I know there are a few of you waiting for the sequel to Sixteen Seconds. While the release date is not yet set, I do have a teaser for you, introducing a new character that I think everyone will love as much as I do. He really did write himself in, and I’m grateful to have him. Without further ado, meet Foster.

(Title Top Secret)

The handles gleamed silver in the late sun, inviting entry. Roland yanked the chain free and pulled the door open, immediately expecting that tell tale odor he���d grown accustomed to in abandoned buildings. Taking a slow breath, he relaxed. The stink of rot didn���t hit him. The smell of decay was missing entirely. Instead, to his surprise, he smelled coffee.

���What the hell?��� Casey still held Lyrique, not yet willing to let her explore the property freely.

���Careful.��� Roland kept his voice low. ���I don���t think we���re alone.���

Casey���s machete was free before he finished his observation. ���I don���t think so either.���

They warily scanned the area. From the front doors, the facility opened up to a massive showroom floor, raised pads scattered about, no longer spinning like automobile rotisseries. The computer stations still tottered atop dusty desks alongside telephones sworn to silence. The room was empty other than that. Not one vehicle remained on display. Roland���s hope took a blow.

���Shit. There���s nothing here.���

Casey didn���t seem to hear him, cautiously making her way towards to back of the room. Lyrique roamed freely now, pelting from corner to wall, sucking clouds of dust up her nostrils with whatever scent she���d discovered. A glass double door divided the rear of the facility from the showroom, an old sign announcing service and parts departments lay deeper inside the building. Casey cupped her hands to the glass, fighting against the sunlight to peer beyond the glare.

���Jesus.��� The word hardly left her lips before she jumped back two feet and raised the machete defensively.

Roland broke into a run, crossing the room in a few strides and siding up to Casey almost in time with Lyrique. ���What?���

Her hands shook slightly. ���There���s someone back there.���

They stared at the dark panes of glass, transparency stolen by the angle of the afternoon sun. It might as well have been a one way mirror.

���You saw someone?���

She nodded, not breaking her stare. ���Yeah������ She paused, slight amusement dimpling her cheeks. ���He was just standing there, smiling.���

���What?��� Roland stepped closer to the glass, mimicking Casey���s earlier gesture. Without the assault of the sun, his eyes adjusted to the dim.

Less than a foot from them on the other side of the glass stood a young man. Casey was right. He was smiling. His arm lifted, waving slowly at Roland, who quickly retracted his hands and stumbled back a pace, replacing the image of the stranger with his own reflection. Lyrique wagged her thick stub of a tail and nudged Casey���s fingertips. The dog let out a whine.

Roland hesitated. ���He seems friendly.���

Casey���s russet eyebrows drew close. ���Or out of his mind. Did you see him?���

���Yeah. He waved.��� Roland grinned. ���Since when are we allowed to judge someone on their sanity, Case?���

There is was again. Case. She let it go. ���We aren���t, I suppose.��� She glanced at Lyrique. ���She doesn���t seem to think he���s dangerous.���

���No, she doesn���t.��� Roland moved to the glass again, this time raising his hand and rapping his knuckles against the pane.

To his surprise, the doors slid open, revealing a hallway made of white concrete blocks and slick linoleum floors. In the middle stood the stranger, still wearing a smile and holding a screwdriver. Casey let her eyes wander over his clothes, starting with the black motorcycle boots on his feet. He couldn���t have been more than the legal drinking age. Torn denims barely covered his legs, a plethora of holes starting at the knees and working their way to his waist. The left pocket hung out of a rip in the thigh and black smears stained their entirety. A chain dipped in and out of the belt loops around his middle, clasped together with a small padlock on his hip beside the sheathed hunting knife. A black t-shirt completed the ensemble, adorned with an old band logo long since faded and the outline of an umbrella above the words. Tattoos covered every visible part of flesh on his arms, climbing up his neck and stopping below his jaw. His young face was untouched by the multi-colored ink, watery blue eyes nestled beneath black brows, shining with curiosity. His hair stole Casey���s attention from his eyes, a jet-black mohawk shooting up from the top of his head, slicked to points at least six inches higher than he stood. Without the added advantage of real clippers to maintain the sides, the once punk fashion statement was far more disturbing; the splayed feathers of a broken raven wing jutting from a mangled fall. Still, he smiled.