The Echo of Violence Read Online Free PDF Page B

van. The hooded man walked with the assurance of a leader, and his amusement with the situation gave him away. Kate thought she’d play a hunch.
    “Why are you doing this?” She watched the man, and he gave her nothing. Under the hood, his dark eyes were a chilling blank slate. She held her breath and stood firm.
    When he turned to a comrade and spoke in his own language, Kate fixed her eyes on his, and interrupted, “Your fly is open. Better zip up.”
    The masked man looked down at his pants before he realized that he’d given himself away. He spoke English. And now everyone knew.
    “You speak English?” George’s voice cracked as he touched the arm of his wife. “Let me do the talking, Joanna.”
    “No, you do enough talking.” The leader glared at Kate as he spoke, but eventually turned his full attention to 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 andthe 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 adistance 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