George. “As you see, we have no room,” he reasoned as he toyed with him.
“But I can pay,” George argued. “For me and my wife, I can pay you.”
“What about these?” The leader pointed at Kate and the older woman standing next to her. “And this one, she is a servant of your God. No?”
George took a deep breath and didn’t answer.
“Then it is for me to decide.” The leader smiled at Kate, his lips and teeth showing through a hole torn in his mask. The image raised the hair on her neck. “Does your God listen to your prayers?” he asked. “Perhaps we shall see.”
And with one gesture from him, the horror began.
Kinkaid still heard voices. Trusting his instincts, he peered through the dark to track the sound. Behind Dumont Hall, the steep hillside was terraced. He knew there would be a path down, but he didn’t have time to look for it. Shoving through brush and crawling over boulders used to reinforce retaining walls, he gripped his weapon and made his way down the hill. Sharp branches cut his hands and face. He pushed on, thinking only of Kate and the others.
The moon cast a bluish haze over trees and boulders and shanty houses with tin roofs crammed next to each other. The dense setting obscured his view. He still heard voices and followed the sound.
Although he tried to be quiet, he made noise as he went. It couldn’t be helped. Kinkaid hoped the sounds of the hostages would cover his movement. When he got closer, he slowed his pace to be more careful. With gun raised, he braced his back to the wall of a shack encircled by a worn picket fence. He inched toward a corner to get a better view.
The voices of men and women were clearer, but still a distance away. When he peered around the stucco wall, he saw a man dressed in black near a tree. His AK-47 leaned against a stone wall. The man had been too occupied with his full bladder to hear Kinkaid coming through the brush.
He was relieving himself, dick in hand.
Kinkaid pulled back and grimaced, leaning his head against the wall. He stalled until the bastard finished before he tossed a rock into the brush and waited. He focused on every sound and heard the gunman pick up his rifle. Kinkaid held his breath and listened. In a stupid move, the guy let the streetlamp below telegraph his move. A long faint shadow emerged and became more distinct as the man edged toward the shanty.
Kinkaid had to play this right. Any noise would bring the others. And he wasn’t in any shape to play the tough guy. When the masked gunman came around the corner, Kinkaid racked the slide and aimed his Glock at the man’s head.
“You gonna waste a good piss?” He had no idea if the guy spoke English, but he let the universal language of the Glock translate his intentions.
After the man raised his hands, Kinkaid took his rifle. He leaned it against the wall behind him and kept his gun pressed to the man’s temple, but a chilling scream erupted in the night and shattered the stillness. The pitiable wail gripped him, especially when it came to an abrupt stop.
Kinkaid couldn’t help it—he turned toward the sound.
With the distraction, the masked man took advantage of his carelessness. The man shoved him to the ground onto his back and leapt on top, wrestling him for his weapon. The weight of the heavier man made it hard to breathe. And as they scuffled, they kicked up dirt. Kinkaid sucked dust into his lungs, choking on it. Sweat stung his eyes and made it harder to see in the dark.
Still, he wouldn’t let go of the Glock.
He rolled down an embankment and his spine collided with sharp rocks. The blows nearly knocked the wind from his lungs. And his wound felt as if it had been torn open. It stung like acid. Blood loss had made him weak. He struggled for consciousness.
And when the masked man thrust an elbow against his throat, Kinkaid saw stars. He felt his muscles give way when his air ran out. And the moon flickered to nothing.
Up the hill, Kate heard a faint noise coming from the shadows, but too much was happening for her to worry about it. The older woman who had stood next to her, trembling, was pulled from her grasp. The terrified woman scratched Kate’s hand with her nails in desperation.
“Please…don’t let them do this.” With eyes wide, the woman begged the others in the van to save her, but no one moved. She screamed when one of the gunmen grabbed her by the hair and dragged her off. She was hauled into the brush—along with Joanna, the wife of the man who tried to buy his way into the van. The two women would pay a price that had nothing to do with money.
“George, no! Tell them you’ll pay, George,” Joanna cried out, and reached for him.
“Stop this, please!” he pleaded for his wife.
George and Kate had lunged for her hand, but armed men held them back. Others threatened to shoot into the van. Not even the hostages in the vehicle were safe. And for the first time, she noticed that one of the masked men held up a video recorder. He pointed it toward the women to record what would come next. Kate’s eyes trailed back to the scene, unable to look away.
She watched as one of the abductors unsheathed his machete, mere feet from where she stood. He grabbed the hair of George’s wife and raised his weapon. The moonlight glinted on the blade. Joanna bucked and fought and begged. Her eyes bulged in terror.
But the man held firm—and made his first cut.
“Oh, God. No.” Kate made the sign of the cross and shut her eyes, yet she couldn’t stop her ears from hearing the garbled screams, the weighty strikes of the blade, and the aftermath of blood splattering the foliage in a nightmarish rain.
Kate retched as their captors cheered. George fell to his knees, weeping. And the video cam had recorded everything.
They had all been forced to watch the beheadings of two innocent women. And in that instant, every hostage glimpsed a fate no one had wanted to imagine. Their survival would be left in the hands of men they would never understand—men who had no respect for life. Tears filled Kate’s eyes, and she tried to swallow, but couldn’t.
She was shoved into the van, along with George, both of them too weak and numb to resist. George sobbed and rambled incoherently, calling his wife’s name. She had no doubt the man was in a deep state of shock.
After the vehicle door was shut and locked, she heard voices outside, but they soon faded.
In the dark vacuum of the van, the sounds of weeping and the stifling smell of fear almost suffocated her. Kate kept her silence, struggling to find solace in prayer. The women’s screams and the hacking sound of the blade replayed in her head, over and over and over—a torturous echo of violence she’d never forget. She stopped praying and let the darkness and horror close in on her.
She couldn’t stop shaking.
Kate knew she had to find a lifeline to God—some sense he was with her—despite the abject cruelty she had witnessed. She wanted to believe that tomorrow would be another day and that God would give her strength. Instead, fear and her own human frailty had defeated her. That’s when she let the tears come. Kate wasn’t strong enough for anything else.
The deathly quiet outside the van was broken. Angry voices merged with the rumble of engines. The vans lurched forward and picked up speed. They were on the move—and in the hands of brutal killers.
When she heard police sirens behind them, she let herself hope that they would be rescued, but her hopes quickly shattered when the sirens became too loud…and far too close. A jolt and a jarring crash sent the hostages hurtling to the front of the van. The police had bashed their bumper to force them off the road. The van sped up and careened out of control.
“My God, please no…” she yelled and grabbed for the crying children. Her desperate plea for help was lost in the screams of the others.
Outside, she heard the bumpers break free and the shrill sounds of grating metal sent shivers down her spine. Her heart pounded her rib cage, and fear tightened her throat as the van veered onto the shoulder of the road. Amidst all the chaos, a series of thunderous explosions erupted.
Kate gasped.
Bullets slammed hard against the van with a deafening thud. One punched through metal. And the frantic
