Red lasers painted the brick wall behind him.
Sirens wailed in the wet Chicago night, a high-pitched scream of inevitable defeat.
James Coughlin wiped blood from his forehead, his knuckles white around the grip of his customized AK-47.
Trapped.
Betrayed by his own partners, the men he had shared bread with for five years.
He could hear their laughter echoing in his mind, the cruel mockery of Marcus as he locked the steel security doors from the outside and left him to take the fall.
"Drop the weapon!" a megaphone bellowed from the street below.
Blue and red strobes sliced through the cracked window panes, painting the dusty warehouse floor in violent hues.
He spat a red-stained glob onto the concrete.
Giving up wasn't in his DNA.
He would rather die in a hail of lead, his chest torn open by federal bullets, than rot in a maximum-security cell.
Suddenly, the air pressure dropped.
A low hum vibrated in his teeth, drowning out the wail of the sirens.
Light didn't flash; it bled.
A sickening, oily tear ripped open in the empty space between two rusting iron pillars.
It spun like a miniature vortex, smelling of ozone, burnt copper, and something older than the earth itself.
"Step through," a voice echoed, not in his ears, but directly inside his skull.
It sounded like grinding tectonic plates and static.
James stumbled back, raising his rifle. "Who the hell is that? Show yourself!"
"An exit, James," the voice whispered, cold and absolute. "A clean slate. Or you can let those wolves tear you apart."
Footsteps thundered up the metal stairwell.
Heavy tactical boots.
He looked at the tear in reality, smelling the impossible scent of fresh dirt and pine coming from the glowing vortex.
Desperation clawed at his throat.
He hated not being the one holding the cards, but the alternative was a lifetime in maximum security.
"What do you want?" James growled, his chest heaving.
"Amusement," the entity replied. "A pebble thrown into the river of time. Go. Disrupt."
Swearing under his breath, James gripped his duffel bag tighter.
He stepped forward.
With a final look back at the door as it splintered open under a battering ram, he plunged into the tear.
---
Ozone burned his nostrils.
Nausea hit him like a physical blow, dragging him to his knees on damp, gravelly earth.
He vomited, his stomach wrenching violently as his eyes struggled to adjust to the blinding midday sun.
Silence pressed down on him.
No sirens.
Screaming police cars and city traffic were entirely gone.
Just the distant, sharp chirp of a bird and the rustle of wind through dry grass.
Slowly, James pushed himself up, wiping his mouth with the back of his tactical glove.
His heavy tactical plate carrier felt suffocatingly warm in the heavy heat of midday.
He checked his gear with rapid, practiced movements.
His AK-47 was still slung over his shoulder, its polymer stock hot to the touch.
Beside him lay his heavy duffel bag.
He unzipped it slightly, confirming the stacks of crisp, uncirculated bills he had pulled from a federal reserve vault—bills dated prior to 1933, meticulously gathered for a different plan that had gone sideways.
Squinting, he looked ahead.
A massive, grim brick fortress dominated the horizon.
Indiana State Prison.
Its high stone walls loomed against the pale blue sky, looking like a medieval castle dropped into the American heartland.
A quick glance at his wrist revealed his digital watch was dead, the screen cracked and black.
But he knew the date.
Knowledge of the era had been burned into his mind during the transition. May 10, 1933.
Dust kicked up on the dirt road leading toward the prison gates.
A dark, sleek machine purred down the road, stopping a hundred yards away.
It was a brand-new 1933 Ford V8, its black paint gleaming under the sun.
Two men sat inside, their faces obscured by the glare on the flat windshield.
James ducked behind a thick oak tree, his heart hammering against his ribs.
This was it.
A turning point in history was unfolding right before his eyes.
Heavy iron gates groaned open in the distance.
A man walked out.
He wore a sharp grey suit, his fedora tilted at a rakish angle.
John Dillinger.
Even from this distance, the man radiated a strange, magnetic energy.
He walked with a light, almost cocky bounce in his step, a free man looking at the open road.
