When Dan opened his eyes, dawn was bleeding into the sky. The rain had stopped. His truck lay twisted against the barrier, steam rising from the asphalt.
No helicopters. No SUV. No suited men. The only thing left was the cylinder—now cold and cracked open in two perfect halves.
Inside was nothing but air. Empty. Gone.
Except for one thing: etched into the metal lining was a single phrase, stamped in military code, and it had his name on it.
