Jacks Are Wild: An Out of Time Novel (Saving Time, Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  BOOKS IN THE OUT OF TIME SERIES

  Jacks Are Wild

  (Saving Time, Book 1)

  From the world of the popular Out of Time series comes the first book in the time travel adventure series, Saving Time, starring Jack Wells!

  Former OSS officer Jack Wells’ first solo assignment for the Council for Temporal Studies sounds deceptively simple—stop a murder before it happens. But as Jack soon finds out, there’s nothing simple about 1960 Las Vegas, especially when the woman you’re sent to save is a mobster’s wife.

  Jack is joined by old friends and new as he struggles to stay alive long enough to stop Susan’s murder and protect a very fragile timeline.

  ~~~

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  ~~~

  Copyright Notice

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 Monique Martin

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission.

  Cover Layout: TERyvisions

  For more information, please contact

  [email protected]

  Or visit: moniquemartin.weebly.com

  ~~~

  This book would not have been possible without the help of many people. I’d like to thank Robin for going above and beyond and then back again, my mom and George, my dad and Anne, Michael, Eddie and Carole, Cidney, Melissa, Cynthia, Laura, DeAnn, Phoenix and The Diaspora.

  I’d like to dedicate this book to George and Marion Blomster, two lovely people.

  Chapter One

  THE WORLD TURNED UPSIDE down.

  Farouk caught him with a sharp right. Jack staggered back against the railing of the bridge and the uppercut sent him over it.

  Sky. City. Water. Bridge.

  All of them blurred as the world spun around him. Jack reached out, desperate to grab onto something, anything, as he fell. His hands flailed in the air and then his right hit metal. Hard. It sent a sharp pain up his arm, but his fingers curled around whatever it was.

  The railing. He’d managed to grab onto the last rung. He would have laughed at his luck if he hadn’t looked down at the Nile over thirty feet below and felt a wave of nausea. He shook his head to clear it and push the vertigo away.

  He squeezed his eyes shut briefly thinking positive, on solid ground thoughts, then hoisted himself up far enough to get a grip with his left hand. He pulled himself up the railing rungs like a ladder. Every second he hung there was a second that let Quint get farther away.

  He could catch up, Jack told himself. The protesters would slow Quint down. He hadn’t lost him yet.

  But just as he reached out for the next rung, Farouk’s ugly mug appeared over the railing, smiling his snaggletooth smile.

  Swell.

  Jack reached for the gun in his shoulder holster, but before he could pull it out, he heard Farouk’s deep laugh and the cocking of his gun.

  “Too slow.”

  Dammit. Jack’s fingers had finally grasped the gun’s grip, but he’d be dead if he drew it now. He let go and eased his hand out from beneath his jacket and looked back up at Farouk.

  Farouk’s face twisted into that ugly smile of his. “Salām.”

  “You really should get that tooth fixed,” Jack said. “It’s distracting.”

  Farouk paused, confused, and Jack took his chance.

  He grabbed onto the gun barrel and yanked down. Farouk held on for all he was worth, which was a hell of a lot. He must have weighed two-fifty, but he was top-heavy. His big barrel chest was already over the railing and once he started to tip, he didn’t have a chance.

  The big man sailed past Jack. He hit the river face-first.

  “Salām,” Jack said and then pulled himself up onto the bridge.

  By the time Jack got back into the chase, the protesters had taken the bridge and were pushing their way into Tahrir square. The mass of bodies made it nearly impossible to make headway and completely impossible to see ahead.

  Jack was over six feet tall, but even he couldn’t see over the crowd well enough. Banners and flags and the occasional remnants of a smoke bomb kept getting in the way.

  He climbed back onto the bridge railing and scanned the crowd. Lucky for him, Quint stood out. Six foot-four blonds weren’t exactly common in Cairo.

  He found Quint’s big Aryan head bobbing above the crowd barely forty feet ahead. Jack jumped down and started after him.

  He wormed his way through the thick crowd. It was hot and claustrophobic and everyone smelled of sweat and Paco Rabanne.

  Suddenly, there was a cheer and the crowd surged forward. They must have broken through some barrier because the shuffling march became a full-fledged run.

  Jack ran along with them as they spilled out onto the other side of the bridge. On the shore, the crowd thinned as its members dispersed in different directions.

  Jack’s heart clenched. Quint could be anywhere now, going in any direction.

  He climbed up onto a lamppost and scanned the crowd again. Protesters danced around him, chanting, but he ignored them. There was too much ground to cover now and he felt his heart sinking as he looked and looked for Quint and found nothing. If he lost him now, he’d never find him again.

  Then, just as he was about to give up, Jack saw him, his blond head zig-zagging through the crowd ahead.

  “Gotcha.”