James unclipped the safety of his AK-47.
He needed to play this perfectly.
These men didn't know him, and in this era, strangers with strange weapons got shot first and asked questions never.
---
Sweat trickled down James's temple.
He adjusted his grip on the rifle, stepping out from the shadow of the oak tree.
His combat boots crunched on the gravel.
Both men in the Ford V8 reacted instantly.
Doors flew open.
Two Thompson submachine guns pointed directly at his chest.
"Hold it right there, pal!" one of them yelled, his voice rough and laced with a thick Midwestern accent.
James didn't stop, but he kept his rifle lowered, barrel pointed at the dirt.
"I'm not here for a fight!" James called out, his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins.
Dillinger stopped in his tracks, his eyes narrowing as he took in James's bizarre appearance.
Modern body armor.
Digital camo pants.
A weapon that looked like nothing from this earth.
"What the hell are you wearing, fella?" Dillinger asked, his voice surprisingly calm, almost amused.
"My name is James Coughlin," he replied, stopping ten feet from the car. "And I'm your ticket to never going back inside that cage."
A burly man with a scarred jaw—the driver of the Ford—sneered. "He's a fed, John. Or some kind of freak. Let me put some lead in him."
"Feds don't dress like this," Dillinger murmured, his sharp eyes scanning James from toe to head. "And they sure don't carry whatever the hell that thing is."
He pointed a finger at the AK-47.
"It's a rifle from a place you've never heard of," James said. "It can fire six hundred rounds a minute. It'll rip through any armored car your boys can't crack."
Hamilton's knuckles were white on the grip of his Tommy gun. "He's talking crazy, John. No gun fires that fast without jamming. He's trying to play us for fools."
To prove his point, James raised the weapon.
In one swift, fluid motion, he aimed at a rotting wooden fence post fifty yards away.
He squeezed the trigger.
A deafening roar shattered the quiet afternoon.
Splinters rained down as a three-round burst obliterated the top of the fence post.
This sound was entirely different from the chattering rattle of the Thompson—a deep, terrifying thud.
Both gangsters jumped, their fingers tightening on their own triggers.
"Whoa, whoa!" Dillinger shouted, raising a hand to hold his men back.
Amazement flickered across Dillinger's face, quickly replaced by a calculating sharpness.
"You've got a toy," Dillinger said, stepping closer. "But toys don't buy gas. They don't buy cops."
James smirked.
He unzipped the heavy canvas duffel bag at his feet.
Reaching inside, he pulled out a thick stack of bills, tossing it onto the hood of the Ford V8.
"Fifty thousand dollars," James said. "All clean. All legal tender for this year."
Red Hamilton, the driver, gasped as he stared at the pile of cash.
Dillinger didn't look at the money. He kept his eyes locked on James.
"Why?" Dillinger asked. "A man with that kind of firepower and cash doesn't need a crew. What do you want?"
"I need a crew that knows the layout of this country," James said, stepping forward. "You know the banks. You know the roads. I have the power to make us untouchable."
"And if I say no?"
"Then you'll die in a shootout in a couple of years," James said coldly. "Or rot in a cell. I'm offering you a different ending."
Dillinger stared at him, his expression unreadable.
Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.
His driver looked at Dillinger, waiting for the word to shoot.
James stood his ground, his finger resting lightly on the trigger guard. He had to show strength. If he showed a single ounce of fear, these men would tear him apart.
"A test," Dillinger finally said, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his lips. "We have a job in a few days. A small bank in Ohio. You come with us. If you're as good as you say, we talk. If you freeze, or if you're a cop, I'll personally put a bullet in your skull."
"Deal," James said.
He slung the rifle over his shoulder, but his muscles remained coiled, ready for betrayal.
Walking closer, the legendary outlaw stepped up to him, the gap between them closing to a mere foot.
Dillinger's eyes, cold as steel, flicked from the unfamiliar rifle to Coughlin's face, a silent question hanging in the tense air: friend or foe?