Chapter 2 - The Twenty-Minute Distance
Twenty miles away, inside the sleek, glass-walled conference room of a downtown corporate high-rise, thirty-six-year-old Mark—Noah’s father—was mid-sentence in a crucial quarterly presentation. Dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, Mark was known for his calm, analytical demeanor. But the moment his phone vibrated on the wooden conference table with a call from Noah’s emergency contact line, his executive composure evaporated.
Mark had put the call on speaker softly near his ear, expecting to hear his son asking about a toy. Instead, the horrifying sound of Travis’s voice—“Who are you talking to?!”—erupted through the receiver, followed instantly by the sharp, terrifying sound of a crash and the call cutting to dead static.
Mark jumped to his feet so violently that his leather chair slammed backward against the glass wall. The room of executives fell into stunned silence. Mark stared down at the black phone screen, all the color draining from his face until he looked like a ghost.
“My son’s in danger,” Mark choked out, his voice laced with pure horror.
Without another word to his colleagues, Mark bolted out of the conference room, sprinted down the carpeted hallway, and slammed his palm against the elevator button. Realizing he was at least twenty to twenty-five minutes away through dense downtown traffic, his mind raced frantically to the only man who could bridge the gap.
He opened his contacts and hit speed dial.
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On the third ring, the call connected. “Mark? What’s going on?” answered the calm, low voice of thirty-eight-year-old Derek—Mark’s older brother and Noah’s uncle. Derek was a former elite MMA fighter who lived less than three miles from Mark’s suburban home.
“Derek, go now!” Mark screamed into the phone, pushing past people into the garage. “Travis is at the house! He’s hurting Noah! You’re closer—save my son!”
