Edwin Hawthorn remained, alone, on the dock overlooking the SS Tipton, about to shove his phone back into his pocket, when one of his officers, a man by the name of Clay Morris, ran up to him from behind. "Sir, I got news about Cody!" he said.

"Can you say that a little louder?" Edwin sneered. He loved giving his officers a hard time, especially when he was in a foul mood. Heck, even when he was in a good mood, he fancied being hard on them. It was a way to demonstrate his authority over them. "I'm not sure everyone within a mile heard you."

"Sorry, sir," Morris gasped, trying to catch his breath. It was quite clear that he'd been running.

Edwin shook his head. "What is it?" he asked in a half-concerned, half-disgruntled manner.

"We received a ransom request from the traffickers."

Suddenly Edwin's eyes grew wide. "How much are they demanding?"

Morris coughed into his hands, his breath still not caught up with him.

"What's the figure, Morris!" shouted Edwin, his expression menacing.

"Somewhere in—in the millions," Morris stammered.

Edwin cursed under his breath, jamming his fists into his pockets, looking down at the dock as though he had been severely betrayed. "This wasn't what I wanted," he whispered to himself. "That wasn't the plan. Bastards double-crossed me."

"Sir?" Morris asked, his voice laced with timidity. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine!" Edwin snapped. "Look, just go back to your station."

"Yes, sir." And with that, Morris disappeared in the direction from whence he came, leaving Edwin to curse and fume over this unexpected shift of events.

After a few more minutes had gone by, in which he'd made a quick decision, he jumped into his cruiser and began to drive, too absorbed in the news he'd just received to notice that he was being followed.

Edwin Hawthorn's cruiser came to a stop right at the corner of an abandoned, filthy-looking alleyway—a place no one went to, or even thought of, anymore. Most didn't so much as notice it, having their attention on other destinations around the area. It was the perfect place for criminal activity.

Jack parked his own car several paces back so as not to be spotted, and watched as the clearly infuriated Edwin Hawthorn got out of his car and began walking down the alleyway, strutting as though he were about to punch someone's daylights out. Jack was not surprised. In fact, a slight smile tugged at his lips as he saw the crooked cop vanish into the darkness. "Gotcha," he whispered to himself.

As soon as Edwin Hawthorn was out of eyeshot, Jack bolted out of his own car, armed with just a gun, and advanced towards the alleyway himself. He sprinted to the corner or a little shop, peered around it, and then took off down the empty passageway. He wanted to break into a run, but decided against it. Too risky. Edwin could hear him—or worse, turn around and see him. So he walked, keeping his gun slightly poised, his eyes sharp, staying close to the ridges of the buildings in case he needed to hide.

And he did. When he caught up to Edwin, he found himself gazing into a large enclosure situated between three old apartment buildings, which, judging by the old bottles, cans, smoked cigarettes that littered the place, used to be a hangout area once upon a time. Edwin Hawthorn stood in the middle of it, facing a dark-haired, dark-skinned man dressed in khakis, boots, and a tank-top, his muscular arms glinting with sweat. Both men carried an air of dominance about them, and it was clear to Jack that neither was afraid of the other.

Jack listened while they spoke, unable to make out their words but able to tell by the tones of their voices that they were having a serious, perhaps even hostile, conversation.

He has to be the leader, Jack thought. There was no doubt in his mind, he'd just found the leader of the traffickers—one of the few people who knew where Cody was! He wanted to rush in, to arrest the bastard, to brutally interrogate him; he wanted to beat him, shove him against a hard surface, and scream in his face.

But of course, he couldn't. If he did he'd never be able to find Cody.

All he could do was stand there and wait, watching as the people responsible for Cody's disappearance—as well as God knew how many other heinous criminal acts—interacted. He was comforted by the fact that he was one step closer to cracking the case, but one step seemed so miniscule.

Eventually the two men began walking away, in the opposite direction from when Edwin came. Jack had no idea where they were headed, but instantly opted to follow them. Sliding along the ridges of the walls, he did, keeping his eye on them, the hammer on his gun pulled back, his finger on the trigger. Part of him wanted to shoot them both, but he refrained. Could they be leading him to Cody?

They reached a building that appeared to be an abandoned sweatshop and entered. Luckily there were rows of windows that ran across the walls on every floor, and Jack ran up to one that flanked the door and peered inside. Edwin and his accomplice were among a group of about fifteen people, all of them bound and gagged, some bearing cuts and bruises. Jack felt his stomach clench. Other victims.

But where was Cody? Was he here? Did they keep him somewhere else?

There were two tables in the back of the room, on which utensils were piled and scattered about; old, fluorescent lights hung about a foot from the ceiling; a pillar stood erect right in the center with what appeared to be a calendar hooked to it; a heavily cobwebbed fan was blowing, shifting back and forth, and in the far left corner behind it, its paint peeling off, was a door guarded by two men with machine guns.

