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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 ricocheted. 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. Othersshoved 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