Friday, September 16, 1:20 p.m. EDT

Khadi lay shivering on the cold stone bench in Wilson Bay. Her head rested on the corner of a long red bench cushion. After the second beating, which had come immediately following Bill Evert’s murder and her video appearance—live and in person—Alavi apparently had found the last fading spark of compassion left in his cold, dark heart. Although he wouldn’t allow her battered body the comfort of actually lying on the cushion, he did provide her with just enough padding to rest her swollen head.

But you will not break me! I don’t care what you do to me; I will go out of this life with my head high. And if I find a way to take one of you with me, then you better say your prayers.

Letting her watch the execution of Bill Evert had been the exact wrong thing for Saifullah to do. Watching his strength in the midst of an unspeakable death relit a fire in her soul that had been in danger of going out last night. From the moment the tarp was rolled up, her mind had begun singing “God Bless America,” “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and strangely enough for her, that hymn from the funeral—“A Mighty Fortress”—and it hadn’t stopped.

So despite the fact that her body was rebelling against her and she had lost all feeling in her extremities due to the zip ties, her mind was sharp, and her will was strong. She had no idea when they were going to come for her—when her neck would be offered up to the knife—but she didn’t care anymore. Her peace had been made with God, even though she still wasn’t sure which God. She had prayed that the one true God would hear her prayers and show her mercy. There’s not really anything else I can do, is there?

“Come on, old man, what are you waiting for?” she called out. She was ready to die now, but she wasn’t convinced that she’d still have this strong of a resolve a few hours from now. If I’m going to go, I’m going to go in my time and with my head held high! And maybe with one parting shot at whoever gets closest to me.

“What’s wrong, you raggedy-bearded psychopath? You afraid I might bite? Oh, Saifullah . . . come out, come out wherever you are! Here, boy! Come on, boy!”

Majid Alavi came striding in, his face red with anger.

“Oh, the big dog’s sent his little lap—”

Her final word was cut off as Alavi pulled the cushion from under her head, letting her skull hit the stone with a thunk. Khadi’s brain was just beginning to process through the pain when she felt the cushion pressed down tightly on her face. Her zip-tied body flopped like a fish out of water as she tried to find a way to get some air. Finally, when she was just starting to gray out, he lifted the cushion.

Khadi sucked air deep into her lungs. Pain, fear, adrenaline, and relief all rushed through her body, making the world around her spin.

Alavi leaned in close. “Shut . . . your . . . mouth,” he hissed.

Khadi spit in his face, and the cushion went back on. This time she knew she was a dead woman and was just making peace with the fact when the darkness finally lifted and the sweet air poured into her starving lungs.

“Have you had enough?” Alavi asked. But this time he stood a little farther back, and the projectile from Khadi’s mouth fell short of its mark. Alavi’s hand hit the side of Khadi’s face once, twice, three times, sandwiching her head against the stone bench. Khadi’s world spun again.

“Hey, Alavi,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “you still beat your wife?”

“Your time is soon.”

“Bring it on, little man—lapdog.”

Alavi turned to go but stopped short. “Actually,” he said with a smile, “I think your time has arrived.”

He stepped back, and Saifullah, the cameraman, and the two executioners walked into the bay. Hard as she tried, she couldn’t take her eyes off the long blade that hung in the one man’s belt.

“I hear you were calling for me,” Saifullah said.

“And you came—I’m touched,” Khadi replied in a voice that was half mumble, half groan.

“I came because it was time, not because you called.”

“Probably an important point for you, but for me—not so much,” Khadi said with all the false bravado she could muster. But inside, she was screaming. I can’t imagine that knife on my neck! Please, no! Someone—God, Scott, anyone—please keep me from that blade!

“Your eyes betray you, little girl,” Saifullah said with a smile. “Why do I feel your courage is all talk?”

“Take these cuffs off, and we’ll see how much is all talk. Five men in this room, and you still have to keep the little girl tied up.” Come on, rise to the challenge . . . take the bait!

Instead, Saifullah turned to the executioners. “I’m tired of hearing the ranting of this mongrel whore. Silence her.”

Khadi’s eyes went wide. Wait, this isn’t the way it’s supposed to be! What about the camera? What about Saifullah’s speech? Aren’t I supposed to have an opportunity to read a false confession? I’m not ready for this! God, help me! Please, God, help me!

Despite the duplicity of her eyes, Khadi kept a reasonably strong facade. Her face was tight and she pressed her lips closed, not trusting what might come out of them if they parted.

The man not holding the long blade moved quickly toward Khadi. With small wire cutters, he snipped the tie off her ankles. Immediately, blood began flowing back to her feet, causing her to bite back a scream. He grabbed her by her arms and flung her to the ground. She skidded to a landing up against Wilson’s tomb.

