ASSASSINATING YESTERDAY By Mark Posey
Project Gateway Story 1.0
Time Travel Thriller Action Adventure Novel
More books by Mark Posey
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Time Travel Rule #1: Don’t interact with anyone for any reason.
Yeah, right.
The day Dr. Robinson introduced me to the Temporal Fold Induction Gateway, an entire year passed. If I had known what would happen, I’d have run out the door and never looked back. It was the best year of my life, and I’d give anything to have never experienced it.
When Officer Blackie grabbed my arm in his jaws, his bite damaged the activation switch on my arm and trapped me twenty years in the past. On the run, I was left with only one choice: find my theoretical physicist father and get him to fix the switch so I can return to my own time. All without giving anything away to him… or my mother.
This is book is part of the Project Gateway time travel thriller series.
Project Gateway:
1.0 Assassinating Yesterday
…and more to come!
Also (only at Stories Rule Press):
Mark Posey’s Super-Bundle
Time travel, thriller, action and adventure.
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Listen to a short discussion about Assassinating Yesterday!
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Reviews
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I thoroughly enjoyed the complications of this initiation and testing of Time Travel technology. The details were enough to keep it believable and interesting without getting so complicated that I was drawn out of the excitement of the story.
It was addictive reading and I found it hard to put down, right from the start!
The main character was relatable as an expert in his field while still sharing emotions and memories from childhood. I really enjoyed the interactions between characters too.
Every twist and suprise kept me enthralled.
I enjoyed the closure of this first book in the Project Gateway series and am going to be following Mark Posey, eagerly awaiting more books in this series.
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Excerpt
EXCERPT FROM ASSASSINATING YESTERDAY
COPYRIGHT © MARK POSEY 2024
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
The sun was still high, the sky near-cloudless, as I stopped on the road, before I’d have to turn into the driveway. The house and the yard looked smaller. The lawn my friends and I played football on, at the side of the long white vinyl-sided house, didn’t look like the hundred-yard field I remembered. The driveway didn’t seem miles long, either.
There was no football game now. No one was in sight. The garage was open and both my parents’ cars were inside, so they were home.
My father’s horse, Schrödinger, was in the corral beside the driveway at the front of the property. My mom’s vegetable garden laid between the corral and the lawn at the side of the house. It was its usual well-tended self.
Between the garden and the lawn and across the property line at the back of our neighbor’s lot was a… calling it a pond was too generous. A slough was closer. Once, a beaver got stuck in the culvert under our driveway and the slough had grown deep and wide, and ruined half my mom’s vegetables that year.
Chris, Jason and I had spent summers slogging through those reeds, catching frogs, building rafts, and all the shit pre-teenage boys get up to.
As I shifted my focus from the garden to the house, my father strode out of the open garage and stood there, shading his eyes against the sun, squinting at the car stopped at the end of his driveway.
As much as I had thought about it for the last three days, nothing prepared me for this moment. I couldn’t breathe. My throat constricted. My knuckles ached from squeezing the steering wheel so hard.
He looked exactly as I remembered him. The old-fashioned part in his hair, the shabby, red, down-filled vest, and the horn-rimmed glasses he was constantly pushing up his nose.
It dawned on me not only did I want to deck him, I also wanted to hug him fiercely.
While he watched, I pulled the car into the driveway and coasted toward the house. I stopped a couple of car lengths from the garage.
He watched me pull up, a little smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
I still had no idea what I was going to say. When I opened the door and climbed out, my father started toward me with his hand out.
I reached out to shake his hand.
My father said, “Agent Johnson, I was wondering when you’d be back.”
