Summary: Foreign correspondent, Rory Gilmore, is held hostage during an assignment in war torn Afghanistan.
Prologue
Rory's nerves were frayed. The ride in the armored vehicle seemed to hit every bump particularly hard. The vibrations causing her heart to crash violently and painfully into her ribs. Her breath hitched.
It was her first foray into the war torn country. Although she tried her best to hide her fear, on the inside she was trembling. The two other journalists - a man and a woman - in the back of the SUV, however, seemed perfectly at ease as they entered further into the battle zone. Unsuccessfully, Rory attempted to even her breathes. As much as she was eager to ask questions and see the damage without the bias of CNN's camera crew's angle, Rory was absolutely terrified.
What in the world was Christiane Amanpour thinking?
The two soldiers in the front of the truck did nothing to calm her. They were both heavily armed, and, although Rory knew next to nothing about weapons, even she could see they were loaded and ready should anything unexpected occur. She eyed nervously the grenades strapped to their utility belts. The soldier in the passenger seat kept his fingers dangerously, Rory thought, close to the trigger as he looked apprehensively out the windows.
Thus far, there had been no action. She heard no bombs going off in the distance. No gunfire. It was quiet. All she could hear was the hum of the engine. For that reason, she tensed. It shouldn't be this quiet. The streets seemed to be too empty as well. There were no locals on the streets going about their daily business, that despite the war needed to be done. It didn't seem right. It was the height of day and the entire area was deserted.
Then, the passenger soldier stiffened and sat straighter in his seat. "Drive faster," he muttered to the driver. The truck accelerated. Rory's throat tightened. This couldn't be good.
The soldier must have realized he had put her on edge, because he said, "Don't worry. Just a precaution. We should be at the base in fifteen minutes. Its just outside the city limits."
Then, as though fate had been waiting for famous last words, it happened.
Having lived in the ghetto during her years as an undergrad at Yale, Rory knew what the sound of a gun going off was like. The gun currently in question was no hand pistol. Rory could tell it was coming from a much larger gun. One that the two soldiers had. Without thinking, Rory hunched forward in her seat, and pulled two stunned, and now terrified, journalists along with her.
The bullets ricocheted off the armor of the truck, but Rory knew that wouldn't last forever. The passenger soldier rolled his window down and leaned out as he commenced firing back at the gunman.
It was trap.
From the opposite direction came a silent bullet. Rory watched, horrified, as the soldier suddenly stiffened, and the fleeting expression of disbelief crossed his quickly paling face. Blood sprouted, as from a fountain, as the main artery in her neck was severed by the bullet. Seconds later the soldier was dead.
There was a high pitch scream, as the journalist on her right stared, eyes slightly unfocused at the dead man.
Incoming fire continued and increased. The gunman was not alone. From the sounds of it he had been joined by a few hundred of his closest friends. And now, with the opened window, they were vulnerable. Rory slipped out of her seatbelt and slumped as close as she could to the floor of the truck. The bullets were getting way too close.
There was a pained hiss as a journalist slid down next to her clutching his arm. Blood seeped through his fingers. Rory felt nauseous. The man looked to her, his eyes were wide and terrified. This wasn't what he signed up for. She grabbed his hand.
Rory had imagined many times how this assignment would go. Though she knew a war was going on, she never realized she would be right smack in the middle. This was not an episode of M*A*S*H, this was turning into the opening sequence of Saving Private Ryan.
Rory had never considered the possibility that she could potentially die here. Journalists were free game to the enemy. Open targets that didn't shoot back.
She was a sitting duck.
A loud explosion rocked the truck, as the other side started throwing grenades.
"Fuck!" the lone soldier swore. The ground seemed to be rumbling too much to keep the truck going steady. The truck swerved sporadically as he tried to avoid fire. "Hold on!"
Through all the deafening sounds Rory almost didn't hear it. A car horn started seamlessly blaring. Realization sprung in the man's eye before her, and Rory didn't have time to brace herself as the now unmanned Hummer drove hard and fast into a wall of brick. The sniper had been successful once again. He was dead. Shot through the temple. Rory and the two other journalists were alone. Unprotected and weaponless.
Rory had only been in one other car accident. She suffered only a fracture to her wrist. There was no lasting damage, physically or psychologically. Merely the memory of blurred vision as the car swerved unskillfully and the faint smell of burnt rubber remained.
This crash and what would soon follow would leave her scarred in more than one way.
Unfastened, Rory was thrown forward. A sickening crack sounded as her head collided with the dash. Blearily Rory was able to make out the human-like shapes moving toward the crashed vehicle. Then, she welcomed the blackness that was threatening to overtake her.
Rory Gilmore would not wake for hours. And when she did, there was a canvas bag over her head obstructing her view. But the paralyzing screams of the other female journalist reached her ears easily. So did the sounds of an AK-47 firing a dozen rounds. And then silence. Rory knew the woman was dead, and that she may very well be next.