  Jack jumped down and ran after him. The crowd was thin enough now that Jack could run at nearly full-speed. He wasn’t exactly Jesse Owens, but he knew he was making up time. Quint was big, too big, and that would slow him down. That was all Jack needed.

  He raced down the street, everything falling his way now. He ducked under a large banner and then hurdled a man tying his shoes. It was like dancing when everything was on time, every move the right one. It was easy and fluid, until it wasn’t.

  Jack’s smooth sailing hit the rocks hard at Tahrir Square. The mother of all traffic jams had stopped every car on the enormous roundabout.

  Cars and trucks, five and six abreast were blocked in. Drivers got out of their cars and started to argue with the protesters who spread across the square and beyond like an army of ants.

  Police had fallen back and the protesters ruled the day. The chaos was just what Quint needed.

  Jack climbed up onto the bumper of a taxi and looked for Quint again. There he was, somehow already halfway across the square.

  Jack ignored the cab driver yelling at him to get off his car and tried to plot out a route through the labyrinth of c
ars. It was impossible, and Quint was putting even more distance and people between them.

  The cab driver waved his arms wildly and Jack jumped down and started to work his way through the maze. He squeezed between an old Renault and a new Audi and then over the locked bumpers of two more taxis. The drivers were too busy yelling at each other to notice. He vaulted across the hood of another car. Then he glanced back and realized he’d barely made any headway. It was too slow trying to weave his way through. That meant only one thing. He looked at the new Mercedes in front of him.

  “Sorry about this,” he said as he stepped from the bumper onto the hood of the car. The hood groaned under his weight then shifted down in a dent. Jack winced in sympathy and jumped onto the next car.

  The hoods and roofs groaned and creaked under the weight, cratering, and some popping back into place. He apologized as he leapt from one car to the next, leaving a trail of dents and furious drivers in his wake, until two large buses blocked his path.

  Quickly, he studied the cars around him and saw a path, like steps meant to be climbed. He jumped from hood to roof, then to the roof of a small truck and onto the top of the bus. His shoes skidded across the slick roof and he turned trying to put on the brakes, but it didn’t work.

  Somehow he managed to stay upright as he fell off the other side of the bus. He sailed over one car completely and landed feet-first on the hood of another. The metal caved in under his weight and every bone in his body, including his teeth, ached. His knee was especially displeased.

  Now, all that was left to do was find Quint again. It wasn’t hard.

  Ahead, someone yelled, “Get out of my way, you idiots!”

  A small group of people scattered as Quint bulled his way through them.

  Jack jumped off the last car and chased after him. After another hundred meter sprint, Jack’s thighs and lungs, and for some reason, his ears, burned, but he kept on running. The crowd thinned out and he could see Quint clearly for the first time. Quint made a hard right and Jack’s heart sank. He knew just where the bastard was going—the Khan el-Khalili, the giant marketplace. If there was any place in Cairo he could lose Jack, it would be in the tangle of narrow streets and vendor stalls.

  Jack tried to run faster, but his knee protested. He pushed aside the pain and found a little more under the hood.

  Up ahead, Quint shoved a pair of tourists aside, their unfolded map flapping in the air as one of them fell backwards. Then Quint disappeared into the bazaar.

  Jack ran after him. For such a big man, Quint was light on his feet. He weaved between tourists like a race car through lap traffic until he looked back and saw Jack was getting closer.

  Then the game changed.

  The first shot whizzed past Jack’s head so close he could feel it. People screamed and scattered. Jack looked for cover. A silversmith’s store to his left had row after row of ornate silver platters. Not quite bullet proof, but close enough.

  Jack could have returned fire, but it was too damned crowded.

  He was just about to dive behind the silver trays when he heard a scream. Jack turned toward the sound and saw a woman reaching out for her son, but a man pulled her back before she could grab him out of harm’s way. The little boy, no more than two, stood in the middle of the cobblestone street, crying.

  Jack sprinted toward the child as another shot ricocheted off the silver platter he’d been next to. He scooped up the little boy and dived into the nearest stall.

  He curled himself around the child as another shot came. A pile of little stuffed camels fell on top of them. The hump of the large display toy camel exploded in a burst of stuffing and cloth as another shot barely missed him.

  The boy cried and Jack muttered comforting words he hoped the kid could understand.

  Then there was silence. The woman still sobbed, but the street was quiet. Lifting the boy from his lap, Jack set him down alongside him, then peered around the edge of the display table. Quint was gone.

  Jack turned back to the little boy and smiled.

  “It’s okay.”

  The boy sniffled jerkily. Jack handed him a little stuffed camel. “Keep him safe, okay?”

  Taking the toy, the boy pulled it to his chest. Jack threw some money on the table and set off after Quint again.

  He rounded a corner and saw some of Quint’s handiwork—piles of shattered glass lamps littering the walkway. Jack jumped over the mess and ran ahead. He rounded another corner, nearly skidding into the wall, when he saw Quint.

