The Lottery Trap — Part 2 (Finale)

Short Series — When Decklain and his partner pull a suspicious thread, they unravel a conspiracy that threatens to unravel the lottery, the Bureau, and the future itself

Photo by Rosalind Chang on Unsplash

Earlier…
***
Ybor City
2 Hours to Drawing

We slip out of the precinct under the pretense of grabbing some grub. No one objects. 'Far as they know, our perp is already under lock 'n key.

Craft and I park our cruiser down at Water Street to sell the ruse, then ride that tourist -trap street car down to the end of the line. Ybor's crowded. The base beat from a half dozen greasy nightclubs shakes the old brick streets. The crowd is a mish-mash of tourists, club goers, and teen gang bangers, weaving under iron balconies and arches.

We move off the main thoroughfare, away from the cigar bars and hangouts. Past an overgrown park, Craft's print-out directions bring us down an alleyway so tight, we have to step over a sleeping bum to get to the faded red door at the end.

Craft grabs the handle, and the damn thing groans as it swings open. “C’mon,” he says.

I hesitate at the threshold, heart racing. Why go through all that trouble to hide your tracks, then leave the damn door unlocked? No, something doesn’t smell right. But Craft’s disappeared into the dark building before I can object. Against my better judgement, I follow him inside.

Beyond the strip of streetlight from the alley, the place is blacker ‘n tar. The tight beam of my flashlight makes it hard to see more than a few square feet of the place at once. A dust cloth draped over some future here… a stack of wooden crates there.

A light shines in my face. “Hey, get a load of this.” It’s Craft, standing over an open box and shaking a wad of dough in my direction. Even from across the room, the glowing green indicator worms tip me off that it’s Future Cash.

“Bet it’s the same batch we found from the store,” I say. “We should start bagging—“ I froze mid sentence as my eyes fell on a familiar site: the gunmetal finish of a Jansten-model COOLR. The thing makes no noise whatsoever. I only know it’s on by the violet indicator light, blinking on the surface.

“Is that what I think it is?” Craft asks.

Before I can answer, he’s pulling open the lid. He frowns, clearly not sure what to make of what he’s looking at.

“Lemme see.”

I come around his shoulder to get a better look. Sitting on the bottom of the box is a single stun grenade, pin out, and trigger lever released. My brain recognizes the trap early enough to utter a single-syllable curse and squeeze my eyes shut; but too late to bring my hands up to cover my ears.

A deafening bang cuts the quiet like a thunderclap, leaving behind a high-pitch whine in my ears. I open my eyes to see Craft staggering, clearly disoriented and groping for support. The room isn't dark anymore: work lights blast the room with blinding white, and a familiar silhouette stands in the doorway. Was that a gun in his hand?

Unwilling to wait and find out, I turned back toward the entrance just in time to catch a glimpse of the bum from the alley, pulling the door shut and blocking my escape.

"Neither of you move," Mirkwood orders, pulling the butt of a pump action shotgun against the crux of his shoulder.

"Chief?" Craft asks, coming to his senses, "I don't understand."

"Shut up," Mirkwood snarls, "And sit down." He motions to a couch, draped in plastic.

Craft and I comply.

"I'm going to talk for a minute. Then I'm going to ask you a question. And depending on how you answer, I might not shoot you." Nod if you understand.

We nod.

"Excellent." Mirkwood crinkles the plastic covering as he sinks into the armchair opposite the sofa. He keeps the gun leveled at us across his lap. He swaps his slow, almost out-of-breath cadence for a biting tone. "Everyone at the Temporal Bureau of Investigation knows the lottery is the greatest honeypot scheme ever created. But did you ever stop and ask yourself who cooked it up in the first place?"

I blink.

"The government, right?" Craft asks, slowly.

"The government?" Mirkwood lets out a booming laugh. "Ah, that's rich. No, we've got Caliban Blake to thank for that. Yes, the same Caliban Blake who first discovered time travel. First to pop back to run the lottery scam, too. See, Blake was exceptionally cunning. He knew it was only a matter of time before others tried to profit off the past as well. And if everyone is rich, nobody is.

"He figured the only sensible thing was to pull the ladder up behind himself, so to speak... founding the TBI to catch and kill anyone trying to follow in his footsteps.”

“And that makes us what, exactly? Enforcers for some rich asshole?” I ask.

“That’s one perspective.”

“What’s yours?”

“Protecting the future. Just think of the harm thousands of time travelers could cause, mucking around in the past. We hold back chaos, Decklain; our mission is the same but someone has to foot the bill. Why not Blake?”

Craft scoffs. “Don’t buy it. Why not just tell the rest of the agents we’ve got a private benefactor? Why the secrecy?”

Mirkwood said nothing.

“Why set up guys like Gordon Gale?”

“Some people just get in the way, in ways a kid like you can’t understand.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of a stack of coffin-sized COOLRs, and it clicks.

My partner gets to looking like he’s about to talk, and I shut him right up. “For your own good, can it Craft.”

“No, no it’s alright. Mister Blake appreciates the need for sharp young minds, capable of pulling the right threads. Unfortunately, he doesn’t need yours — at least not for a few decades.”

Mirkwood pulls the trigger. There’s a bang, then Craft slumps to the floor, howling and holding his gut. By the lack of blood, I make the leap Mirkwood’s slinging beanbag rounds. The chief turns the barrel on me before I can move a muscle. “You, you’re more of a day-to-day man. Small picture guy. I need you here and now, running down numbers with your head down. You do that for me?”

“Y-yes,” I stammer.

“Good. Now, if you’re gonna have a future here, you’re gonna have to prove your loyalty.”

Both our eyes flit to Craft, writhing on the floor.

“Sir, he’s my partner—“

“And he’s going in the box one way or another. Question is, are you gonna be joining him?”

Craft fights me the whole way to the open COOLR, begging and pleading like a damn coward. He manages to take a few swings, but it feels half-hearted, almost like a kid throwing a tantrum. I bring my knee up into his stomach, and he goes kinda limp. After that, getting him into the box is like dragging a big sack of potatoes. When I’m done, I slam the lid shut knowing full well the next time it opened, I and everyone Craft knew will be dead. To him, the time will pass in an instant.

“Off to a good start.” For the first time since he entered the room, Mirkwood lowers the gun. “Now for the real test.”

He tosses me a wad of cash, all wrapped up in a fat rubber band. I look it over, confused. “The hell am I supposed to do with this?”

“Spend it. At least some of it, down at the corner store down by the precinct. No masks. No hiding your face. You do it in full view of the cameras, so I know you’re not welching on me.”

Realization hits me: the ordinary looking money probably came from the same shell-company scheme Craft stumbled onto. By passing it, I’d be part of the conspiracy too.

“I do this, and we’re done?” I ask.

Mirkwood breaks out into a belly laugh. “No, Dick; you do this, and it’s only the beginning.”

---

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