--Part 1--
The sun was just setting as the small pickup slowly turned down the packed dirt street. A single, bald ligtbulb suspended above barely gave enough light to show the truck's chipping red paint. As headlights searched down the rows of sheet metal and plywood shacks, the five passengers grew restless.
From the front passenger seat, Dale looked over his 9-year-old daughter's head at the driver. "Are you sure it's safe down here?"
The Haitian pastor grinned back: "Oh, it's fine. Actually, I think your girls will be the first American children to visit here. I mean, I've never brought my family down here, but we'll be fine."
The four Americans glanced at each other uneasily as Dale thought to himself: "Then, why on earth, are you bringing my wife and daughters down here?"
Before he could voice his thoughts, though, they were turning down the street leading to the slum church, and the headlights were giving them other things to consider.
A crowd of people about fifty strong was gathered under one of the lightbulbs that served as streetlamps.
"Dad?" 18-year-old Lora spoke up from the back seat as she scooted toward her mom.
"They'll let us through," their driver assured them.
Sure enough, the sea of people slowly parted as the vehicle approached, then closed behind. The truck inched forwar as the crowd shifted to let it pass.
Then, someone looked in the windows.
Shouts rang out.
"Americans!"
"Money!"
Suddenly, the missionaries found themselves held hostage by a desperate mob.
--To Be Continued--
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