Fuse of Armageddon by Sigmund Brouwer, Hank Hanegraaff Page B

light of his soul dim with unconsciousness. Silver bucked, desperate for air.
    With another smile, Safady released the grip. “Do not forget this lesson,” he said. “You depend on me even for the very air you breathe. And so do all the others.”
    “Whatever you want,” Silver said, “I can give to you.”
    Safady stared into Silver’s face. After a few minutes, he nodded. “You will. And more.”
    Ad Duhayr, Egypt • 12:26 GMT
    Hot.
    Even in the shade. Joe Patterson thought he’d spent enough time in Afghanistan to understand hot. But something about having only two canteens of water made the hot seem hotter.
    Saliva dripped from Orphan Annie’s jowls.
    “Hot,” Joe said. He figured he might as well speak his thoughts out loud.
    Orphan Annie blinked.
    Joe wanted a drink of water badly. But he had his orders. The heifer mattered more than his own life.
    Joe screwed open the lid of the canteen, splashed a little water on the opening, and let the heifer smell the water. “Try this,” he said. He jammed the canteen into the heifer’s mouth and tilted it sideways. He poured the water slowly, making sure he didn’t spill any onto the sand.
    “Good, huh?” Joe said.
    Yeah, he wanted some water badly. But last thing he wanted to do was run out. The heifer wasn’t built for this kind of heat. Patterson knew Saxon would make him pay if anything happened to it. The thought only added to his misery.
    Tulkarm, West Bank • 12:28 GMT
    Under the supervision of six masked men carrying AK-47s, Jonathan Silver and his partner were the first two off the bus. Because he and Peggy Bailey were linked together, they were forced to move in a sideways shuffle down the steps of the bus and into the warehouse.
    The building could have held six buses of the same size. The warehouse floor was hard-packed dirt. It had the smell of rotting fruit, and the old, wooden shelves were crowded with boxes of ripening oranges. Light came through dusty windows.
    Behind the bus was a large produce truck. The flat deck on the back had canvas sides and a canvas roof. A wide ramp rested at the tail. Beyond that was a video camera on a tripod. A huge PLO flag hung down from the ceiling behind it, forming a backdrop.
    Silver expected the gunmen to herd them up the ramp into the cargo area of the produce truck. In fact, he hoped they would. It was obvious to him that the video camera and the flag were not part of the produce business.
    Instead, as he feared, the first two masked men motioned for Silver and Peggy to stand behind the truck as the other tourists awkwardly emptied from the bus.
    There was a dead man on the floor, his hands bound. The bus driver. All of them averted their eyes. One of the women sagged to her knees and needed help to stand again.
    When all the tourists were gathered, Safady faced them and smiled tightly. “It’s obvious by now that this isn’t part of Mr. Silver’s famous Holy Land tour,” he said. “It’s only the first of several detours. But first, the famous Jonathan Silver has a television appearance to make.”
    Safady nodded at the gunmen near Silver. They prodded Silver toward the video camera. Peggy had to move with him; she wept silently.
    “Don’t do it!” shouted one of the two men who had been across the aisle from Silver. “God is on our side. Stand up to him!”
    All the attention turned to this man.
    Safady squinted at his name tag. “Neil Cain.”
    “I’m not afraid of you,” Neil answered. He wore a black golf shirt and jeans. His hair was moderately thinning, and his face shone with holy bravery. “We all have an eternal home waiting for us. Death is not the worst thing that can happen.”
    “You irritate me,” Safady said. “But I suppose this is as good a time as any to teach all of you a lesson.”
    Safady was standing beside a bench. On it was a box of clear plastic shrink-wrap. Beside that lay a paring knife. Safady took the knife and stepped up to the older woman who had mocked