Detective Cole Harris blinked.
Then blinked again.
The alley behind the precinct was gone.
In its place: a narrow backstreet lined with rus
ted fire escapes, the stench of coal smoke, and
the faint, smoky hum of a jazz trumpet.
“Who the hell are you?”
The voice was sharp, female, and coming from the
shadows.
Cole turned slowly, hand drifting to his holster
—only to find it missing.
A woman stepped into the moonlight.
She wore a beaded flapper dress, her bob cut sha
rp as a knife.
“You’re not with the Black Daggers, are you?” sh
e asked.
Her eyes narrowed. “Or the Irish?”
Cole raised both hands.
“I’m a cop,” he said. “At least, I was two secon
ds ago.”
She didn’t laugh.
Didn’t blink.
Instead, she grabbed his wrist and pulled him in
to a doorway.
A second later, a car roared past, tires screech
ing.
“They’re after the blueprint,” she whispered.
“The one that can win the war.”
Cole’s brain raced.
Blueprint. War. 1920s Chicago.
He was in the middle of a Prohibitionera spy thr
iller.
And he had no idea how to get home.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Why am I here?”
She smirked.
“You’re here because someone wants you out of th
e way.”
He frowned.
“In my time, that’s a job for a hit man. Not a t
ime machine.”
She leaned in.
“You’re not in your time, Detective.”
Footsteps echoed down the street.
Heavy boots. More than one.
She grabbed his hand again.
“This way,” she hissed.
They slipped into a basement through a coal chut
e.
The air smelled like damp earth and gin.
“This is a speakeasy,” Cole said.
“You bring me to a bar?”
She shot him a look.
“It’s a safehouse.”
A man behind the bar nodded at them.
“Boss is waiting.”
Cole followed her down a narrow hall.
Every step felt like a scene from a gangster mov
ie.
They entered a dimly lit room.
Three men sat around a poker table, cards untouc
hed.
One of them stood.
“You’re late,” he said.
Cole looked at the woman.
“Boss?”
She smiled.
“Something like that.”
The man gestured to a chair.
“Detective Harris,” he said. “We’ve been expecti
ng you.”
Cole sat slowly.
“How do you know my name?”
The man didn’t answer.
Instead, he slid a folder across the table.
Inside: a photo of Cole.
His badge number. His address.
Cole stared at it.
“What the hell is this?”
The woman sat beside him.
“You’re in a competition,” she said. “And you’re
not the only one who timetraveled.”
He looked up.
“What kind of competition?”
The man lit a cigarette.
“To find the blueprint. To stop the war. Or star
t it.”
Cole leaned back.
“This is insane.”
The woman leaned in.
“But real.”
Outside, the jazz stopped.
Then came the sound of gunfire.
Cole stood.
“Where’s the nearest weapon?”
The man handed him a Thompson.
“Welcome to the game, Detective.”
They burst into the street.
Smoke. Fire. A getaway car screeching toward the
m.
“Go!” the woman shouted.
Cole ran, heart pounding.
He was in the middle of something bigger than a
case.
This was history. And the future.
And someone wanted it rewritten.
He looked at the woman.
“Tell me you have a plan.”
She grinned.
“Of course. Now hold on!”
She fired into the air.
The car veered toward them.
Cole jumped.
Landed hard.
The woman slid in beside him.
“Hang on!”
They tore through the streets.
Behind them, the past was chasing fast.
Cole looked at her.
“What’s your name?”
She didn’t look at him.
“Call me Lila.”
He nodded.
“Okay, Lila. What’s next?”
She handed him a map.
“We find the blueprint. Before they do.”
He studied the map.
It was marked with red pins and coded notes.
“This is a Cold War spy route,” he said.
“How did this get here?”
She shrugged.
“Time travel doesn’t care about eras. Just conse
quences.”
Cole stared at her.
“You’re saying this has happened before?”
She didn’t answer.
Just pointed ahead.
“There.”
A warehouse loomed in the distance.
Barbed wire. Guards. A plane hidden inside.
Cole’s breath caught.
“That’s not a blueprint,” he said. “That’s the r
eal thing.”
Lila nodded.
“Which means we’re running out of time.”
He gripped the Thompson tighter.
“Then let’s move.”
They crept through the shadows.
Past the guards. Into the belly of the beast.
Inside, crates stacked high.
Plans pinned to the walls.
Cole spotted the blueprint first.
Folded, sealed, and guarded by a man with a scar
down his face.
Lila whispered, “That’s Rourke.”
“He works for the Soviets.”
Cole moved first.
Silenced the guard with a chokehold.
Lila grabbed the blueprint.
“Got it.”
Footsteps thundered from the hallway.
They ran.
Out the back. Into the night.
The plane roared behind them.
Cole looked up.
“They’re launching it.”
Lila didn’t stop.
“Then we stop them.”
They reached the car.
Cole took the wheel.
“Where now?”
Lila pointed east.
“To the docks. There’s a sub waiting.”
Cole frowned.
“A sub?”
She smiled.
“Time travel needs a return ticket.”
The car skidded around a corner.
Gunfire lit the night behind them.
Cole kept driving.
This wasn’t just a case anymore.
It was a war across time.
And he was in the middle of it.
“Hold on!” he shouted.
Lila laughed.
They sped into the night.
Two unlikely allies in a battle that spanned dec
ades.
And the future was still being written.
