She had read accounts of journalists who’d been caught up in similar situations, but she also knew of the larger number who had not survived to tell their tale. Still, despite the fear that clenched her gut, she didn’t visibly react. Instead, she just stared around, wondering if any of her fellow travelers had figured it out. Part of her wanted to fight this injustice, so she staggered to her feet and hunched over at the waist for a second, trying to stop her head from spinning. Once she’d pushed down the worst of the nausea, she straightened and turned to look for the leader, the man who’d calmed the other travelers with his gentle command of the English language. Rebeka couldn’t pick him out, but she did see the cargo truck, which had come to a halt 20 meters away. Her fellow travelers were now facedown on the ground, their hands being tied behind their backs.

Most were lying passively, but a few were struggling, and two or three weren’t moving at all. Looking closer, she realized that the still figures were bleeding profusely from head wounds. She didn’t think they’d been shot—she hadn’t heard any additional gunfire—but even from a distance, she could recognize how serious their injuries were.

A soldier was moving toward her, boots crunching over the coarse gravel, his rifle slung over his chest. He smiled, produced a strangelooking length of cord, and gestured for her to turn around. She did so slowly, struggling to suppress her fear. Her hands were pulled gently behind her, then bound securely with the plastic restraints. Feeling a tap on her uninjured shoulder, she turned once more. This time, however, the soldier was no longer smiling. Holding his weapon in both hands, he pulled his arms in tight at shoulder height, then whipped the butt of the rifle forward, directly into her face. Rebeka saw a flash of bright light, then felt a sudden, blinding pain, her head snapping back with the force of the blow. Her legs gave way, and everything went blessedly, mercifully black.