For the second day in a row, the minutes passed at an agonizing pace for Lucas. The wait was even more excruciating this time, and Lucas was completely unable to concentrate. Several of his teammates asked if he was ill, commenting on how pale he was and the dark circles under his eyes, never mind that he seemed unnaturally quiet. Lucas simply offered what he knew was a pathetic attempt at a grin and assured them he was feeling fine. Meanwhile, he poured coffee down his throat like it was life sustaining. He couldn't sit still and imagined he must look like an addict in rehab the way he was bouncing around and shaking with nervous energy.

He kept imagining over and over again his meeting with his father. He played out conversations in his head, and wondered if they would shake hands or hug when they saw each other. He wondered if his father would look different after six weeks in hiding.

Finally, when everyone had left for lunch, Lucas headed toward Bridger's office at the other end of the labs. He needed the keys to the captain's motorcycle.

Lucas had considered calling in sick the night before and driving to the airport from Bridger's house, but quickly dismissed that idea. He risked Skipper telling the captain he'd left the island, and Lucas didn't like the idea of lying outright to Bridger. Instead he'd decided to drive to the rendezvous from work, but that involved "borrowing" the captain's car. The problem was Bridger had wanted to take the motorcycle to work this morning, and it would have seemed suspicious if Lucas had asked to take the car instead. Lucas still wasn't terribly confident of his ability to drive the motorcycle, but at this point he had no choice.

"Hi, Lisa," Lucas said to Bridger's receptionist, a gorgeous young woman who was way out of league for a 17-year-old computer geek. As usual, he let out a quick sigh of frustration when he saw her.

"Hello, Lucas," Lisa chirped, but her welcoming smile quickly faded to a frown. "Are you feeling okay? You look a little sick."

"I'm fine," Lucas said with his patented weak smile. "Is the captain here?"

"No, you just missed him. He has a lunch meeting today."

"Damn," Lucas muttered, fully aware of the captain's lunch plans. "Oh, sorry."

"It's okay," Lisa said with a laugh at his mild swearing. "Can I help you with something?"

"No," Lucas said with feigned disappointment. "I just left some important papers in his car. I need them for a presentation this afternoon." He prayed she didn't know that Bridger had taken the motorcycle to work, then grimaced as he saw the captain's helmet perched on a chair behind the receptionist.

"The keys are probably in his office," said Lisa, apparently none too observant. "Why don't you go and look?"

"Oh," Lucas said in mock surprise, as though the thought of getting the keys himself hadn't occurred to him. "Good idea."

He quickly stepped around Lisa's desk and into the captain's office. The keys were sitting on a chair near the door.

"Found them," Lucas said as he left Bridger's office. "Thanks for your help."

"No problem. I'll see you later."

"Later," Lucas answered.

"Hey, Lucas." He stopped in the doorway. "Are you sure you're feeling okay?"

Lucas, his back still to Lisa, rolled his eyes. Then he forced the smile back on.

"Well, maybe I'm coming down with something. But I'm sure I'll feel better after some sleep this weekend." By the weekend, Lucas thought, he should be feeling much better indeed.

"Okay, well take care of yourself, kiddo."

Lucas cringed. The captain really needed to stop using that nickname around others.

xxxXXXxxx

It took nearly an hour to get to the airport, and Lucas was glad he'd allowed plenty of time to make the drive. He'd had one close call on the trip, when he'd been slow to react to a car changing lanes in front of him, but otherwise he'd handled the bike just fine. Now he sat perched on the motorcycle, his arms crossed over the bars and his chin resting on top of his hands. He had stopped across the street from the airport and for the past 20 minutes had been watching cars pulling in and out of the private entrance.

As expected, it was busy at the airport, with chauffeured cars pulling in and out of the security gate at regular intervals. Lucas wondered why his father had picked this location, as it seemed too crowded to really be safe. But perhaps his father was flying in specifically for this meeting and hoped to leave as soon as they'd had a chance to talk. Still, for his father's sake, Lucas didn't feel comfortable with all the people coming and going.

