Jack stepped inside.
And froze.
Mark Reynolds lay motionless in the bed.
Older.
Weaker.
But unmistakably Mark.
Twelve years.
Twelve years believing his friend was dead.
Jack’s eyes filled with tears.
“Why?” he whispered.
The boy stood beside him.
“He always said someone was looking for him.”
Jack suddenly remembered the black SUV.
His heart dropped.
He rushed to the window.
The vehicle was parked outside.
Two men were watching the room.
Then Mark’s heart monitor suddenly spiked.
Beep.
Beep.
BEEP.
His eyes opened.
Barely.
Slowly.
He turned toward Jack.
Recognition flashed across his face.
“Jack…” he whispered.
Jack grabbed his hand.
“Where have you been?”
Mark’s eyes filled with fear.
“You have to take my son and run.”
Jack felt ice in his veins.
“Run from who?”
Mark looked toward the window.
“The men outside.”
The door handle began to turn.
Someone was coming in.
Mark used the last of his strength to press a small key into Jack’s hand.
“They can never find what’s hidden in Locker 317.”
The door burst open.
The two men from the SUV stepped inside.
And one of them smiled.
“After twelve years,” he said, “we finally found you.”
