When the steel door closes, Sam finds himself awash in total, impenetrable darkness. He’s been in some hairy situations before, especially in Afghanistan. He’s found himself pinned down for hours at a time by enemy sniper fire. He’s nearly been blown up by roadside IEDs and RPGs in Kuwait and Iraq. He’s suffered frostbite from agonizing winter hikes and dehydration from marathon summer marches in the Kandahar Valley. As a Sky Marshal, he was nearly killed along with a two-hundred-thirty other souls when a terrorist attempted to detonate a laptop bomb at thirty-three-thousand feet. He’s even been forced to stop a runaway locomotive about to crash into a deep mountain gorge. But never has he been subjected to the kind of torture Channy Lin just put him through. For the first time ever, he wants to just lie down and die.

But he knows he can’t do that. That would be giving in. That would be handing Channy, and the entire NVC, a victory. It would also be letting his country, his boss, and worst of all, himself down. In the end, despite the pain and despair, he has no choice but to rally himself. He has no choice but to stay alive.

He feels for the objects Cindy dropped into his cell. He recalls the sound of more than one item hitting the floor. Using only his left hand makes it more difficult since his right index fingertip is swelled and tender where the fingernail once was. He sweeps his good hand across the floor until it makes contact with the first, rectangular, candy bar-shaped object. Instinctually, he knows it’s food.

Using his good fingers, he tears open the package and shoves the food in his mouth. It’s a power bar—a peanut butter and chocolate power bar. It hurts to eat. His face is beaten up, a couple of his teeth are loose, and his bottom lip is punctured, but Sam doesn’t care. His body needs sustenance. It needs strength and recovery, and the only way to do that is to feed it.

He feels the other object. It’s a plastic bladder filled with liquid. It’s the same kind of water bladders the U.S. Army would distribute to the troops in the field.

“Water,” Sam whispers. “Fresh . . . water.”

Using his undamaged front teeth, he makes a hole in the plastic and sucks out all of the fresh water in one massive swallow. When he’s finished, Sam turns over onto his back. He might be pounded into submission and hurting like never before. But he feels one-thousand times better after ingesting fresh water and some nutritious food. For the first time since being tossed into the hell hole of an underground cell, he’s holding out hope. He believes he might actually make it through the black night.

Cindy, he thinks. She is on my side after all. She might be working both sides, but ultimately, she’s on my side.

Sam could be angry with her. He has every right in the world to be furious with her. At one point, while he was duct taped to that chair, getting his brains beaten in and his fingernail yanked from his index finger, he wanted nothing more than to kill her—she and Channy. But after her assistance with food and water, Sam realizes it’s important to Cindy to keep him alive. And if she wants to keep him alive, he believes she’s going to find a way to get them the hell out of there. Meanwhile, if he can trust his gut, he knows she is presently trying to squeeze vital information out of Channy. Doing it the old-fashioned spook way—by being nice to him, by massaging him, by giving him as many happy endings as one man can take. She might be a masseuse by trade, but deep down, she is the Mata Hari.

Sam lies back on the filthy floor as if it were a king-sized mattress. He stares at the ceiling and listens. He deduces that he’s surrounded by the dense, thick riverside jungle. The underground cell is now completely blacked out with the night. Mosquitoes are buzzing and swarming all around him— stinging his face, making it swell, drawing blood from his flesh. He pictures spiders spinning webs on the ceiling above him, and rats scurrying in and out of the squat toilet. He’s too exhausted to do anything about insects or rodents. He’s in too much pain and despair. But soon, the sun will come up, and there will be light again. He prays to God that he will not have to spend another night in the hole. Eventually, complete exhaustion takes hold, and he falls into a deep sleep.

When Sam wakes, the sun has returned. A narrow beam of bright sunlight is shining down on the concrete floor. It is a welcome sight. He hears something. The solid steel door opening. His heart jumps into his throat. Quickly and instinctually, he rolls over onto all fours. Through sleepy, semi-swelled eyes, he makes out someone stepping through the opening.