Five minutes before he was supposed to meet his father, Lucas pulled the bike up to the security gate and punched in the code. The chain-link fence slid apart with a rumbling clink, and he slowly drove through as soon as a gap wide enough for the bike was open. It was a small airport, used exclusively for private planes that belonged to flying enthusiasts, charter companies and business executives who could afford their own jets. The hangars were at Lucas' left as he drove by, and most of them were bustling with activity. Loud dance music blared from one hangar where three mechanics were working on a plane. To Lucas' right were several runways, where planes were lined up five deep, presumably to pick up important clients for the UEO festivities.

Hangar K was at the end of the row, and the large doors were closed when Lucas drove up. He got off the bike, took of his helmet and stood in front of the hangar for a few moments, wiping sweaty palms on his jeans and taking deep breaths to calm himself. It didn't work.

Slowly, his heart racing, Lucas walked up to a smaller door to the left of the main hangar, and tried the handle. The door was unlocked, and he walked in to find a dark, empty office. Through a window in the office Lucas could see the hangar itself, where he could make out a twin-engine plane in the dim light that came from half a dozen windows high up on the walls. Lucas walked into the hangar, his steps echoing off the walls. The place looked and felt deserted.

"Hello?" he called, cringing at the quaver in his voice. He twirled around at the sound of footsteps coming from behind him.

"Lucas, it's good to see you."

Lucas frowned at the person standing in front of him.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. "Where's my father?"

Jordan Mathers had been his father's personal assistant for years, but it seemed preposterous to Lucas that she would have been part of his escape and subsequent hiding. Yet here she was, standing where his father should be.

"He couldn't come. I'm sorry," she said, and offered him that same pitiful smile that he had always hated. The anxiety that had been coursing through him quickly turned to a hot anger.

"He said he'd be here. Where is he?"

"I know, Lucas, and he feels terrible that he couldn't come," Mathers said, her voice dripping with apology that just angered him further. "But it's not safe for him. Blame me that he couldn't make it. I wouldn't let him come. It was too risky."

The disappointment was devastating. Lucas turned his head away suddenly as he felt warm tears spring to his eyes. He blinked rapidly a few times, then said, continuing to look away, "I need to see him."

"And you will. Just not right now," she said. "Look, I don't have much time, but I need the file your father sent you. It's got important information that could save lives."

Lucas stared disbelieving at Mathers. She was back to wearing the same tacky gold jewelry and pastel blouses he remembered from countless vid-link conversations with her, when he'd asked to speak with his father and she'd been his only connection. Once again, she was running interference for Lucas' father, but he wasn't going to take it this time.

"You want me to just give you that file?"

"Yes, Lucas, your father needs it. His life is in danger as long as that file can get into the wrong hands. Please, for his sake, give to me." She was pleading with him, lines of worry wrinkling her mouth and forehead.

"No," he said.

"No?"

"Not until I see my father."

"Lucas, it's too dangerous."

"I don't care," he said, and folded his arms over his chest. His anger was building and he could feel his cheeks flushing. "My father doesn't want anything to do with me for years, and then he lets me think he's dead, but no, he's alive and for the first time he actually seems to give a shit about me, but I can't tell anyone, I've got to keep all these secrets."

His voice was rising and he was nearly yelling, the words echoing off the hangar walls.

"And then I find this, this file, this document, and it says that my father is responsible for this massive destruction and environmental ruin and eight deaths! My father is responsible for eight deaths!" Lucas yelled, his voice breaking, as he waved a small disk with the file in one hand. "And now I'm supposed to just give you this file and go back home and keep doing this? Keep pretending like everything's okay and mourning my father who's really alive and wondering what the hell is going on? I don't think so. No, you're not getting this file!"

"Lucas, please-"

"That's enough."

Lucas whirled around at the booming voice behind him and saw that a man had stepped from behind the plane. He wasn't large, but he had broad shoulders and a furious frown on his face, and he was holding a serrated knife in his right hand. Lucas looked quickly back at Mathers, and saw that she was staring at the floor now, but she didn't seem surprised.

