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difficult to prove.
    Charles wondered for a fleeting instant how bad it could be.
    He soon learned. And for the next twenty minutes—for what seemed like an eternity—his hope for survival faded with every passing question, with every mind-searing jolt.
    “I need names of the leaders of the other church groups you have started.” Ahmed spoke deliberately and calmly, as if he knew Charles was beginning to have trouble understanding the words. “Don’t play games with me.”
    The waiting was the hardest part. Knowing what was coming—the surging current of the stun gun—and being powerless to stop it. How many times had they been through this? How much more could he take? How long ago had Sarah gone down? And what would happen to her now? His mind raced, chasing questions with no answers.
    Charles sensed movement behind him and convulsed at the thought of another jolt from the hated gun. “Please . . . I’m begging you.” He trembled, struggling for breath. “You’ve got to believe me. . . . I don’t know what churches you’re talking about. . . . These names on the card are just friends—”
    “Shut up,” Ahmed snapped. He grabbed Charles’s hair and jerked his head backward again, demanding eye contact.
    Charles prayed for strength.
    Ahmed slowly raised the corner of his mouth, a small and sick smile, then spit in Charles’s face, letting go of his hair. Charles’s head dropped hard against his chest. The saliva dripped from his cheek.
    “You think you are strong,” Ahmed whispered through clenched teeth. “But you are stupid. You will talk, my friend.” Ahmed paused, letting the words hang in the air. “You will talk.”
    Ahmed held out his palm to stop the agent with the stun gun. This time Ahmed himself would do the honors. He took the gun and jammed it furiously against the base of Charles’s neck.
    Burning flesh, surging electricity, searing pain. Charles shook and yelped as his body twitched involuntarily, the pain affecting every nerve ending, the electricity jolting his brain. His body was on fire from the inside out. His screams did not seem to belong to him, and he jerked uncontrollably in the chair, unable to escape the gun or to bear this new round of torture.
    Finally, mercifully, Ahmed disengaged the gun. Charles’s seizure continued, blood and saliva flowing from his contorted mouth into his lap. The smell of burning flesh filled the kitchen.
    Charles was losing his will to endure. He prayed for strength for the next minute, nothing more. He tried to focus on Sarah and the kids. He would make it one more minute for them, for the church members, for his Lord.
    Images flashed through his mind in rapid succession. Images of his wife and children, of baptisms of church members, of the face of Christ as it had been portrayed in his childhood picture Bible. Ahmed’s voice brought the parade to a stop.
    “We are just beginning,” Ahmed said gruffly, without emotion. “Do not be a fool. My men are anxious to finish what they started. On both you and your wife. Your wife needs help, and I need names. Let us make a deal.”
    The threat to Sarah brought Charles back to reality. He raised his head, looked out toward the living room, then locked eyes with Ahmed. What does he mean? Charles wondered. The eyes told him nothing. Can you deal with the devil? God, give me wisdom!
    Sudden clarity came over Charles in the midst of the pain, an immediate answer to a desperate prayer. This man is just keeping Sarah safe so he can use her as leverage against me. If I give up the names, he will have no reason to let either of us live, no reason to protect Sarah from his men. The informant must have told him the names of the Friday night worshipers. But the other names he does not know. My silence keeps Sarah alive.
    Ahmed narrowed his eyes. Charles was sure the man could read his thoughts. As Ahmed reached again for the stun gun, Charles mumbled a sentence and dropped his chin to his