Oh Christ, he thinks, they’re coming for round two. I barely lived through round one. How can I be expected to live through round two?

His thoughts of Cindy go south. Maybe she gave him the power bar and the water not because she plans on helping him stay alive so they can escape the place together. Maybe, instead, she did it to keep him alive for the night so Channy could torture him once more this morning. The tip of his index finger is swollen and probably infected. His right eye is partially closed. His teeth are still loose, and although his bottom lip has stopped bleeding, it’s still swollen. To add insult to injury, his skin is covered with insect bites. And as for his head? It feels like somebody parked an Airbus A380 jumbo jet on top of it.

God grant me strength, Sam silently prays. He also recalls the combat soldier’s prayer which he memorized a long time ago. Now I’m lying here still, in sunshine and in shadow, longing to hear, ‘brother next door, I love you so.’”

The steel door isn’t slammed shut, but instead, gently closed. Sam focuses his eyes as best he can. Despite the sunshine leaking through the opening in the ceiling, the cell remains almost too dark to see much of anything without straining. When he sees that the visitor is Cindy and she is alone, his cautious optimism returns. She quickly crosses over the floor. When she arrives at the iron bars, she places a key into the barred door and opens it.

“Up on your feet, Sam,” she orders in a shouted whisper. “We don’t have much time. Soon they’ll be awake, and they will want to torture you again. This time, they will do unspeakable things to you, and in the end, they will kill you. You need to get up, and we need to leave this place.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Sam mutters, rising to his feet as fast as his battered body will allow.

He stands a bit unsteady, feeling the aches and pains from the previous afternoon’s niceties. His clothing is filthy and blood-stained, and he could use a really good washing. No, scratch that. He could use a thorough disinfecting. But he’s alive and sometimes that’s all one can ask for. Or so Sam believes.

God continue to grant me strength . . .

“So, how are we gonna get out of here, Cin?” he asks.

“The only way possible,” Cindy answers.

“And that is?”

“Through the front fucking door.”

Cindy takes Sam’s hand, snatches him out of the cell. He pulls his hand free.

“You don’t need to be my mother,” he says.

“You need to move fast, Sam,” she says, “and I’m surprised to hear you even have a mother.”

Together, they cross the concrete floor and slip through the open steel door. They enter a concrete stairway with an old rusted metal staircase that accesses several floors. Sam follows Cindy up the numerous flights of stairs. He’s still in pain, but he wants out of that prison so badly, he has no trouble keeping up with the spitfire of a woman. He also can’t help but notice how good she looks in her tight shorts, black t-shirt, and lace-up combat boots.

Coming to the top of the staircase, Sam finds himself in a concrete bunker, most of which is battle-scarred from artillery rounds and heavy shelling. He suddenly realizes precisely where he is. Not more than one-hundred-feet away is the entrance to the Bridge Over the Rover Kwai Museum. His instincts were right on. He was being held inside the same underground cells the Japanese imprisoned the enslaved POWs who were forced to construct the first wood railway bridge.

“Follow me,” Cindy insists. “Try not to talk.”

They head out a gaping opening in one of the concrete walls and enter the dense jungle. The thick leafy forest is damp. Monkeys scream and insects buzz. The trail they take is narrow and probably left over from World War II. As they make their way through the thick foliage, Sam spots a yellow snake slithering across the path. He hesitates but keeps going. Mosquitoes are biting him relentlessly. They pass a tree covered in red ants.

“Watch yourself, Sam,” Cindy says. “Even a single bite from one of those ants can send you into anaphylactic shock.”

“Duly noted, boss lady,” he says.

Soon, they come to an opening that gives way to a cliff and a spectacular view of the Kwai River. Sam is beat up, exhausted, starving, and dying of thirst, but he’s amazed at the natural beauty before him. He wonders how this place could have ever been the site for so much pain for so many enslaved prisoners. But then, war is hell, and that will never change. No one knows this better than Sam Savage.