"Who are you?" Lucas asked, his anger replaced by nervous fear.

"That doesn't matter," the man said. "Look, kid, your father's dead."

It took a moment for the words to register.

"What?" Lucas said, barely whispering.

"He's dead. He died six weeks ago in the explosion. He never made it off that damned ocean floor."

"No. No, he escaped. He got out in time. He's been hiding. He told me."

"You're father didn't tell you anything. She did," the man said, and he pointed with his knife at Mathers.

The knife forgotten, Lucas spun around and faced Mathers.

"What is he talking about?"

The woman didn't answer at first, instead running a clearly shaking hand through her hair. Without looking up, she said quietly, "I'm sorry, Lucas. I'm so sorry."

"Why? Why are you sorry? What the hell is going on?" Lucas demanded.

"I made it all up," she said, her eyes still locked on the floor. "I sent you those messages. I made you believe your dad was still alive, but he isn't. He's dead, Lucas."

"No, you're wrong," Lucas insisted, but his voice was shaking now. "There's no way. I know my father. He sent those messages."

Mathers finally looked up at him at that, and he could see once again the pity in her eyes. She knew as well as he did that his father wouldn't have sent those messages. Lucas suddenly felt weak and dizzy, like all the blood had rushed out of his head, and he thought he might fall down. He reached behind him to grab at the plane and steady himself. His head was buzzing.

"Enough with the apologies," the man said impatiently. "We need that document, kid. Hand it over now and we won't hurt you."

Lucas shook his head, barely understanding the words. They wouldn't hurt him? What more could they possibly do to him?

"Here," he said, his voice flat. "Take it." He held out the disk in front of him, not bothering to look as the man grabbed it. He heard Mathers sigh loudly.

"I'm sorry we had to do this, Lucas," she said. "We needed that file. I didn't mean to hurt you."

Lucas didn't say anything.

"How do we know the file's even on there?" the man asked.

"It's there," Lucas said.

"How do we know you didn't keep a copy of it for yourself?"

"Please, Brian, leave him alone," Mathers said.

"I told you not to say my name," the man, Brian, hissed. "And how do we know for sure that the kid didn't hang onto a copy?"

"His father asked him to delete any other copies," Mathers said. "He wouldn't disobey his own dad."

Lucas laughed humorlessly at that.

"I thought you knew me better than that," Lucas said.

Brian spun toward Lucas. "What's that supposed to mean? You have more copies out there?"

"You really think I'd have trusted my old man with the only copy of a document that implicated him in a global disaster and eight deaths?" Lucas asked, an unpleasant smile curling his lips. He stared defiantly at the man. "Oh yeah, I've got a copy. Several copies, in fact."

"Damn it, Jordan, I told you we couldn't trust the kid," Brian spat, turning his back on Lucas to yell at Mathers. Lucas jumped at his only chance at escape.

With a quick step forward, he shoved the man toward Mathers, catching them both off guard. Before they'd even hit the ground, he was racing around the back of the plane. He could see an exit at the far end of the hangar, the dull green light showing clearly in the dim shadows. He ran for the door. He was 20 feet away, 15 feet, 10 feet, and his shoes slid on a grease spill on the floor. He stumbled for a moment, thrusting out his arms to keep his balance but never stopping his forward momentum. He was 5 feet from the door.

He was reaching out his arms, grabbing for the door handle, when the man tackled him from behind and sent them both sliding across the floor and crashing into the exit door. The wind was knocked out of Lucas and he lay gasping for a moment before he felt two hands lifting him, forcing him back against the door. Gripping his shoulders, the man shook Lucas violently so his head was tossed from side to side. With a powerful shove he thrust Lucas at the door. The side of Lucas' head cracked against the doorframe once, twice, each time sending bursts of crackling light across his eyes. On the third hit, Lucas felt one sharp stab of pain behind his left eye, and he slumped forward, unconscious.