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.
No! This can’t be happening!
Bullets slammed hard against the van with a deafening thud. One punched through metal. And the frantic screaming inside the van intensified with an ear-piercing force. Bodies lurched against her, and panic took hold. Kate felt the crush of weight on her chest. She couldn’t breathe. And the children were pulled away from her grasp.
The police were firing at them.
The police!
His lungs burned. And a wailing siren edged his lifting fog. Kinkaid’s mind cleared enough for him to find his back in the dirt. And over his head, the shadow of a masked man eclipsed the moon. He felt a hand on his wrist, the one that still held the gun. An elbow was jammed hard to his windpipe. And his side hurt like a mother.
It took him a second to figure out what had happened. At the sound of the police sirens, his attacker had looked over his shoulder and loosened his grip—enough to allow him a breath. The bastard had made the same mistake.
The distraction would cost him.
With the man focused on strangling him, Kinkaid took a chance and fumbled in the dark for anything to use as a weapon. The fingers of his free hand searched the ground as he strained to maintain the grip he had on his gun. He bucked and arched his back to keep the man off-balance and kept his hand moving until
he found a jagged rock. And with all his strength, he slammed the stone into the man’s head.
Once. Twice.
On the third blow, his assailant lurched forward and released his grip. Kinkaid could breathe again. And with his momentum, he used the man’s weight against him. He shoved him hard. The larger man toppled, but he was still conscious and dangerous. The guy recovered too fast and lunged for him again. Kinkaid had enough. Without hesitation, he raised his weapon and shot him in the chest, point-blank. The man grunted, and his body jerked. With his last breath, he collapsed and lay still.
It was over. And he knew he’d come close to dying.
Too close.
He gasped for air with eyes watering as he knelt near the dead man. No matter how justified, killing always came at a price. And now wasn’t the time for a soul-searching tally. Kate needed him.
With police sirens blaring, the sound of his gunshot would not stand out, and he had no need to tread softly. After holstering his gun, he searched the dead man’s pockets for ID or a cell phone, anything that might serve as a lead, but came up empty. He grabbed the AK-47 left by the masked man and raced down the slope, heading for the road. Lunging over obstacles, he ignored the growing agony that burned his side. And through the brush he spotted red taillights fading in the distance. He had no doubt Kate was inside one of those vehicles.
Spiraling police lights swept eerie color onto the trees and cast long shadows between the shanties. He ran across a terraced ridge to make up time. When the vehicles sped by him, he heard gunfire coming from the police.
“God, no. No!” he shouted, and waved his arms, frantic to get their attention. He bounded down a dirt path toward the road, yelling, “They’ve got hostages. What are you doing?”
He fired the AK-47 in the air as the police raced past him. In the barrage of gunfire, he knew they hadn’t heard him. The local cops were in hot pursuit of murdering terrorists. They either had no idea these men had taken hostages, or they didn’t care. And giving the cops the benefit of the doubt would only leave Kate and the other hostages in the line of fire.
He had to stop the shooting. There was no one else.
“Damn it.” He got to the road in time to watch the last taillights vanish over a hill—a blur of red that drifted in and out of focus. He bent over and gasped for air, holding his side. The trees, the moon, the shadows—everything morphed into a jumble. He was losing it, and dizziness was only a fraction of his problem.
Unless he found a set of wheels, he’d be dead in the water—and so would Kate.
“Stay down!” Sister Kate yelled as she reached for the children at her feet, covering them with her body. “Protect the children.”
More bullets slammed through the van and rico
cheted. There was nothing they could do. The driver made a hard turn, and the weight of bodies crushed her in the dark. She fended the others off for the sake of the children, but gravity worked against her. She was pinned and powerless to help anyone.
The steady shrill sound of sirens had been interrupted by gunfire. She knew the police were doing the firing. Why would they shoot at a vehicle in a high-speed chase with innocent hostages on board? The van driver swerved again and hit something. The collision sent bodies sprawling. Once the driver regained control, the van felt and sounded as if it had a flat tire. With the police so close and taking deadly aim with their weapons, she knew this wouldn’t end well.
She was in a fight for her life—they all were. And with the Haitian police firing on them, who was the enemy now?