“There’s our boat,” Cindy says. “Hurry, Sam.”

Descending a sheer cliff in Sam’s fragile condition isn’t exactly the easiest physical maneuver in the world. But if there’s one thing that separates men like him from others, it’s his ability to survive almost any circumstance, and often do so with a smile on his face. Or a smirk anyway.

If there’s one single reason Dater chose him for this mission, Sam’s certain it was due to his chances of survival. Should things get hairy, his chances of living are better than most. Thus far, Dater’s prophecy has proven correct.

Coming to the bottom of the cliff, Sam and Cindy board a long, narrow fishing boat with an attached outboard motor. The shaft connected to the motor’s propeller is long. Maybe ten feet long. It operates on the water’s surface instead of below it like outboard motors you might find in the West. The river is very shallow in spots, and a traditional motor would get stuck in the mud. Thus, the need to be propelled on the surface.

The three men operating the boat are of three separate generations. One young, one middle-aged, and finally, one old. As Sam boards the boat, he guesses they must belong to one extended family. Grandfather, son, and grandson. Their life is so simple and singular, Sam thinks, it’s almost a perfect work of art. All they need to be concerned about is their boat, their fishing, and each other.

“There is a bunk below, Sam,” Cindy says. “Go get some rest. Sleep first, then, you can clean up and eat something.”

Turning, Cindy issues an order in Thai to the boy. Without hesitation, the boy goes below and returns with a plastic bottle of cold spring water. Cindy opens the bottle and hands it to Sam. He drinks it down in one, long, pleasing swallow.

“Now,” she says, “go rest, Sam. When you wake, we will enjoy a feast. But for now, we need to get away from this place before Channy finds out we are missing. When that happens, he will send out a war party in search of us.”

“Thank you, Cin,” Sam says, kissing her as gently on the mouth as he can, considering his sore bottom lip. “For a while, I thought you wanted me dead.”

“Never underestimate a spook like me, Sam,” she says, kissing him again . . . kissing him like she means it.

The boy catches Sam and Cindy kissing passionately, and he smiles like he’s embarrassed. Cindy blows a kiss to the boy. The kid scrunches his face like, gross me out why don’t ya?! Laughing, Sam goes below, finds the narrow mattress, and collapses on it.

He’s asleep before his head hits the pillow.

“Sam . . . Sam. Are you awake yet?”

Sam is dreaming of being waist deep in a warm bath. It’s like he’s been transported back to Roman times and he’s found himself immersed in a Roman bath with a half dozen gorgeous naked women tending to his every need. He’s never felt so wonderful in his life. The women run their wet, soapy hands all over his body and he just lies back and enjoys it.

When Sam opens his eyes, he finds Cindy using a wet washcloth to clean him while he’s still lying on the mattress.

“You awake, Sam?” she asks. “Your eyes are half-mast.”

He notices that, except for his fingertip which has been bandaged, he’s entirely naked. Cindy has a small bucket of soapy water by her side. Occasionally, she dips the washcloth into it then concentrates on a different part of his body. She runs the wet towel down his thigh. It feels nice. The polar opposite of the torture he experienced just hours ago. He’s aware of the boat rocking under him, and he feels the humidity prickling his skin, but somehow, it’s not nearly as oppressive as it was inside the prison cell.

“How long have I been out?” he asks.

“Couple hours,” Cindy says. “We’ve already hooked up with the Mekong River, and soon we’ll be at the Cambodia border. From there, we’ll hop a private plane to Ho Chi Minh. Time is short, Sam.”

“Channy’s plan,” he says. “You know the details?”

“His target is the InterContinental five-star hotel,” she says, now washing his opposite thigh. “He plans to attack with a couple dozen of his NVC soldiers, in the same bloodthirsty commando-style raid as that Pakistani terror group pulled off back in 2008 when they attacked the Mumbai, Taj.”

