A short time for living.

Chapter 1 - Kidnapped

Jack felt the cold steel of a gun barrel pressed against the back of his head. Sweat and blood trickled down his face, stinging his eyes like gritty sand whipped up by a beach windstorm. His hands were bound tightly with his own necktie—a twisted irony courtesy of his captors. Tied to a metal chair and shoved against a wall, he was surrounded by a thick, unnatural darkness, as if the room itself swallowed all light.

Still groggy, Jack tried to make sense of his surroundings. Shadows danced around him, and a figure loomed just outside his focus. "Where's the key card?" a voice demanded from the darkness. "You've got ten seconds before my friend here ends you."

The voice belonged to Martin Hyde—a man Jack had once called a friend, now his nightmare. In his mid-thirties, Martin reeked of expensive cologne and cigarettes, his carefully cultivated charm hiding the cold soul of a state-run CIA problem solver. Jack had once thought of him as a lively joker, always quick to push a joke to the edge without crossing the line. But everything Jack had thought he knew about Martin had been a facade. He was a plant, someone placed into Jack's life to test his loyalty. Martin had infiltrated his life, met his family, and now held the keys to Jack's secrets.

Behind Jack stood Victor, a towering six-foot-two hulk of muscle and menace. Freelance muscle for hire, Victor had been introduced as a "contract facilitator." Jack had once assumed he worked for a lawyer. Now he suspected Victor's real employers had a darker edge, maybe even the Russian mob. Jack had always felt uneasy around him, and now, in this dingy, musty room, that unease solidified into cold dread.

"Look, Martin," Jack muttered through a parched throat, "you've got the wrong guy. There's only one copy, and Bill has it!" He could feel his pulse thundering as he tugged at the restraints, his half-unbuttoned shirt stained with a mix of blood—maybe not all his own. The last thing he remembered was his SUV being forced off the road, and his wife was with him. Panic crept in. Where was she now? He kept quiet, praying she had somehow escaped.

Martin stepped into the faint beam of light, cigarette in hand. "Jack, you're scared, and you should be." He took a slow drag and smiled. "I want this to be painless, but I'm getting impatient. I thought we were friends." He exhaled a cloud of smoke, letting the words linger.

"Martin, if I had the key card, I'd give it to you," Jack whispered, his voice hoarse.

"Maybe you're suffering from a little amnesia." Martin pulled up Jack's sleeve, exposing his arm. "Pain has a way of helping people remember." With one last drag, he pressed the cigarette into Jack's arm. The searing pain made him scream, the sharp agony clearing his thoughts like ice water to the face. Martin grinned, leaning back with smug satisfaction. Jack suddenly realized Martin wasn't just after information; he was enjoying this, relishing Jack's suffering.

With a grim resolve, Jack knew he had to act. He scanned the room, looking for any edge he could find. He remembered a faint detail from a barbecue months ago—Martin had a vial labeled "vaccine" in his car's medical kit. It seemed odd then; now, it was a potential lifeline. Martin's paranoia might be his weakness.

Jack sat up, his voice barely a whisper. "Martin, it doesn't matter if you have the key card. It's too late. The virus has already spread."

Martin's face twisted, caught off guard. "What are you talking about?"

"The CDC confirmed the first cases two weeks ago. It's here in Denver." Jack kept his gaze low, adding just enough tremble to his voice to sound sincere.

Martin's smug expression faltered, and a bead of sweat rolled down his brow. "I have the vaccine. I'll be fine."

"You're right, Martin," Jack said, his voice louder now. "But what about Victor?"

The gun barrel lifted from Jack's head. He could almost feel the tension in the air as Victor turned toward Martin, panic flaring in his eyes. Martin tried to backpedal, waving a dismissive hand, "There's enough for both of us, Victor. This is nothing to worry about."

But Victor wasn't convinced. He stepped into Jack's line of sight, his grip tightening on the gun as he pointed it at Martin. "How do I know you're not lying, Martin?"

In that moment of confusion, Jack seized his chance, his mind racing with adrenaline-fueled clarity. With Victor and Martin distracted, he plotted his next move, hoping it would be enough to escape this deadly game of betrayal.

Martin's fingers hovered over the medical bag, his left hand pressing it down, his right sliding behind it. Victor's eyes followed each movement, hunger glinting in his stare. Jack felt his stomach drop—if Victor got that vaccine, his own survival was as good as over. With feigned care, Martin lifted the bag and extended it toward Victor. "You see, Victor? I told you I'd take care of you."

A sudden warmth spattered Jack's cheek, followed by the sharp echo of a gunshot. He turned just in time to see Victor slump to the floor, clutching his neck as blood spurted through his fingers. Martin straightened, a gun clutched in his trembling hand, his face twisted with cold satisfaction. "Did he really think I'd give up my only chance at survival?"

Victor's body shuddered, his eyes frozen open, as life drained out of him. Martin let out a bitter laugh, his hand shaking as he held the gun. "That fool had no idea. Guess the joke's on him."

Jack took a shaky breath, struggling to comprehend the shift. This was Victor's endgame, not Martin's. Now the barrel of the gun turned toward Jack. Martin smirked, cocking the weapon. "You're next, Jack. I have the vaccine, so that key card means nothing now, does it?"

Jack steadied himself, meeting Martin's gaze with a forced smile. "You're right—if this were a week ago. But the virus mutated. That vaccine you're holding? It's useless now."