,
height and attractiveness. Lucky had no idea that it was so successful until he
received the email from the Dean asking all students to meet at Stanford
Stadium to “serve their country.” At that point in time the anonymous recording
of the phone calls, edited together in pure hilarity, made its way to YouTube.
“We need you in our agency. You will have to relocate. You
will be put up in a nice house and given a nice car. Your base starting salary
will be $238,900,” Anson noticed Lucky eyebrows perk up at the sound of the
salary. “You also get bonuses for every job you do.”
“Sounds interesting. What if I say no?”
“Then this envelope makes its way to the President’s desk
within the hour and you attend your last class as a Stanford University
student.” Anson’s smile had faded.
“You said, ‘special agents are sent to ensure that a course
of action is taken.’ What do you mean by ‘sent’?” Lucky asked, knowing that essentially
everything would be acceptable given his circumstances.
Anson cocked his head to the side and gave Lucky a
penetrating stare, letting him know that he was about to learn too much
information to back out now.
“Time travel.”
The sound of the 5 minute warning alarm snapped Lucky back
to reality. With Brutus by his side, he opened the box. Sitting on top of a
pile of neatly folded clothes was a top hat and a billfold. He reached over to
pet his loyal dog and facetiously said, “this is going to be fun.”
He hadn’t yet fastened all the buttons when the countdown
started. He hastily grabbed the envelope with his instructions and jogged to
the mock closet.
“Bye, buddy. See you soon,” he called out over the noise and
patted Brutus on his side. He shut the door and latched it behind him.
Placing the hat on his head and fastening the last of the
buttons, he pushed the hangers and clothes aside and pressed his back up
against the titanium wall. The whirring of the spindle grew louder and louder.
Lucky closed his eyes and waited for the nausea to start.
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