As soon as he saw it, it opened. Out came a young girl. And before she could close it behind her, Jack spotted him—Cody, slumped over—inside.

"I'm sick of it, Mr. Moseby!" Zack shouted, his voice furious. "I can't take this waiting anymore. I have to get out there and do something!"

"Zack, I've told you, it's too dangerous," Mr. Moseby told him. "You could get yourself killed."

"Well, I'd take that for a shot at getting my brother back!"

Mr. Moseby shook his head. "Zack, listen to me—I know you want to save your brother. I know this is devastating for you. But you need to leave this matter to the adults. The last thing we want is for Cody to wind up dead."

"And what if he does wind up dead, huh? What if you 'adults' screw everything up and we're too late to save him?"

Mr. Moseby didn't reply.

"I'd rather those traffickers kill us both than have to live without him."

"Oh, Zack…" Mr. Moseby pulled the older twin into a tight hug and held him against his chest like a parent would a child. "Don't say such things."

Zack felt tears pool his eyes. He tried to hold them back, but to no avail. "I miss him so much, Mr. Moseby. I'm going crazy without him."

"I know, son. I know."

If Zack had been himself at that moment, he would have teased the old man for calling him "son." He would have laughed and made him the butt of witty and crude jokes.

But Zack wasn't himself, and if anything, he was comforted by Mr. Moseby's sentiment.

"We have to trust Jack's plan now," Mr. Moseby added.

"Yeah," he agreed, sniffling and swallowing, his throat still sore from the throwing up he'd done. "It's just…so much trust, you know? I hardly know Jack and I'm trusting him with my brother's life! It's the hardest thing I've ever had to do. I'm supposed to protect him, Mr. Moseby. I'm supposed to keep him safe. But I failed. Like always, I failed him."

"Zack, I mean it," Mr. Moseby said sternly, pushing Zack away by the shoulders and staring at him with a no-nonsense expression. "Don't ever talk like that. I won't stand for it." A slight smile tugged at his lips. "For once in your lifetime, Zachary Martin, do as I tell you."

Zack sighed and slowly nodded.

And just then, Mr. Moseby's cell phone began to ring from inside one of the pockets on his shorts. He took it out and answered it. "Hello? London?"

Zack's heart skipped a beat. His guts started doing summersaults.

When Mr. Moseby suddenly donned a huge grin, he felt elation take hold of him. Embrace him like a long-lost loved one.

"Thank you so much, sweetheart!" Mr. Moseby said. "And tell your father I said thank you!"

He snapped the phone shut and put it back. "We've got the money. It's at the ship, ready to be picked up."

When Zack and Mr. Moseby boarded the ship, they were approached by London who was wearing a long, none-too-revealing jacket and a spy-like hat. Zack almost let out a giggle. Typical London. She had to dress for every occasion—even a ransom.

Mr. Moseby was all about business. "Where's the money?" he immediately asked, to which London referred them to the captain's cabin.

As soon as they were inside the captain's cabin and feasted their eyes on the rather hefty suitcase lying on the grand master bed in the center of the room, the older twin felt—in addition to the elation he was still experiencing from London's phone call—a spark of hope. The money was there. It was right before him, and they were ready to make the trade.

"Thanks for this, London," Zack heard himself say. "Really, thank you."

"You're welcome," she replied. To his astonishment, she wrapped her arms around him and rested the side of her face against the crook of his neck. "You know I care about Cody too, don't you?"

"Yeah. I know."

"I'd never want anything to happen to him."

"I know that. Listen, I don't think you're heartless or anything. I know you had your reasons for not wanting to ask your dad for the money. Maybe it was selfish of me for asking, but…when my brother's in trouble…"

"I understand. You guys are the greatest thing that's ever happened to me, you know that?"

More tears stung Zack's eyes. "You're a beautiful person, London. You really are."

Mr. Moseby's phone rang again. This time, it was Jack. "He's back on the road," Mr. Moseby informed the curious teens when he'd hung up.

But then the phone rang again. Almost like luck. Or fate.

Mr. Moseby knew, even before he checked the screen, that it was the traffickers.

Zack and London knew too.

Zack suppressed the urge to yank the phone right out of Mr. Moseby's hands and scream his lungs out at those sick bastards. To demand that they tell him where his brother was. Images of his little brother being thrown into the van clouded his memory. His vision turned blood red. Rage flooded through his veins like electrical currents, igniting him, burning him. He clenched his fists and gnashed his teeth, and tried, above all else, to keep breathing.

It took all he had to refrain himself from carrying out his impulsive urges, but he did. Think of him maimed, he told himself, which he could barely do but the idea alone was enough to hold him back. If anyone made a false move, Cody would pay the price.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity on the phone, Mr. Moseby hung up and looked at the teens with a mixture of worry and resolve. "It was them," he said, though he didn't have to. "They've left Cody at a drop off point. We have to go there."

"Where is it?" Zack asked quickly, seized by the desperation to see his brother again.

Mr. Moseby paused. And then he answered.