But the van came to an abrupt stop. And she heard angry voices outside. In seconds, the door was unlocked and opened. Squinting, she raised her hand to block the glare of a flashlight. Shadows of faceless gunmen grabbed them and forced them out of the van.
“Head down. Move…Move!” one man yelled in English.
With the commotion, Kate did her best with the children. She only got glimpses of being shoved through a door. The building looked and smelled like a medical facility, and inside it was dark. They were taken to a murky room and herded into a corner and forced down on their knees. Two men aimed rifles at their heads and yelled at them. She didn’t understand any of it. Others
shoved tables and metal cabinets against the windows in the room—windows with police strobe lights shining through them—a standoff.
On orders, one of their captors punched a hole through the glass with the butt of his rifle. He shot his weapon, and the police returned fire. Kate grabbed the hysterical children and shielded them with her body. Her eyes blurred with tears.
She didn’t want to think about dying—but she did.
“Piece of crap!”
Kinkaid peered through a cracked windshield and cursed. Being a beggar didn’t give him any right to complain.
If he’d been back in the States, he’d have a much tougher time hot-wiring newer cars with the added security. He hadn’t bothered keeping up his car theft skills—a byproduct of a misspent youth—and might have regretted it now except for one thing.
In Haiti, most of the vehicles were old and easy to steal. His vintage skills had been good enough.
With only one of the car’s headlights working, he floored the old Toyota sedan he’d “commandeered” and gripped the steering wheel tight, navigating half-blind. Dust from the streets kicked up in his rearview mirror, a red cloud colored by taillights. With the windows down, the dirt made it harder to breathe, but in the distance, he had heard gunshots. He gunned the old car and followed the sound. And without much visibility, he hit every pothole for a bone-jarring ride.
After he crested a hill, he saw the rotating police
lights and heard more gunfire. The terrorists had taken refuge at a medical clinic. Smaller than a hospital, the facility looked closed. No lights were on inside. And from what he saw, even though the cops were positioned for a siege, the hostage takers were taunting them by firing back—a no-win situation with Kate and the others stuck in the middle.
Kinkaid parked the car with the confiscated AK-47 in the trunk. Because he’d hot-wired the vehicle, he left the engine running in case he’d need it in a hurry later. He looked for someone in charge to plead his case. He’d need balls of steel to press his luck with the Haitian police, especially given his unique line of work. And being an outsider, he’d have little chance to stop the shooting, but he owed it to Kate to try.
If he couldn’t sway the local cops, he’d come up with a plan B—even if he had to call in markers to do it.
Shattered glass was strewn across the floor. One terrorist lay dead—shot in the face. A dark hole had caved in his nose. And his blood pooled near Kate’s feet. Bullets pummeled the walls again. The gunfire intensified as the police escalated their assault, even after their captors, outnumbered, had ducked for cover. Tear-gas canisters were launched through the broken windows.
Kate huddled with the children, covering their faces. Her burning eyes streamed tears down her cheeks, and her nose ran without stopping, making her queasy. The coughing had grown unbearable and made her throat sore and chest tight. A heavy fog of gas filled the room,
leaving them nowhere to hide from it. Disoriented from the gas, she had trouble thinking clearly, and her body ached all over.
Yet for her, there was something far more painful to endure than tear gas. Seeing the terrified faces of the children broke her heart.
And the Haitian police were as deadly as their captors.
“Please…make this stop!” she cried to no one, more out of frustration—and fear. Her screams didn’t stop the violence. She doubted anyone heard her over the deafening noise.
“Sister…I’m scared.” A child’s voice filtered through her muddled brain as a small, dark-skinned hand clutched her veil. Her eyesight blurred and made it impossible to see who had said it. She pulled the children closer and lowered her head to pray.
It was all she had left.
The Haitian police hadn’t been very sympathetic. From what he saw, they were poorly equipped and lacked discipline and training for a hostage-rescue operation. And although they made promises to do what they could for the hostages, Kinkaid noticed that didn’t stop their siege of the clinic. As long as the terrorists fired their weapons, the police returned fire, shooting at anything that moved. The armed men inside the medical facility had not communicated their demands, nor had the police asked their intentions. Both sides let bullets do the talking.
Not a good sign.
