My vision blurred, and despite the awful racket of that kid, I found myself back at home, staring at Sarah's body, crumpled in my arms like a rag doll. When I had arrived home from my training, I knew something was wrong the moment I pulled into my driveway. The house had been quiet. Too quiet for my liking. Sarah usually rushes out to meet me,
but this time, she had not. And George's car had been in the driveway, blocking me from my usual parking spot.

I had darted through the door and found George standing there, over the body. Her body. George's face had been clawed across the cheek and was still oozing slow trails of rust-colored blood. "Jason," George had gasped as I ran to her and pulled her limp body into my arms.

Thompson had a sleep-in guest. The duffel bag contained miscellaneous clothing articles -- all fatigues and sweats -- a loaded beretta 9mm accompanied by several extra clips, a safety razor and some other toiletry items, and also, a passport.

Jason Trask.

Jason Trask's mug shot stared back at him, cold, calculating. His passport was stamped into oblivion. Russia, Nepal, Australia, Borneo, Great Britain, New Guinea, Nigeria, and more, and more... All countries Clark had visited. All in the same order.