Sam’s mouth goes dry, and his pulse picks up speed. He recalls the carnage from that attack. Innocent men, women, and kids shot point-blank with AK-47s. It was a made for prime-time cable television news slaughter.

“His demands?” he asks.

“None,” she says. “Terror for terror’s sake. He wants attention. Wants all the world to see what oppressors the U.S. and China have become. He’ll take hostages. He’ll hold them long enough to make his statement known to the world, and then he’ll begin executing them one by one. But in the end, he’ll stage a spectacular finale by blowing the hotel sky high. It will be the horror of the world and a great achievement for Channy Lin and the NVC.”

“Christ,” Sam says, sitting up. “I gotta get dressed. We—”

She sets her hand on his chest, pushes him gently back onto the bed.

“Rest, Sam,” she says. “You’re still hurt, and we have time. The way I have it planned, we’ll be there before he gets there.”

“That’s how Kanchanaburi was supposed to turn out, Cindy. Maybe we should call in reinforcements.”

“Been there, done that. They want us to monitor the situation closely. Take action as needed. But only if he goes ahead with his plan. They don’t want to take a chance of causing a panic. Plus, they don’t wish to reveal their involvement in this project.”

“Channy already knows we’re involved. He pulled my fingernail out over it.”

“He can’t be entirely sure who we work for,” she insists. “We could be working for any number of agencies or any number of countries for that matter.”

“Maybe we’re mercenaries.”

“We might as well be, Sam. But D.C. insists . . . no getting involved until Channy makes his move.”

Shaking his head, Sam exhales a frustrated breath.

“Damn deep state bureaucrats,” he says. “When are they ever going to realize you don’t fight a war based on if and when the enemy shoots first?”

Cindy rolls her eyes. “We’ll do what we can,” she says. “That’s all we can do.”

Sam eases back onto the mattress pad and stares up at the boat’s rough wood ceiling. He feels the sweat beading on his forehead.

“Weapons,” he says. “We need to weapon up.”

“The airplane pilot will have supplies for us,” she assures, shifting the washcloth to another part of Sam’s body. A most sensitive place. “For now, I want you to relax.”

“Is this another one of your happy endings?” he asks.

“Think of this as a happy new beginning,” she says, smiling.

Call it what you want, Sam thinks. But I must have died and gone to heaven.

Minutes later, Sam is back up top feasting on a bowl of rice and fish, washing it down with an ice-cold Cambodian beer. The rice and fish are fresh and hot, and the beer, crisp and clean. Despite the torture from the previous day and night, Sam feels happy. Like he’s been reborn.

The river is flat, heavy, and brown. They pass other boats traveling in the opposite direction. Boats filled with nets and fish or even filled to the gills with coconuts. Skinny, shirtless men drive the boats. Some wave as they pass, others just stare, a mixture of curiosity and caution in their dark eyes.

“How long until we arrive at the border?” Sam asks.

Cindy is also enjoying a cold beer while she watches Sam eat. She glances at her wristwatch.

“We’re nearly there,” she explains. “Eat up.”

He drinks and eats with a vengeance. When he’s done with the food, he sets the bowl aside.

“Cindy,” he says. “One very important question.”

“Shoot,” she says.

“How do I know I can trust you?”

She sips her beer, stares out at the river and the thick jungle that covers the opposite bank.

“Ultimately, you don’t, Sam,” she says. After a long beat, she continues. “Three years ago, I was pulled out of South East Asia and sent to Moscow to babysit a brand-new agent known as Boris who was sniffing out dirt on Medvedev and Putin and all their killer cronies. We were seated inside a café where Medvedev and some of his men were drinking vodka and getting drunk. Boris was recording the conversation with a state-of-the-art mini voice detection system that fit in his coat pocket. He kept fiddling with the device, swearing it wasn’t right, and that he was going to be big trouble if he didn’t get the conversation. He was sweating, despite the freezing winter, and he kept staring at the table of Russians which is a no-no in this business, as you are aware. You could see the beads of sweat building up on Boris’ forehead. He was afraid of his own shadow.

