A/N: I like this idea, even if I do say so myself. :) Don't forget to review :)

I own Jumper. Yes, I absolutely, most certainly am the owner and creator of Jumper. If I tell myself that enough, it may actually come true.

Ha, I wish.

Prologue

It's raining.

I know he wants to just kill the kid, get it over with, but the kid is our only bargaining chip. If he ever wants to see her again, he has to let this happen.

'I'm making the call,' I tell him, and he grunts. The kid is sitting – no, cowering – in the corner, the rope still around his wrists and ankles. He knows not to make a sound, because he was told that his throat would be ripped out if he made a sound. He's learned fast, that kid. I grab his arm lightly, and jump.

We land in a small studio apartment in the centre of Paris, and I let go of the kid. He pushes himself away from me, and I want to tell him that it's okay, that I'm not the one he should be scared of. But he's eleven, and I know that if he starts to get confident, we could have a huge problem.

I scroll through the address book in the phone, until I find the number that says "Dad". My finger hovers over the green phone before I take a deep breath, and press it. He answers almost instantly.

'Tyler?'

I know that voice well – too well, actually. It's the same voice that haunts me in my dreams, chases me down dark alleys, follows me through my jump scars. The voice that means a quarter-blade machete wrapped in cloth, and a hell of a lot of pain. Yeah, I know that voice.

Hearing that voice, and knowing who it belongs to and what he's doen, makes it a little easier to do what I know has to be done.

'He's alive, for now,' I state coldly. I really want to detach myself from my emotions, but it's not exactly easy, 'Melissa Swanbourne, know the name?'

He pauses on the other end of the line. 'Who is this?'

'This'll go a whole lot easier if you answer my questions. Does the name Melissa Swanbourne mean anything to you?'

Another pause, then, 'We're holding her and her family, for questioning.'

I let out a mirthless laugh, 'I know your methods of questioning, Roland. A better word for that would be torture.'

'Where is Tyler?'

'He's here,' I reply, and turn to the kid, 'Say something to daddy, little Tyler. You've got two minutes to say whatever the hell you want.' I turn on the speakerphone, and hold it between us. The kid looks at me, as if unsure I'm telling him the truth. I nod at the phone.

'Tyler?'

'Dad, yeah, I'm here,' the kid sounds almost anxious, and he leans forward, as if being closer to the phone will make him closer to his father, 'Dad, they're Jumpers, and one of them's a crazy British guy—'

'Where are you?'

'I don't know. The younger one jumped me here when he was making the call. It's a studio apartment, I think.'

'Can you see anything out the window?'

'By the time you get here, they'll be gone!'

'Have they done anything to you?' Roland sounds anxious, like he has to see his son, to know his son is okay. It's impossible to match the image of the black guy with white hair, unwrapping a quarter-blade machete in front of me with this voice I hear on the phone.

'No, they just have me tied up. The British guy wants to kill me, but the younger guy won't let him. He makes sure I get fed and everything; he's a lot nicer than the Brit.'

'They haven't hurt you, or drugged you or anything?'

'No, Dad,'

'What do they look like? Do they use their names around you? Do you know where they're keeping you?'

'I'll discuss who we are later, Roland,' I say loudly, 'Just talk to your son while you have the chance.'

'Tyler?'

'They live in some sort of cave thing. It doesn't have any way in, you have to jump in there. I don't know where it is.'

'Okay, son, I'll get you out of this, I promise.'

'Dad, don't do anything stupid. The British guy just wants an excuse to hurt me—'

I cut the kid off by switching off the speakerphone. 'Time's up, Roland,' I state into the handset. Just to be on the safe side, I grab the kid's arm again, and jump. This time, we're in the middle of Tokyo, in another of my apartments. 'We've moved again, so don't bother trying to triangulate the call.'

'What do you want? Who are you?'

'Roland Cox, we are Jumpers. We have your eleven-year-old son. Right now, you are going to do exactly what we want you to do.'

Review! Review! Review!

Go on, I dare you!