Page 5

DOYLE

A bungee cordand anti-grav soles on his boots were the only things Doyle could scrounge together quickly enough to get him outside the TCR. They’d have to do.

The first thing he noticed when he exited via the departure steps, his toolkit slung over his shoulder in a satchel, was the wave of heat that settled over his entire body.

Fuck these costumes.

If that cloak wasn’t working, he doubted taking off his shirt and putting on some shorts would cause any worse a reaction than a giant cylindrical glass building stuck in a bunch of cacti. Clothing style was the least of their problems if they were spotted. He supposed the crash happening so far off course from the center of the small town was actually a blessing, if there was one in this mess.

Doyle needed to know what had caused the issue. As soon as Jones recovered, they were going to have a man to man about making fun of him with statements like, “You’re an A-type personality where A stands for ass.” Triple and quadruple checking were in Doyle’s DNA, and it seemed like a positive trait considering their current circumstances.

Doyle kicked at his heel to activate the anti-grav field and cautiously stepped off the side of the staircase leading from the TCR. He adjusted the scanner built into his wristband as he slowly descended so that his head was just at the bottom of the colossal cylinder. His body shifted to keep balance as he worked. He’d trained on these soles, and the cowboy boots actually helped a bit by being so stiff around his calves.

Doyle used his hands to tug himself forward toward the center dip where the cloaking device, a metal baseball bat-shaped object, was secured. The area, surrounded by the crushed tops of cacti, made his stomach sour. Oozing pulp was all that remained of the trail of cacti the ship had skidded over when “docking” in the side of a Palo Verde tree. Doyle swallowed and fished in his satchel for a laser cutter so he could clear a path through.

When he’d finally made visual contact with the area of damage to the Time Machine, he grimaced. It didn’t look good. skid marks stroked the underside of the craft, and the bulbus reinforced case that protected the cloak was gone. Not cracked or broken, but gone like it had been swiped right off by the heads of cacti.

Doyle ducked his head, needing to see all the damage before his imagination got the best of him. When he did, he decided his imagination must not be that great because reality bit hard.

Nothing remained except a scraped swatch of metal. The device may have been unassuming with its smooth, unmarked exterior, but there was no mistaking its complete absence.

The cloak had been completely dislodged. Doyle forgot about the heat as cold sweat swept over his body. His pulse thundered in his ears and his mouth grew very dry.

“Well?” Prompted McGovern over his wristband.

“The cloaking device is gone,” Doyle answered, still staring in disbelief.

“Then find it.”

“Yeah. Great idea, McGovern. I’m on it.” His sarcasm was probably lost on the captain, who would no doubt be delighted he was thanked. Doyle rubbed his thumb and forefinger against his head, massaging the pain between and above his eyes. The potential work it would take if there was the least bit of damage to the intricate and delicate interior made Doyle’s stomach turn. That was assuming he could recover it. If he couldn’t…the complications of losing a billion-dollar instrument were staggering. His boss would be livid, never mind the Watcher.

He lowered himself slowly to the ground and kicked off the anti-grav. Then Doyle began the search, starting with the bodies of the cacti and the surrounding dirt and brush. At least it was early morning. With any luck, no one was up and about yet, and he could find it and fix it before it got hotter.

But as the search continued, Doyle’s hopes faded, along with the cooler air. He wouldn’t have called it cooler when he’d emerged from the temperature regulated machine, he’d have called it hot, but he was beginning to understand what hot really meant and suspected it would get worse instead of better.

Doyle spiraled out and away from the machine to keep it in the center of his search area. He’d wound his way almost an entire kilometer out, having thoroughly checked the ground with both eyes and sensors while holding out his wristband to scan the surrounding brush and cacti. He’d never realized how big they could get or how numerous. The saguaros were extinct in his time. A pang of sorrow hit him as he paused to swipe away the sweat collected beneath his hat. A pair of hawks circled in the sky above, and he regretted not bringing more than a single hydropod. Who knew he’d be starting his vacation out in the one hundred-and-ten-degree heat in 1888 by searching on his own through the desert for a billion-dollar instrument he’d created?

It wasn’t a thought that helped, so he glanced around to make sure he was alone and told his hat to play some classic Stones. He’d lobbied to go back to the 1960s but was happy enough to start off in the old west. Why not combine the two?

As Ruby Tuesday blasted through the barely perceptible speaker on the underside of the brim, his mood improved. He’d hooked it up when Lacey wasn’t looking, or he’d never hear the end of messing with her authentic costumes. Bobbing his head along as he walked, he held his arm out, moving methodically back and forth to scan the area with his wristband.

An hour later, he was so focused on the ground beneath his feet that he nearly had a heart attack when someone shouted at him.

“Don’t move!”

Doyle tapped the brim of his hat to put the music on pause and looked up. About three meters away stood a real-life Annie Oakley. Her dark hair glinted red where the sun hit it, twisted up behind her with chunks flying out around her shoulders. Her shirt was filthy and sweat pulled it tight around her chest, revealing all the curves underneath. Her feet were planted firmly hip width apart, faded brown boots peeking out from beneath the bottoms of what looked like part dress, part pants with two rows of buttons that drew his eyes to her tiny waist and full hips. She pointed the business end of a double barrel shotgun directly at him, and it was obvious she knew how to use it.

Doyle froze obediently, mortified that his jeans probably wouldn’t hide how turned on he was by this dirty, dangerous, and oh-so-delicious sight before him.

He raised his hands in surrender.

“Stop moving you idiot,” the woman hissed at him.

Doyle complied but cleared his throat to talk. He couldn’t let her see the TCR or do anything that might alter the timeline. He also couldn’t let her shoot him.

“Shh,” she cut him off him before he started.

“Look here,” Doyle began, annoyed that she wouldn’t even let him talk. “I’m not a bad guy.”