James regarded the man in the other cell. His beard was unkempt, his appearance disheveled and his body odor suggested he’d been here for some time. When they shook hands, he’d noticed the look of exhausted determination in his eyes. His hand was calloused, strong and firm. He’d met many types in his military career, and this man was definitely military.
The name Chris Fox meant nothing to James, though the man seemed to think it would. He knew who James was, and who his father was.
“So, how do you know my dad?” James said, still feeling more than a little intoxicated. The straight forward approach was usually the best. Continue reading