How long until help came?

Too long.

The leader was shouting out orders. Berleand was on the ground by his feet. Motionless. And worse, Berleand was silent. No more cries. No more whimpers.

Had to get to him.

I wasn't sure how. Once I stepped out from behind this tree I would be in the open and ridiculously vulnerable. But there was no choice now.

I started sprinting toward the leader.

I had moved maybe three steps when I heard someone shout out a warning. The leader turned toward me. I was still forty yards away. My legs pumped fast, but everything else slowed down. The leader too wore a green bandana around his neck, like an outlaw in an old Western. His beard was thick. He was taller than the others, maybe six two, and stocky. There was a knife in one hand, a gun in the other. He raised the gun toward me. I debated dropping to the ground or veering to the side, anything to avoid the shot, but my mind quickly sized up the situation and I realized that a sudden shift wouldn't work here. Yes, he might miss with the first bullet, but then I would be totally exposed. The second shot would certainly not miss. Plus my diversion was over. The other men were already coming back toward us. They would fire too.

I had to hope that he'd panic and miss me.

He aimed the gun. I met his eyes and saw the calm that simple moral certainty brings a man. I had no chance. I could see that now. He would not miss. And then, right before he pulled the trigger, I heard him howl in pain and saw him look down.

Berleand was biting his calf, holding on with his teeth like an angry Rottweiler.

The leader's gun hand dropped to his side, aiming at the top of Berleand's head. With a surge of adrenaline, I launched myself at the leader, arms in front of me. But before I could get there, I heard the blast and saw the gun recoil. Berleand's body jerked as I reached the leader. I wrapped my arms around the son of a bitch, kept my momentum going. As we toppled toward the ground, I positioned my forearm against the leader's nose. We landed hard, my full body weight behind the forearm. His nose exploded like a water balloon. Blood smacked me in the face. It felt warm against my skin. He cried out, but he still had a lot of fight in him. So did I. I dodged a head butt. He tried to get me in a bear hug. A fatal move. I let his arms encircle me. When he started to squeeze, I quickly snaked my arms free. Now the leader was totally vulnerable. I did not hesitate. I thought about Berleand, about how this man had made my friend suffer.

Time to end this.

The fingers of my right hand formed a claw. I didn't go for the eyes or the nose or any other soft target to disable or maim. At the base of the throat, right above the thoracic cage, sits a hollowed area where the trachea isn't protected. With two fingers and my thumb, I dug full force into the opening and grabbed his throat in a talonlike grip. I was crying as I jerked his windpipe toward me, screaming like an animal while a man died by my hand.

I plucked the gun from his still hand.

The men were running back toward us. They hadn't yet shot for fear of hitting their leader. I rolled toward the body on my right.

"Berleand?"

But he was dead. I could see that now. His dorky glasses with those oversize frames were askew on that soft, malleable face. I wanted to cry. I wanted to just give up and hold him and cry.

The men were getting closer. I looked up. They were having trouble seeing me, but the lights from the house behind them made them perfect silhouettes. I raised the gun and fired. One man went down. I turned the gun to the left. I fired again. Another man went down. Now they started firing back. I rolled back toward the leader and used his body as a shield. I fired again. Another man went down.

Sirens.

I kept low and sprinted toward the house. Cop cars came rushing up. I heard a helicopter, maybe more than one, above us. More gunfire. I would let them handle it. I wanted to get into that house now.

I ran past Taylor. Dead. The door was still open. Erickson's body was on the front porch next to it, the knife still deep in his chest. I stepped over him and dived into the foyer.

Silence.

I didn't like that.

I still had the leader's gun in my hand. I pushed my back against the wall. The place was in total disrepair. The wallpaper was peeling. The light was on. Out of the corner of my eyes I saw someone sprint by, heard footsteps going down the stairs. Had to be a lower level. A basement.

Outside I could hear gunfire. I could hear someone calling through a bullhorn for surrender. Might have been Jones. I should wait now. There was no chance I was going to get Carrie out of here anyway. I should sit tight, cover the door, not let anyone in or out. That was the smart play here. Wait it out.

I might have done that. I might have just stayed right there and never gone into that basement if the blond boy hadn't come racing down the stairs.

I called him a boy. That wasn't fair. He looked to be about seventeen, maybe eighteen, not much younger than the dark-haired men I had just shot without hesitation. But when this teenager with the blond hair and khaki pants and dress shirt came tearing down the stairs-a gun in his hand-I didn't shoot right away.

"Freeze!" I shouted. "Drop the gun."

The boy's face twisted into some kind of hideous death mask. His gun hand rose toward me, and he took aim. I jumped, rolled to the left, and came up firing. I didn't go for the death shot, as opposed to what I had been like outside. I went for his legs. I fired low. The teen screamed and fell. He still held the gun though, still had the twisted death-mask expression. He aimed for me again.

I jumped out of the foyer and into the hallway-where I came face-to-face with the basement door.

The blond teen had been hit in the leg. There was no way he could follow me down. I caught my breath, grabbed the knob with my free hand, and opened the door.

Total darkness.

I kept my gun against my chest. Pressed myself against the wall to make myself a smaller target. I slowly started down the stairs, feeling my way with my front foot. One hand held the gun, the other searched for a light switch. I couldn't find one. With my body still turned to the side, I took the steps slowly, left foot down a step, right foot meets up with it. I wondered about ammunition. How many bullets did I have left? No idea.

I heard whispers below.

No doubt about it. The lights might be off, but someone was down in the darkness. Probably more than one someone. Again I debated doing the wise thing-just stopping, staying still, moving back to the top of the stairs, waiting for reinforcements. The gunfire outside had stopped. Jones and his men, I was sure, had secured the premises.

But I didn't do that.

My left foot reached the bottom step. I heard a scuffling sound that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My free hand felt along the wall until I found the light switch. Or to be more precise, switches. Three in a row. I put my hand underneath them, got my gun ready, took one deep breath, and then I flipped up all three at the same time.

Later I would remember the other details: the Arabic graffiti spray-painted on the walls, the green flags with the blood-soaked crescent moon, the posters of martyrs in battle fatigues carrying assault weapons. Later I would remember the portraits of Mohammad Matar during many different stages of his life, including the time when he worked as a medical resident named Jiménez.

But right now, all of that was little more than backdrop.

Because there, in the far corner of the basement, I saw something that made my heart stop. I blinked my eyes, looked again, couldn't believe it, and yet maybe it made perfect sense after all.

A group of blond teenagers and children were huddled against a pregnant woman in a black burqa. Their eyes were ice blue, and they all stared at me with hatred. They began to make a noise, a snarl maybe, as one, and then I realized that it wasn't a snarl. These were words, repeated over and over…