“Naturally, I kept telling him to calm down and just trust the equipment and act naturally. But he was letting his fear get to him. Men like Medvedev and Putin, they are not only powerful, they are survivors and opportunists. They not only know how to sniff out money, but they also know how to sniff out danger. So, when two of Medvedev’s men sensed something wasn’t right, they got up and approached the table. As they walked toward us, I pushed my fork off the table. I immediately got up and bent down to retrieve it. At the same time, I dug into Boris’ coat pocket and snatched the listening device. I stuffed it in the pocket on my leather coat, then picked up the fork and sat back down.

“The two men who approached us were built like houses. They wore all black. They demanded Boris clean out his pockets. He was so nervous he was slurring his speech and stuttering. I haven’t done anything wrong, he kept repeating over and over. The men accused him of being American. Then they accused him of being a spy. They pulled out their guns, aimed them at his head. He pleaded with them, No, no, don’t shoot! He began to cry. That’s when I said, Gentlemen, I only met this man out on the street some hours ago. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the device. It’s me you want. The two men looked at one another, grabbed the device and dragged me away while Boris ran to safety. I was held in a prison for nearly a month until I was sprung in a clandestine spy swap. By then, I’d lost nearly twenty pounds, and some of my hair had fallen out. That’s how much you can trust me, Sam.”

Sam thinks about her leading him out of the prison. He thinks about the food and water she left him after Channy tortured him. He sees her coming for him just as the dawn arrived. Sees her unlocking the steel barred door and leading him up and out of the underground prison, through the jungle, and to the river. He sees her hands on him, and he knows in his heart that he should be trusting her, but can he really? That’s the ten-million-dollar question. All he truly knows is that he intends on stopping Channy before the terrorist and his men get a chance to enter the InterContinental Hotel.

Sam nods. “What choice do I have, Cindy?” he says. “But I would be more trusting of the situation if we called in the Ho Chi Minh police and, at the very least, alerted the hotel to impending danger.”

She vehemently shakes her head. “You know we can’t do that, Sam,” she insists. “If only we could do that, but we can’t. We need to let Channy seal his own fate and that of his terrorist organization. Stop him in his tracks now, and he will only find a way to get himself out of legal jeopardy, and he will once again be free to perform his terroristic acts.”

Sam can’t get the logic she’s offering through his head. Then again, he could never wrap his brain around the logic of how Americans handle their mental illness crisis, for instance. One must wait until some crazy person performs an act of violence to themselves and/or others before they can be arrested and hospitalized. It’s the same crazy logic the agencies often times attach to catching terrorists, too.

Just then, the boat pilot begins making for shore. Once they arrive, Sam and Cindy disembark. Parked on a dirt road is a tuck-tuck.

“The tuck-tuck will take us to the plane, Sam,” Cindy informs.

“You’ve thought of everything,” Sam says.

Hopping into the back of the motorcycle-powered tuck-tuck, the two hold on while they speed over the bumpy unpaved road. The thick jungle that flanks them is interrupted only by the occasional snack stand or shack that sells old liquor bottles filled with gasoline.

The difference between America and Cambodia is fifty years, Sam thinks.

In a matter of minutes, they arrive at a long, open field that’s been hewn out of the jungle. A plane is waiting at the far end of the field. It’s a single engine Cessna.

“There’s our ride,” Cindy informs.

The tuck-tuck drops them off at the plane and then motors away.

“Cindy, is that you?” calls out a voice from inside the cockpit.

The door on the Cessna opens, and Sam gets his first good look at the pilot—an attractive brunette who can’t be more than forty. She’s got big brown eyes and thick, long black hair. For a brief second, she reminds him of his lost love, Lauren. He was engaged to be married to Lauren, but her life was cut short when she was killed by a hit-and-run driver while jogging. Even after all these years, Sam can’t help but tear up whenever he is reminded of her. Right now, is one of those times.

He smiles at the pilot.

