He waited. As his pulse raced, he forced himself to breathe slowly, to calm himself. He felt the stock of the shotgun become slick with his sweat.

Rising from his crouch, the Salvadoran at the entry looked into the apartment courtyard. He made a hand signal to the other man. Jefferson saw a rope in the man's hand.

They intended to take him alive, Jefferson realized. Maybe for the negatives. Maybe for interrogation.

If he could take one of them, maybe he could help Mr. Holt. Jefferson looked at the shrubs screening the apartments from the street. The Salvadoran waiting in the Dodge would not see him. But could he cross the flower beds silently? No.

The answer came to him. Forget the man at the entry. Take the Salvadoran waiting in the car. Put the shotgun up against his gut, tell him to drive to a police station. All right…

Easing from the corner, the shotgun clammy in his hands beneath its camouflage of pant leg, Jefferson took one slow step at a time. He watched the man at the entry. Shrubs blocked the view of the man in the car. Jefferson moved silently through the shadows and the soft colors of the decorative floodlights.

Headlights blinded him. A car lurched to a stop in the driveway. Squinting through the glare, Jefferson saw a form lean from the driver's window.

"Who are you? What're — Floyd? Is that you, Floyd?"

Disregarding his neighbor's questions, Jefferson ran to the idling Dodge. He jumped into the front seat, the Smith & Wesson riot shotgun pointed at the midsection of the Salvadoran. The Salvadoran jerked an auto-pistol from a shoulder holster.

From a distance of eighteen inches, Jefferson fired, the blast deafening him, the backsplash of blood hot on his face and hands. The Salvadoran groaned once and died as Jefferson scrambled backward, falling out of the car.

On his back on the street, he saw the second Salvadoran running at him, a pistol in his hand flashing. A slug zipped past the young journalist's face.