“I’m sure they do,” Martin said with a grin. Good one, universe, he thought before grabbing his ticket and heading for his gate. The terminal was abandoned, only a coffee stand open, so Martin stopped for a drink and pastry. His nerves had actually settled now that he was roaming 1995, his impending duel with Chris the furthest thing from his mind.
Once he grabbed one of the several open seats at his gate, Martin realized it wasn’t 1995 that had brought him joy, but being away from the bustle of the Road Runners and the commandership. With the organization in a blackout, and his team physically with his body on the jet, no one had eyes on him. He could live an entire life in a different era and avoid the showdown in ten-minute increments at a time. He even considered taking one of these farewell tours to get the closure with everyone he had lost in the past few years.
Mom and Sonya.
The temptation was certainly strong, but he’d resist. Pushing his worries off only prolonged the subconscious stress that he had so far managed to ignore. Also, no one on his team would believe that he had to spend ten minutes in the bathroom on three different occasions during the afternoon. Questions would come, as would the knocking on the door, and eventually someone breaking it down and catching him asleep on the floor, knowing damn well what he was up to.
That scene would certainly throw all their plans out the window, sparking a chaotic event where everyone on board jumped around time to find their commander who had wandered off on his own.
“Just Izzy,” he muttered, stuffing a bite of lemon cake into his mouth. Just gotta see Izzy one final time and never look back again.
Chapter 23
The rest of the wait and flight went smoothly for Martin. Much to his delight, he managed to fall asleep naturally during the trip. He had met the pilots when boarding the jet, an older gentleman by the name of Albert Fournier who had flown fighter jets for the Canadian Air Force during the tail end of World War II, and another man around Martin’s age who didn’t care to share his name or past, instead focusing on his work in the cockpit while Albert shared small-talk with Martin.
Once they took off, Martin drifted away, his cares gradually leaving his brain, the pressures of his role vanishing as he flew miles above the Earth, alone, not a soul concerned with his whereabouts.
The flight took four hours and he woke just in time to see downtown Denver in the distance as they landed at Stapleton International Airport a few minutes away. Martin had forgotten that the new and improved Denver International had not been opened yet, and this shaved at least forty-five minutes off from his plans, leaving him even more time to kill.
He wished Albert farewell and thanked him for the flight before disembarking the jet and wandering through a terminal he never imagined he’d see again. The airport flooded his senses with nostalgia, remembering the few trips he and Lela had taken before Izzy was born, and the couple they had taken with her as a child.
He arrived in Denver at nine in the morning, and his plans to see Izzy weren’t until noon. The airport bustled with people taking business trips, as he noticed several suits and blazers around the concourse. Martin pushed through the crowds, grateful to have no luggage, and made his way outside where a taxi stand stood, the attendant a short, dark-skinned man running back and forth from his podium to various taxis as he opened the doors for his customers.
Martin stood in line for only five minutes, smiling when he stepped up for his turn.
“Good morning, sir. Where are you headed?” the man asked, Martin catching his name as Jamal from the name tag clipped to his shirt.
“Sixteenth Street Mall, downtown,” Martin said.
“Come this way.”
Jamal bolted away, passing four other taxis until opening a door toward the end of the line. Martin struggled to keep up, but Jamal waited with the same, wide smile on his face before slamming the door and banging the top of the vehicle as it pulled away.
“Good morning,” the cab driver said over his shoulder. “Headed downtown, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We just missed the morning rush hour—should be ten minutes until we get there. Anywhere in particular on the mall you need to be dropped at?”
“Sixteenth and Welton would be good, and I’ll take it from there.”
“You got it, chief.”
The cab sped away and weaved through cars, not making an effort to the driver’s liking. Martin hung on for his life in the backseat, clinging to the handle above the door to not slide around like a loose bag of groceries.
The driver didn’t say another word until they arrived, letting Martin know he owed eight dollars. Martin stepped out of the car and basked in the energy of downtown Denver. He stood at the exact intersection he had requested, three blocks west of the office building he had worked at in 1995, and only one block away from the investment center he had visited in 2018 to pick up his millions of dollars.
The mall had plenty of business people hustling down the sidewalks, crossing streets with their briefcases or purses clutched in hand, oblivious to a time-traveling man standing on the corner like a lost, out-of-town visitor. Martin rotated around to get a feel—more of a reminder—of his surroundings. A suit shop was across the street—his reason for being dropped at this specific location—so he crossed and entered, a bell over the door chiming to call attention, a salesman approaching like a hungry shark before Martin had taken five steps inside.
“Good morning, sir. How may I help you today?” the man asked. He stood short and spoke in a high-pitched weaselly voice. His black hair glossed under the lights, slicked back, a thin pencil mustache
