A cracking branch.

Fearing an animal attack, he whirled. But it was no animal.

Strong hands grabbed his arms, pinning them painfully behind his back, yanking them up until they threatened to tear from the sockets.

As Copefeld tried frantically to pull away, a figure moved in front of him. The black face was filled with menace.

"What are you doing!" Copefeld gasped.

In response, a balled fist slashed across his face. The man's ring tore an angry gash in Copefeld's cheek.

Unseen men fought with his wrists, tightening something around them.

Rope twisted and knotted. Copefeld's legs were growing weak. Wriggling, panicked, he caught a glimpse of their sweating, gleeful faces.

A smell now. Strong. Something sloshing in a tin can.

"God, please, no," Copefeld begged into the pitiless African night.

One of the men, whom he now recognized as an assistant to Mandobar, carried forward a familiar large doughnut shape. The harmless object-recognizable to even the most rural villages around the world-had a special meaning in East Africa.

A tire. The Goodyear logo was visible along the smooth black side.

Something sloshed within the hollow basin interior of the wheelless ring of rubber. Gasoline. Copefeld wanted to vomit, but paralyzing fear locked food and bile in his knotted chest.

A necklacing. That's what they called it. Mandobar had even gone to trial for it before East Africa's laws had been subverted in favor of criminals. As the others held him, Mandobar's man dropped the grimy tire around Copefeld's neck.

"Please," Copefeld wept. "Please, no."