Feeling dizzy and sick, Kinkaid retreated to a spot away from the front line. He clutched his side to stop the bleeding, but it was too dark for him to see. Blood loss had weakened him. His body raged between feverish and an intolerable chill. And even though everything had happened too fast, now he needed time to think. The Haitian police had escalated the violence and posed a bigger problem. He couldn’t act on his own. He needed help from someone who had connections in the area. And one name came to mind.
Joe LaClaire. He pulled out his cell phone and made a call. His friend answered with a groggy voice.
“Hey, boss. What’s up?”
“Listen, Joe. I don’t have much time to explain.” He briefed the man on what had happened and where he was. “I don’t care who you contact. I need results. Call in some markers if you have to.”
An AK-47 punctuated the urgency of his call. Kinkaid ducked for cover.
“Do I hear gunfire?”
“Yeah, Joe. A friend is in trouble. My friend Kate.” He plugged an ear and kept talking. “We need to mobilize a covert hostage rescue. People have died…and there’ll be more. The cops are treating the hostages like collateral damage. Rescue isn’t part of their operation.”
“Understood. What are you going to do?” Joe asked. His friend knew him well enough to know he wouldn’t sit on the sidelines of a fight with innocent lives at stake.
“I’m going to find another way into the clinic.”
“Are you insane? Crossing police lines can get you killed. And cornered terrorists don’t play nice.” Joe raised his voice. “Getting stuck in the cross fire will be a bitch.”
“The hostages have no one else, Joe. And if you’re only questioning my sanity now, what does that say about you?” He winced, with pain radiating heat across his belly. “Please…do like I told you. And with any luck, I’ll meet you like we planned. I’m turning off my phone now. Leave a message when you know something.”
Without waiting for a reply, he ended the call. Sticking to the shadows, he made his way back to the Toyota and retrieved the AK-47 he’d stashed in the trunk. The Haitian police had the building surrounded, but with any luck, he’d find a way in.
He had to.
Tortuga Island, Haiti
Being awakened in the middle of the night by a troubling call from his boss, Jackson Kinkaid, left Joe LaClaire on edge. Raking a hand through his dark hair, he paced the floor of his motel room on Tortuga Island. Sweat beaded the skin of his bare chest. Even wearing nothing but boxers, he felt the muggy heat close in on him. And although his mind raced with names of people who might help, only one name hit the top of his list and stuck.
Garrett Wheeler.
The man had resources and plenty of them. And he could mobilize a covert hostage-rescue operation anywhere in the world, fast. Joe reached for the fifth of Crown Royal on his nightstand and downed the rest. His throat burned as the whisky went down.
There was only one drawback—Kinkaid had something against Garrett Wheeler.
The two men had a history that had created a rift between them, and Joe knew nothing about the particulars. He only knew Wheeler by reputation and from being in Kinkaid’s inner circle. And although men like Jackson Kinkaid were frequently short on details, he respected the man’s privacy.
His friend had urgently asked for results, even if he had to call in markers.
If that meant pissing Kinkaid off to get the job done, then fuck it. Mission accomplished. He’d deal with the consequences later.
“Move. NOW!” The leader yelled in English and gave orders to his men in his own language.
Sister Kate felt the sharp jab of a rifle at her back. Metal hit her spine and sent a chilling jolt of pain to her neck and shoulders. One of the terrorists shoved her toward a door. She had no choice but to move. A hail of police gunfire had killed another man and one of the women hostages. And George, the guy who’d lost his wife, was holding a bloodied hand to his shoulder. She had no time to assess the damage. Bullets pounded the
walls above her head and sent chunks of plaster raining down on her. And the screams of women and children raised goose bumps across her skin.
Kate prodded the children to stay low and shielded them from the horror. She looked back to see her captors crouched behind her—masked faces with hostile, glaring eyes—but a few of them remained to return fire and cover their retreat.
A suicide mission.
Kate wiped tears from her face—dealing with the aftermath of the tear-gas assault—and resisted the urge to throw up as she scrambled through the door with the children ahead of her. She clutched her habit and pulled up her tunic so she could move. When more bullets pounded the wall behind her, she stifled a scream. She pressed a tight fist to her lips, not wanting to panic the children more. The gunfire made her ears ring, and sounds were muffled in her head. Her captors had them moving in a line and winding through corridors. Kate never looked up. She kept her head down and made sure the children stayed together.