At last he found it, the jungle prison in which he'd been held captive for four torturous months. It had been many years since James Lovett had been back to that place.

A pediatric surgeon, he'd been giving a World Health-sponsored refresher course on pediatric medicine and surgery to doctors in rural Nicaragua when a group of militants had burst into the makeshift clinic and killed or captured almost everyone in sight. James survived only because of his European appearance, particularly his blue eyes. His American passport clinched it: he would be a very valuable prisoner.

He'd been taken, blindfolded and bound, on the back of a truck for a rough-and-tumble ride that went on for the better part of a day. The truck's final destination was a rudimentary outdoor prison, rimmed with razor wire and overlooked by a wooden guard tower. All around was dense jungle, an unsettling prison-of-sorts in its own right.

His captors pulled him roughly from the truck and threw him in with the rest of the men already in captivity. Except for James, they were all Nicaraguan. The aim, he later learned, was kidnap as a political weapon. It was not a very effective one, though, as no-one ever seemed to leave there alive.

Over the next four months — although James quickly lost all sense of time — he steadily lost weight and hope as he and his fellow inmates were forced to bury one prisoner after another in unmarked graves just outside the perimeter fence. He would later return with a joint Nicaraguan and US task force to arrest the guards, free the remaining prisoners, and dig up the bodies in an effort to identify the remains and return them to their distressed families.

It had been hell. Breaking out was inconceivable, as the guards were armed with automatic rifles and were adept at the sort of physical and psychological abuse that made fighting back or plotting escape unthinkable — that is, until the day James did it.

One of the guards had been particularly cruel, reveling in the power he had over the prisoners. For some reason, and despite — or perhaps because of — his broken-down state, James finally reached his limit. After seeing the guard mercilessly beating one of the inmates to the point at which one more blow would kill him, James rushed up to the guard, grabbed the knife from the man's belt, and slit his captor's throat in one single, definitive stroke.

With a wild look in his eyes, James put his face right up to the dying guard's and said menacingly, “I am the Angel of Death.” And then, turning to the shocked and horrified guard watching on from the tower overhead, he pointed with the bloody knife and yelled with all the force his hoarse voice could muster, “And I'm coming for you next!”

Without a word, the guard motioned James toward the gate that led out onto the one road in and out of the site. It was nothing more than a two-wheel jungle track and turnaround area made by the trucks that periodically brought in more prisoners and supplies.

The food had been atrocious: meager, insect-infested, and soon spoiled in the oppressive jungle heat and humidity. But still, it had kept him alive for these four months. Barely, but alive. His lean, muscular frame, a swimmer's body, had shrunken down to little more than skin and bone. But still, he was alive.

The guard took the steps down from the tower and silently unlocked the gate, motioning for James to leave. The two men locked eyes for a moment, one with loathing, the other with fear, before James walked through the gate and onto the track.

His mind was numb with disbelief. The other prisoners likewise were too shocked to speak. But just as he was beginning to process what had happened a few moments earlier — he had never taken a life before, and had never felt such incendiary rage, either — shots rang out.

He was distantly aware that he was hearing automatic gunfire, but his mind was too slow to connect the sounds with the objects striking his back as bullets ripped through his torso. Without a further thought, he fell face down into the dirt of the jungle track.

. . .

James woke up who-knows-how-many hours or days later in a small clearing. It must have been night-time, as the jungle around him was pitch-black, save for the tree trunks that were illuminated by a low campfire in the center of the glade. A small, wizened old native man was leaning over him where he lay, and pouring some warm liquid over his chest. The pain was so intense that he passed out again.

Some time later — how long was it: hours, days, a week? — he awoke again, to the jostling motion of a crude travois being dragged along a narrow path through the jungle. He was so weak that he could barely focus his eyes on his surroundings, and the pain in his chest and back was so severe that he could hardly breathe. After a few moments in which he endeavored to take stock of his situation, he passed out again.

When he came-to a third time, he was in a military hospital of some sort, and the quiet voices around him spoke with American accents. He would later learn that a little, old native man had dropped him off at the doors of a local clinic, without a word, and then vanished before explaining how James came to be there, or even who he was.

It took several days, and a return trip to the US, before James was strong enough to begin piecing together what had happened to him.

. . .

Copyright © Christine M. King, 2026. All rights reserved.

Chapter 2

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