Right off the street, the guy took him. He was just seven. The police told me that if we didn't get contact from the guy or ransom demands, stuff like that, that my son would most likely be dead. Weeks went by. Police came up empty. They gave up. Then John Spector showed up. He brought back my little boy. Thank God for you, John Spector. You left before I could thank you.
We were serving a second tour in Kenya as missionaries, mainly overseeing the delivery and distribution of food and medicine to the local villages. It was my wife Marta and our two teenage girls Bevvy and Sabine and me. Our first tour was the most rewarding time our our lives, but we should have seen the signs, even then. The poisoned water supply in Kogelo. The kidnapping in Sauri. Rumors of a ruthless and secretive warlord named Purga. We should have recognized the whispers among the local militias when we returned for our second tour. But we were already in too deep, and already too late to escape. Colonel Purga's forces razed the church. They slaughtered the minister and his family. Then, they came for us. Being a Western family, they thought us better trade bait than bloody example. That is not to say that Colonel Purga treated us civilly. I will not speak of the things we saw him do. But when he had not received the weapons he demanded for us in trade, he began to cut us. We would not have survived. But that night, the compound was invaded by a force of one. There was a bright light and gunfire. Soldiers were lifted bodily into the air, and we never saw them again. And Colonel Purga…he was slain and left to rot in the middle of the carnal black magic idol he worshipped. Then, there was a man: John Spector. He booked us passage home. And he told us things. We are different now. And we will not forget.