John was not a brave man, but he was a thrill seeker. After doing the dishes he would always stick his hand in to the garbage disposal to check for wayward utensils. This sent chills up his spine.

He felt the same way about heights. At lunch he would go up to a balcony in the Phelps Dodge tower in downtown Phoenix, where he was a PR specialist, just to feel alive.

He lived in Laveen, a suburb to the South. It was a quiet place with a distinct smell. Livestock, manure, and left over city pollution combined to create an urban-rural atmosphere. John’s house was at the end of a long dirt road.

One night, after putting the kids to bed, he played some online poker. He never used real money. After losing all of his points he went to bed. John awoke to the sound of two distinct clicks. The first was the light, the second he couldn’t place.

“We aren’t here to hurt you but don’t move.” said a man with a gun. The man may have said other things, but John’s mind fixated on one thought: “I have to protect my family.”