“They’ll kill us all. You know what they’re like. It won’t matter. They’ll follow us out there.” Mahler put his hand on his naked white chest.

“Maybe,” Russell said. “But she can’t stay here, can she?” They saw headlights in the driveway. “That’s her.” He walked towards the door.

“You’re a stupid fool,” Mahler said before he got to the door. “Typical American.”

Russell let the remark go and walked out into the night. He saw Katherine’s white UN jeep pull up next to his car and park. The night was warm and humid. Her headlights went out as he descended the stairs. The white volcanic sand driveway was still visible in the weak, bug-infested porch lights.

“Okay, I’m here,” she said, hugging him as she got out of her jeep.

“We have to talk,” he said. “Come inside.” He turned and saw a second set of headlights, yellowish and bright, on the road coming toward the house.

She was still holding him. He moved towards his own jeep and opened the driver-side door. He groped for his shotgun.

The vehicle came up the road and stopped just below them. A Ford Explorer, dark colored; two men got out of the front. A third man emerged from the open sunroof. The sunroof man pointed some kind of weapon at them. Russell couldn’t tell what it was.

The two men came towards them, wool balaclavas pulled over their faces. One of the men was holding a Steyr machine pistol. Russell could see it clearly in the light from the house. He glanced back towards the porch and saw the living room lights go out. The awful fear he’d had for months, the fear of being helpless, was suddenly playing itself out.

The smaller of the two men stopped in front of Russell and told him to put his shotgun back in the jeep. The man with the Steyr grabbed for Katherine as Russell tossed his shotgun into the still-open door of his jeep.

“Russell?” Katherine’s voice, terrified, called him. The short man, without a weapon, took her by the hand and started to lead her towards the Ford’s open passenger door.

“I know General Selva,” Russell said in Spanish. “I can call him now.” He didn’t know what else to say or do. The man who had the Steyr trained on him was going to shoot him, he realized. What Russell had said stopped him. “He won’t like this.”

The man with the gun looked back at his shorter companion, who continued to lead Katherine away.

“Now what?” the man with the Steyr said in Spanish.

“I’m an employee of the UN. And I’m an American citizen,” Katherine said angrily.

“Let me call him,” Russell said. The tone of his own voice scared him. He saw Katherine looking at him in fear. He saw the short man hesitate, then stop. The man who had them covered with some kind of automatic weapon from the Ford’s sunroof didn’t move. Russell took his cell phone out of his pants pocket and dialed the general’s home number. A maid answered, and he asked for the general.

“Yes.” Carlos’s voice finally came on the line.

“It’s me, Russell. They have my friend… Will you talk to them? For God’s sake.” There was a pause.

“All right,” Carlos said. Russell looked towards the man holding Katherine’s arm.

“General Selva wants to talk to you.”

The man with the Steyer turned around. He called to the man standing in the sunroof and told him to get out of the car. The sunroof man climbed out onto the driveway. Russell could clearly see an AK-47 in his hand. The sunroof-man walked over to where Katherine stood and took her by the hand.

“What’s this about, Russell?” Katherine said. He wanted to run to her side and beg the men not to hurt her, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good.

“I don’t know,” he lied.

The short, unarmed man walked towards him and took his cell phone.

“Digame.” The short man—obviously the leader—said into the phone. Russell caught a glimpse of his eyes. They were not cold, but they were menacing. He listened for a moment. “Sí. Eso, sí,” the short man said. “Pero ella, no. Ya está echo.”

The man tossed the phone back to Russell. Unable to grab it fast enough, it bounced off his chest and it fell onto the ground. He picked it up.

“She’s going with them,” Carlos said. “I told them you were a member of my family and, if he did anything to you, I’d find him and have him killed. That’s all I could do. I can’t do anything for her. She’s already dead. But if you do anything to try and stop them, they will kill you, too. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Russell said.

“I’m sorry,” Carlos said and he hung up.

When he looked up, Katherine was already inside the Ford, which was slowly turning around. Its headlights painted the porch. Russell dropped the cell phone on the ground and walked back towards his jeep. He threw open the driver’s side door and lifted out his shotgun. The Ford continued slowly down the road towards the gate.

As he was coming down the road—staying far to the right, hoping to stay out of the driver’s line of sight—he saw, with disbelief, Mahler step out into the middle of the road just down from the house. Mahler waved the Ford down. It stopped in front of him. He could see Mahler smiling at the driver, his shirtless body in the headlights.

“Hola, amigos!” Mahler said. He raised his hands—palms out —high above his head. Mahler walked towards the driver’s side window, hands in the air. “I’m sorry I had the gate closed. I’ll have it opened immediately,” Mahler told the driver. He continued to walk towards the Ford’s driver, still smiling, both his hands held high in the air. Mahler finally stopped at the driver’s window. He started to lower his hands, making sure he kept his palms out.

Russell—as he walked quickly—wondered if the men in the Ford could see him. He unslung his shotgun and approached the rear of the car.

Mahler, leaning in towards the driver, put one hand on the driver’s side door. Russell saw Mahler’s other hand move quickly behind him as he spoke to the driver. Suddenly he saw Mahler fire his weapon, point blank, into the car. Russell heard the first shot, then a second. The gunman, sitting again on the sunroof, tried to fire back at Mahler, but was hit in the legs, which were dangling inside the car. Russell, running now, opened fire on the sun-roof man, hitting him in the back with a blast from his shotgun and knocking him forward. There was more firing as Mahler, yelling in German, ran along the side of the now slowly rolling Ford. Russell could see Mahler’s right arm thrust inside the Ford’s cab, firing his pistol.

Russell jogged down the dark road, his shotgun raised, but unable to fire indiscriminately into the Ford. He watched Mahler—everything quiet now—jump on the Ford’s running board and grab the steering wheel. All Russell could hear was the sound of the Ford’s tires on the sandy road. Russell saw the sunroof man he’d shot lying across the roof of the Ford. He jogged behind the car, staying to the left. He watched Mahler struggle with the steering wheel as the Ford started to pick up speed, heading down the hill towards the gate.

“Get in!” Russell yelled. He was running, catching up. Mahler, riding the running board, turned to look at him. He still had his automatic in his hand. Mahler dropped it and climbed into the Ford, first pulling open the door and yanking the dead driver out of the cab. Russell had to jump over the driver’s body as he gained on the car.

Mahler, behind the wheel now, began to slow the car, then stopped it abruptly. Russell ran to the driver’s side window and looked in past Mahler. Katherine was sitting in the passenger seat, her face blood-splattered. He could see the dangling legs of the sunroof man. Russell looked into the back seat, where another body was lying, the dead man’s balaclava shot up, the backseat cushions bullet-smacked and torn. Mahler pulled the Ford’s emergency brake on.

“I thought you were in here,” Mahler said. “I thought they were taking you. I couldn’t have that. Not now.” Mahler looked up at him. He was smiling. It was the smile of a crazy man.