"Jake. Cole Ritter and his guys have Noah Bennett at the old rail bridge behind the school. They took his backpack. He can't breathe. I think his inhaler's in it. I'm scared to go down there. Please."
Attached was a blurry photo, taken from far away, through trees. Three big shapes. One small one, bent over on the gravel.
Jake read the message twice.
The old rail bridge was a ten-minute drive from the arena. Twenty minutes there and back, at least. More if anything happened. Weigh-ins closed at five. If he didn't step on the scale, there was no fight. If there was no fight, there was no contract. Hale had made that very clear.
Jake looked down the hallway.
His father was watching him.
"What's wrong?" Rick said, walking over. "What is it? You look like you saw a ghost."
Jake held out the phone.
Rick read it. His face went through a lot of things very quickly. Then it settled into something hard.
"Call the police," Rick said.
"I will. On the way."
"No. Jake. Listen to me. Call the police and let them handle it. You walk out that door now, you lose everything. You understand? Everything we worked for. Hale won't give you another shot. Nobody will."
Victor Hale had noticed. He came over, frowning. "Problem?"
"Cole," Jake said. "Your guy. He's at the bridge behind my school hurting a fourteen-year-old kid with asthma."
Hale's face didn't change at all. "Cole's not my responsibility outside the gym. And neither is some kid. You've got forty minutes until weigh-ins, Mason. You walk out, you're done. I'm not kidding."
Jake looked at Hale. Then at his father.
Somewhere in his head, he heard a calm voice. Not loud. Never loud.
It's not about who you can beat. It's about who you're willing to stand in front of.
"Then I'm done," Jake said.
He was already running.