  Jack continued the chase, but then Quint pulled up short. It was a dead end.

  Quint turned back around, ready to race out the other way, when he saw Jack and stopped dead in his tracks. Quint pulled his gun out and fired, or tried to.

  Jack didn’t know if Quint’s gun had jammed or if he was out of bullets, and he didn’t care. He’d caught him. Jack smiled and reached for his own gun.

  The holster was empty. His gun must have fallen out during the chase. Jack grinned then laughed nervously. This might not end as well as he’d hoped. Quint’s eyes widened as he realized Jack was unarmed, then he smiled the sort of smile bullies everywhere did.

  Jack swallowed and then held out his hands. “I don’t suppose you’d just like to give up anyway?”

  Quint’s smile faded in answer.

  “Didn’t think so.”

  Jack had barely raised his fists when Quint charged.

  Jack grabbed the nearest weapon, which happened to be a hookah—a long metal pipe. It was lighter than he’d thought it would be. Not having the time to grab anything else, he gripped it like a Louisville Slugger. He swung for the fences as Quint lunged for him.

  Quint raised his arm to block the blow and the metal pipe broke into pieces. It wasn’t one big piece of metal, but several, and fell apart easily. Very easily. Jack watched a piece roll harmlessly away, then focused quickly back on Quint.

  Quint laughed. “That all you got?”

  “Smoking’s bad for you anyway.”

  Jack ducked out of the way of an outrageous haymaker and moved into the middle of the street. There had to be something else he could use. He might be a little faster than Quint, but Quint had at least thirty pounds on him. Jack didn’t like his odds in a fistfight.

  He searched for something else to use, something heavy and sharp … like the hammered metal lamp Quint was swinging like a medieval flail.

  Okay, that was better than his hookah. By a lot. Quint swung the chain above his head and the spiky, starred lamp spun dangerously.

  Jack edged backwards. Keeping an eye on Quint who slowly moved forward, Jack reached behind himself for something to grab onto.

  His fingers curled around something and he picked it up. A mandolin.

  Not exactly what he was hoping for. Quint swung his flail and Jack held up his mandolin. It wasn’t pretty. There was an explosion of wood shards and all that Jack was left with was a neck and some strings.

  He tossed them aside and looked again for something. Quint swung again and Jack dove out of the way. The flail took out two guitars, creating a twang of breaking guitar strings and a spray of wood shrapnel.

  Jack did his best shoulder roll and sprang back to his feet in front of another stall. He reached back hoping for something better than a mandolin, but his fingers hit only a burlap sack. Hazarding a glance back, he smiled. Definitely better than a mandolin.

  He let his hands slip into the sack, grabbed a handful of its contents and waited for Quint to come to him. It didn’t take long.

  Quint laughed. He was a cat playing with his food. But Jack was no mouse.

  “Getting tired yet?” Jack asked, a little more breathlessly than he liked.

  Quint lifted his lamp-flail and started swinging it again.

  “Okay, maybe that’s just me.”

  Quint inched closer.

  Jack had to time this just right. He’d only get one chance.

  His heart beat hard in his chest as he kept one hand behind his back
and held up the other in weak defense.

  “’Cause we can stop anytime, if you want to give up. Maybe have lunch?”

  Quint wasn’t amused. “You talk too much.”

  “You know, a lot of people say that.”

  Quint grimaced, his arm poised for the killing blow, and took a big, lunging step toward Jack. His eyes opened wide with that bloodlust Jack had seen so many times during the war. And that was his cue.

  Jack lunged forward instead of ducking back and threw the handful of paprika from his hidden hand into Quint’s face.

  The red powder seemed to move in slow motion, and Jack saw the exact moment it filled Quint’s eyes and nostrils. He cried out and let go of his lamp, flinging it aside. He reached up to his face with both hands. Blind and enraged, he staggered.

  “Too spicy?”

  Jack picked up a silver tray from the hookah shop and hit Quint on the side of the head so hard Jack’s arms shuddered.

  Quint’s hands froze in place, cupping his face, his red eyes bulging. He stood frozen for a moment and then fell like a redwood at Jack’s feet.

  When he was sure the giant wasn’t coming to anytime soon, Jack rolled him over and dug through his pockets. He found the pocket watch and pulled it out. He held it up, allowing himself one moment of triumph before slipping it into his own jacket pocket.

  He stood up and looked down at Quint.

  “How about that lunch?”

  Chapter Two

  BACK AT COUNCIL HEADQUARTERS in San Francisco, Jack put the pocket watch down on Peter Travers’ desk.

  The little man’s eyes brightened and he reached out to pick it up. “You got it.”

  Jack shrugged. “Easy.”

  Travers looked at him with a skeptical expression but smiled. “Somehow I doubt that. David Quint was one our best operatives.”