“Betsy, meet Sam,” Cindy says by way of introduction. “Sam, meet Betsy.”

Sam extends his hand.

“You remind me of someone, Betsy,” he says, gazing up at her behind the wheel of the Cessna.

She takes his hand with her leather glove-covered hand, squeezes it gently.

“That so,” she smiles “Someone nice, I hope.”

In his head, Sam sees he and Lauren lying in bed on a rainy Sunday afternoon, an open bottle of red wine on the bed stand, their bodies naked, feet touching, his hand holding hers. They’re laughing over something stupid. The world can get along without them because they are their own little world. After more wine and laughter, they’ll make love again, and they’ll be as one.

“She was very nice,” he says. “But she’s gone now.”

“Hop up, Sam,” Cindy insists, hurrying things along. “We’ve got a job to do.”

Unbuckling her belt, Betsy steps out of the plane onto the wing. Pulling up the pilot’s seat she makes room for Sam to slip into the back. She then pushes the seat back in place and resumes her position behind the control stick. Cindy goes around to the starboard side and hops into the shotgun seat. Everyone buckles up.

“Hope you’re not afraid of flying, Sam,” Betsy announces. “Some nasty downdrafts today across the entirety of South East Asia. Could be a rough one.”

She has no idea I’m a Sky Marshal and have flown and survived every nasty weather condition possible, including dangerous electrical storms, severe turbulence, and even a blown-out engine . . .

“I’ll do my best not to pee my pants,” Sam says.

Betsy starts the prop, and suddenly the Cessna is vibrating, the cabin fills with the roar of the engine. The plane moves forward, slowly at first, but then very quickly gains speed. The earth under the tires is rough. Then, Betsy gives it some gas, and just like that, the ride smooths out as the machine takes to the air.

Staring out the window, Sam peers down on a canopy of green trees that quickly give way to an expansive checkerboard of rice paddies. The plane bucks and drops as the engine strains, but it quickly recovers.

“Sorry about that, folks,” Betsy says. “Keep those seat belts fastened and for all those passengers presently in the lavatories, please return to your seats.”

The more the plane rocks and rolls, the more Sam feels at home, and his still exhausted body relaxes. He feels his eyelids grow heavy and soon he finds himself in never-never land.

A finger taps Sam’s hand. He opens his eyes.

“I must have dozed off,” he admits, shaking the cobwebs from his brain.

“Dozed off,” Cindy says. “I thought we were gonna die it was so rough, and all you did was snore the whole way.”

A quick glance out the window reveals a cityscape. Ho Chi Minh City—aka, Saigon. Sam leans forward, his head between the front bucket seats.

“Where we putting down?” he asks.

Betsy scooches closer to him.

“The old Vietnam era airfield,” she says. “It’s where all the U.S. troops came and went during the war. It’s abandoned now. I can quickly slip you in and then just as quickly slip on out.”

“Roger that,” Sam says.

He might ask about the return trip, but he’s quite sure Cindy has it all arranged. The plane descends, and soon they are on the ground. Before exiting the plane, Cindy and Sam are each issued a 9mm semi-automatic apiece, along with two additional magazines. They bid their farewells to Betsy, and while they seek out an opening in the chain link fence that surrounds the old airfield and abandoned airplane hangar, Betsy quickly takes to the sky once more.

From now on, Sam thinks as they approach a gaping gash in the fence, we’re on our own.

Their weapons concealed, Sam and Cindy hire a taxi to take them to the InterContinental Hotel which is situated in the center of the city on the river. They are dropped off, not at the front door, but down the road a bit at Cindy’s request. Exiting the taxi, they stand on the sidewalk and breathe in the hot, humid air. The street is jam-packed with men and women riding motorbikes. Cars and trucks share what little road space is leftover. So, too, do brave souls on bicycles.

Sam gazes at his watch. “Getting close to happy hour,” he says. “What time should we expect Channy and his army?”