The man with the blade lifted Khadi by the hair. The pain was excruciating, and she tried to take some of the pressure off by bringing her knees up under her. But she still didn’t have any strength in them after being tied up for so long, and they flailed around beneath her.

Saifullah leaned down to Khadi’s face. “Prepare to see hell, gehbah.”

Khadi closed her eyes and heard the long knife slide out from the executioner’s belt. The cold, dull blade rested against her tight neck, then pulled across it. She cried out, the executioner released her hair, and she fell hard to the ground.

She lay there gasping and weeping—confused, relieved, angry, hurting. What happened? What just happened? I’m not dead—I know that because I’m in too much pain.

A shoe wedged itself under her chest and rolled her over. Her eyes opened, and she saw all five men laughing cruelly at her.

“I think a quick death is a little too good for you,” Saifullah said. “I’ve got something else in mind that will burn like a coal in your heart for the rest of your miserable, traitorous life.”

The cuffs on her wrists were cut, and pain again shot through her body. A cold, wet towel was thrown on the floor in front of her.

“Clean yourself up,” said Alavi.

Khadi tried to grasp the towel but found she couldn’t control her fingers. Instead she lifted it between her wrists and wiped her face across it. The pain was intense, but with every swipe came renewed hope.

The rest of my life, he said. I think that means I’m going to live! I don’t know what just happened, but, God, if that was You—thank You! Thank You so much!

“That’s enough; it’s time,” Alavi said.

He snatched the towel from her hands and lifted her to her feet. She took one last look at Saifullah and was chilled to the bone at the pure evil that was in his smile. He nodded to her, then walked away.

Alavi tightly gripped her upper arm and pulled her forward. Stumbling, she followed him. The footsteps of the other three men echoed behind her. Turning to her right, she could see all the hostages watching her. Where is he? Where is he? There!

In the midst of all the bewildered and anguished faces, Alan Paine gave her an encouraging smile and a thumbs-up. Then he pointed to the sky for a moment before reverting back to the thumb. Khadi wished she could say thank-you, wished she could tell him how he had saved her life last night—I’ll say it when I come back to get you, she promised silently.

She was nearing the front door when one of the terrorists pulled it open. It’s really true. They’re letting me go. Oh, thank You, God!

Alavi released her with a push, and she stumbled into the light of a September afternoon. Reaching out to steady herself, she caught hold of the handrail. Free! I’m free! I can’t believe—

At the bottom of the stairs was Riley, shirtless, walking her way.

Confused questions flew through her mind. Did he do this? Was Riley the one who negotiated my release? Is he really my knight in shining armor? Why is he looking at me like that? She wanted to run to him, but her legs were still shaky. She took a tentative step, both hands glued to the rail.

Slowly he approached—one step at a time. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen him not take stairs two steps per stride. Something’s wrong! This doesn’t feel right! Come on, Riley! Come and get me!

His hands slowly raised and locked behind his head. Two red dots danced on his chest. Why are they laser-sighting him? He’s unarmed—can’t they see that?

Their eyes locked, and what she saw sent terror into her heart. Nowhere was the joy, the relief that should have been there. Instead, what she saw was trepidation, determination, fear, sorrow.

But then, like a ray of sun cutting through a sky full of clouds, his face slipped into a soft smile, and that smile said it all. It was full of peace and love. The peace she knew was because of his faith in his God; the love was all for her.

It dawned on her what was happening. Her knees buckled, and she steadied herself with the handrail.

“Riley, what are you doing?” She said with a hoarse croak. “No! You can’t do this! I refuse! I won’t let you do this, Riley.”

But Riley just kept walking and held that same smile that said more than any volume of love poems ever could. He was just a few feet away now, and she reached out her hand to him. “No, Riley. Please, no!”

Her fingers landed on his stomach, and she dug her nails in, trying to stop him. But they just left red trails across his flesh until there was no more of him to hold on to. And all the while, his eyes never left hers until he was past.

She spun around in time to see him step into the cathedral.

The doors closed.

“No!” she cried out. “Riley, no!”

She tried to pull herself back up the stairs, back in the direction she had come, back to Riley so they could go to their deaths together like some twisted, modern Romeo and Juliet.

Suddenly, hands were on her, lifting her easily. In a brief moment, she was scooped up and held to her rescuer’s chest.

It was then she recognized Skeeter and knew the battle was over. Once in his arms, she never considered fighting him—never tried to talk him out of his destination. When Skeeter Dawkins had a plan in mind, it would get done.

Instead she wrapped her arms around Skeeter’s neck and began to cry.