A Different Time

Two

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-UNKNOWN'S- POV
I've been staring at my laptop screen for the past twenty minutes, waiting for the heat signatures to move. The camera on my dash points towards a house of stone and broken windows. The earpiece in my left ear chimes with voices—there's a tiny microphone in one of the broken windows that poses as a nail. Cameras and microphones and drones come in all shapes and sizes at the FBI. Though... I'm not one of them anymore, now am I?
I've been hunting a group of police officers.
This is why I lost my job all those years ago.
But I know I'm right.
The entire police department is led by twelve men—twelve men who happened to be on-scene at the time of one of England's worst crimes.

Just as I go to shut my laptop and give up, thinking I've probably lost my chance at finding anything—someone speaks. I turn the volume up on my earpiece.
"How the hell are we supposed to get to him? He's surrounded by security at all times, and if were recognized, we'll surely be slammed." One voice says.
"We'll just have to take that chance. There's a lot of money riding on this, so we'd better be right about it." A woman hisses.
"Still 4405? It hasn't changed?"
"Not the entire time I've worked here. He'll probably still be there. His schedule is nearly the same every day. Should be coming home from coffee right about now." The woman says.

I narrow my eyes. I still don't know who they're after.
A heat signature moves inside the house. I lay across the gear shift and wince as it digs into my ribs. I parked my car about a hundred feet back, on the side of the road. I put my laptop on the floor of the passenger seat and I stare at it, reaching to my belt for my gun.
I sit myself up in my seat, taking the mag out and checking it. Full. Good.
I look back at the screen. There's no one in the house.
The window smashes beside my face, glass slicing and embedding into my cheek, a hand following it and fingers wrapping around my throat.
Instinctively, I swing my gun in the direction of my attacker and I shoot off a bullet. A miss.
A fist comes flying through at me as well, grabbing my wrist and snapping it backwards, making me drop my gun and scream. The car door swings open and I'm thrown to the ground by my hair.
I push off the ground and I take a knife out of its sheath on my thigh and I stance, waiting for another one of the men to attack. They've all got skull masks on, like a bunch of rowdy bikers.
One with a bright red mohawk lunges at me, and I swing my arm out and slam it against the side of his face, my hand skipping over his cheek and slamming into the side of his nose. I feel a crunch from the contact. Blood comes pouring as I whip the man around and bring him into a headlock and press my knife to his throat.
The rest of the men don't seem to care, as they continue to advance towards me.
Shit, shit, SHIT!
Where do I go? Fuck!!!
I stumble backwards with the man as my temporary hostage. My eyes dart around from the men, to the houses around us. I can't barricade myself in any house in this neighborhood. They'll find me. And probably I'll whoever I end up with.
I take the chance.
I release the man, and with a swift kick of my foot, his knee buckled and he falls to the ground, clutching it in agony. I turn on my heel and I sprint away, looking over my shoulder every other second. I could have taken the car, but they'd taken over it by that point. There was no easy escape. This is how they've been attacking. They chase their victims until they can't evade any longer, and they close in. Like a bunch of African wildcats stalking their prey on the open plains.
And I wasn't going to give them that satisfaction.
—
I've been running for what feels like hours, though I know it's only been a few minutes. I look behind me once more to see no one, but I know they're still hunting.
I have to find that address they've been talking about.
—
I sprint across the highway, across a few supermarket car lots, and passed a park. 4405, 4405, 4405. I repeat the address in my head over and over again until I finally come to a line of flats. I sprint across the side, looking at each number.
4400, 4401, 4402, 4403, 4404, 4405.
I knock twice. Then four times. No answer.
So, I do what I was trained to do. Bust down doors.
I took a step back and slammed my shoulder into the door. I go to do it again and I go flying inside, the door being opened wide before I got the chance to come in contact with it.
My body crashes to the floor. It takes me but a second to shoot up to my feet. I turn to face the man.
The man they've been searching for, for the past decade. The man they've been tracking.
The man they're going to kill.

"...Ryder?" The man says.
I look up at him and I'm immediately terrified.

"...Dan?"