CHAPTER ONE: May 1, 2012

If my boss, Mr. Clarke, knew I was here, he’d strip my company-issued watch from my wrist faster than you can say, “Dodge Greenley, we’re not in 2134 anymore.” But this past year has been nothing but tears and stress and sneaking around and nearly getting caught and trying and failing to make things right over and over, and I’ve run out of options.

And when all else fails, it’s time to set things on fire.

I tuck the shiny black orb into my pocket and stride across the dark, seemingly empty field. Seemingly being the key word.

The past is full of empty places—desolate areas, hidden from the public eye, where even satellite surveillance is spotty. In my present, there’s not a single place that isn’t constantly monitored by high-definition eyes in the sky. Good for crime. Not so good for trying to stay under the radar.

And “under the radar” was definitely one of the Trial Undertaking Bureau’s M.O.s. Thus the headquarters in the middle of nowhere, which took me months of research to find.

The building looks like a long-abandoned shed, out here in the middle of rural Pennsylvania. No one would give it a second thought, and that’s what they’re counting on. I pull a dark mask over my face. Not that anyone here would recognize me, but as a professional time traveler, I’ve learned the importance of keeping a low profile. And what I’m about to do now—aside from being completely illegal in either the present or future and against all the rules I’ve sworn to adhere to—isn’t exactly inconspicuous.

The entrance has some pretty high-tech locks on it for a beat-up storage shed, which assures me I’m in the right place. Fortunately, my technology outdates theirs by a hundred years, and my magnetic lock-pick makes quick work of their old-fashioned data pad. The door clicks open.

After slipping inside, I adjust the hood of my fireproof suit (again, a little 22nd century tech that no one in this time could possibly be expecting) and position the gas mask over my lower face. It’s the middle of the night, so no one ought to be here, but I have to check the area, just in case. I don’t want to hurt anyone, just stop them from destroying my life.

My boots echo through the corridors as I check each room.

“Hey! Who are you?”

I spin around and shoot my electronic stun gun straight into the man’s chest. He collapses to the floor in a heap.

The room he’d just emerged from glows blue with dozens of television screens, bulky and low-resolution, each showing angles from different closed-circuit cameras around the base. From what I can tell on the screens, the rest of the base is devoid of life. I haul the night watchman up the stairs and out into the crisp night air before descending into the headquarters again.

I check the other rooms anyway, just in case, and finally find myself staring at the door at the end of the corridor. The final door. The one I’m here for.

I pick the lock and step inside. There it is in all its shining glass-and-metal glory: the DeLorean Box. I touch it gingerly. So here it is. The Box. The time machine that set so much into motion. The reason I’m a time traveler. The reason I’m here.

In a way, I’m sad to see it go. It’s been such a part of the mythos of how my life came to be the way it is. On the other hand, I’ve thought it through and don’t see any other way. I pull a lighter from my pocket—a real Flamethrower XV7, not one of those pathetic little toys they used to light birthday candles back in the 21st century—and within seconds, the metal of the Box is white-hot and the glass is melting away.

The rest of the room catches fire quickly, fueled by paper and wood and other 21st century combustibles. The flames roar behind me as I retreat into the hallway.

My heart beats faster, but I know it’ll be okay. I’ve done my research, played out all the scenarios. This will work. It has to. From my conversations with Dr. Wells, I know that from this point on, he doesn’t hear from TUB directly again. After what happens to Elise, he and his Place in Time Travel Agency go even deeper into hiding, closing their New York storefront and operating via encrypted email for the next few decades, so if TUB wants him to build them a new Box, they’ll have the trouble of tracking him down first. They’ll go forward with the Continuum project—that much is already written in my own history and in the history books of my time—but they won’t be able to hop around from time to time, terrorizing people who are just trying to live out their lives.

At least I hope so.