Despite all of the preparation that had gone into the mission, Martin considered his odds of survival a fifty-fifty coin toss. Alina had confirmed as much when she admitted no one knew exactly how the scene would unfold once Martin arrived to Chris’s cabin. It could end within two seconds, leaving Martin dead in the snow.
I came into this time travel world for one thing, and I’m not leaving without at least saying goodbye the proper way.
He patted his pocket to confirm his wallet was there, then stood and crossed the jet to the bathroom, a couple of team members shuffling out of the way to clear a path in the cramped space. Martin kept his head down, avoiding conversation, making it seem like he was in a rush to get in the bathroom.
He promptly locked the door behind him, testing to ensure no one could get in. He debated playing a video or music, but the jet was already plenty loud thanks to the constant chatter. Ten minutes is all that would pass, and he supposed any amount of time longer in the bathroom might cause some people to worry and check on him.
Stop wasting time and get out of here.
Martin pulled out his flask and wallet, flipping it open to the small portrait of Izzy he had carried since she was alive. It had definitely aged, its white border yellowing, the edges somewhat tattered despite being inside the flimsy protective sleeve. Freckles of lint and dust splattered across the surface, but nothing could take away from Izzy’s glowing smile and cheerful, bright eyes from her sixth grade school photo.
He shook his head, thinking of all the life that had occurred since her disappearance. All of the dark, gloomy days with no end in sight. From his world being flipped upside down when he had met Chris—and when he actually had his hopes up—to everything that had unfolded since then, seemed a blur.
He dropped to the floor and curled into a fetal position, not having any other options for his body to lay safely while it went to sleep for the next ten minutes. He unscrewed the flask, keeping the photo tight in his grip, and sipped, thinking specifically of February 12th, 1995 at four o’clock in the morning.
Martin screwed the lid back on, stuffed the flask into his pocket and let himself drift away, the faint rumbling visible only to him as the current world in 2020 gave way to twenty-five years earlier.
* * *
He woke up on the ground in the blistering cold of Winnipeg, jumping to his feet in a panic. He shouldn’t have expected anything different, but the weather still caught him by surprise after being stuck on the jet for the last two days. He chose 4 A.M. with hopes of catching the next flight south. Being at an airport hangar already was convenient, and he made his way across the tarmac toward the terminal. All the glitz and glamour that had surrounded the airport in 2020 were gone: the hotels, shops, dozens of car rental offices. He saw one hotel, no stores, and only three car rental offices. The rest of the space was open fields or runways.
The terminal was roughly 500 yards away, so Martin broke into a run. The freezing air attacked his lungs, feeling like tiny icicles poking him with each breath he took. The grounds were dark, still pitch-black as the sun wouldn’t rise for another couple hours, but that was fine with Martin as he moved in the shadows.
He reached the terminal and entered three minutes later, having slowed toward the end of his long run, huffing and puffing as the building’s warmth coated his shivering body. He took a moment to gather himself before heading for the ticket counter.
A tall, slender woman greeted him, reminding Martin of Sonya at first glance, thanks to her flowing blonde hair and big, blue eyes. “Bonjour, how can I help you?” she asked with a slight French accent.
“Good morning,” Martin said, still catching his breath. “I’m looking for a flight to Denver, Colorado. Do you have anything direct?”
“One moment, please,” she said, pursing her lips and looking down to the bulky mid-90’s computer. The basic technology brought a grin to Martin’s lips as nostalgia swept over him, forever appreciative for having lived through it. “Looks like we have a direct flight that leaves at ten, and one with a connection in Salt Lake City leaving at 8:45.”
Martin closed his eyes and did the rough math. “I’m afraid those won’t work. I’m trying to be in downtown Denver by noon Mountain Time. Do you by chance have any private charters I can take?”
She looked him up and down, clearly judging the raggedy outfit he had worn to lounge around his own private jet. “Sir, a private flight will cost at least 10,000 American dollars.”
“Perfect. Do you have one available?”
She frowned and returned her attention to the computer. “I can have one ready to leave here in 90 minutes.”
“I’ll take it.” Martin whipped his wallet back out and slapped his credit card on the counter, hoping it would scan in their machine. She stared like it was a foreign object, then shrugged before grabbing it and swiping it through the card scanner.
“Thank you, Mr. Briar,” she said, passing over a receipt for his signature. “Are you traveling alone?”
“Yes. Just me, no luggage. I’ve had an emergency and need to get to Denver as quickly as possible.” Martin felt the need to explain his situation because of his current appearance and odd request at such an early hour.
“Certainly. We don’t normally bring private charters to the terminal, but since it is early in the day and our commercial flights don’t start until after six, I’ve arranged for you to board the charter at gate twelve.”
“I appreciate that. You’ve been a great help. What is your name?”
“Christine, but