“Could be any time,” Cindy says. “That is if he hasn’t called it off now that he knows we’ve made our escape.”

Sam hadn’t thought of that. Channy could be so spooked now he’s decided to call off the whole show. Or not.

“My guess is this operation is too important to him,” Sam says. “No doubt it took a whole lot of coordination and expense, which means he’s not about to quit now just because a couple of spooks have managed to slip out the back, Jack.”

“You’re right,” Cindy agrees. “He’s got nothing to hide anyway. He wants the world to know he’s capable of killing hundreds of innocent lives.”

They step from the sidewalk without waiting for a break in the steady stream of motorized traffic and begin to cross the road. Sam already knows the traffic in Vietnam does not yield for anything. Not even human beings. This means the two must scoot in and out of the speeding motorbikes and four-wheeled vehicles. When they come to the opposite sidewalk and head toward the hotel, they pass by an old woman wearing the traditional straw conical hat selling colorful flowers and an old man in sandals and shorts selling dried fruits, fish, and crickets.

Sam notices the black Mercedes Benz four-door sedan as it pulls up to the front lobby of the InterContinental Hotel. A uniformed bellhop immediately approaches the car and opens the rear door. A suited Chinese man emerges followed by a stunning thirty-something woman wearing a short, black skirt and stilletos. Her legs seem to stretch all the way to her shoulders. She flings an expensive purse over her shoulder just as the earth trembles. The explosion whistles through the glass front of the hotel lobby, cutting her long legs off in an instant. It obliterates the Chinese man and decapitates the bellhop. The car bursts into flames.

Acting on instinct, Sam and Cindy immediately hit the pavement. Another blast rocks the InterContinental. This one, on the seventh floor. Glass, concrete, and steel rain down on the sidewalk and the street. So do body parts. People begin screaming and running in every direction. Motorbikes collide with one another. A truck runs into a tuck-tuck, the motorbike driver is tossed into the street like a rag doll.

One more explosion takes out the penthouse floor of the five-star hotel. Once more, debris rains down onto the sidewalk causing more confusion and chaos in the street. A woman runs out of the hotel, her hair on fire. Her screams are blood-curdling, and they cease only when the fire consumes her entire head and she collapses.

Sam gets up, draws his 9mm.

“I’m going in,” he says.

“On your tail, Sam,” Cindy barks.

As the two approach the gruesome scene of the lobby explosion, automatic gunfire can be heard coming from the hotel interior. Sam crouches behind the burning Mercedes and manages to get a look inside. One particular man catches his eye. He turns to Cindy.

“Maybe a dozen men and women dressed in black uniforms,” he says. “I think Channy is one of them. Armed with AK-47s. Hostages. Maybe a couple dozen of them. American and Chinese would be my guess based on Channy’s mission.”

“We can’t just run in there guns a’blazing,” Cindy insists.

Death, carnage, blood, and violence surround them. But Sam can’t help but smile.

“You didn’t just say, guns a’blazing, did you?”

Cindy smiles back. “I did.”

“Guess what I’m gonna do?”

“I’m not sure I want to know.”

“Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Final scene. Full stop.” Sam says.

“I was afraid of that.”

Cocking a round into the chamber, thumbing the safety off, Sam counts to three. Then he sprints inside the burning building . . . guns a’blazing.

As if it were planned in advance, Cindy shoots right while Sam shoots left. He fires three rounds that take down the first three terrorists. Cindy takes down two. The terrorists in the center of the lobby shift and return the fire.

“Go!” Sam screams at the hostages. “Run! Run!”

“Save yourself!” Cindy screams. “Save your children!”

Sam gazes at her out the corner of his eyes, sees her calmly take aim, even while bullets from automatic rifles whiz past her head. She takes down two more. Sam shoots and strikes another terrorist. His magazine now empty, he thumbs the release and without breaking his aim, loads a second mag. He continues shooting while being shot at. But that’s when shots ring out from Sam’s left flank.

Turning quickly, he spots a familiar face.

Channy.