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It's May 23. The dead of night in a deprived suburb to the south of Port-Aprance, Haiti. Two people,

a man and a woman, creep along the shadowy verge of a dirt road. Behind them, upper hill to the east,

is a 15-foot metal fence topped with razor wire. To the west sits a dense shanty town,

a sea of concrete and corrugated iron. Beyond that, at the crest of a slope gently rising above

the houses, lies a clump of thick jungle, darkly silhouetted against the moonlit sky.

That's where the man and woman are headed.

If they can get there, they'll be safe, at least for tonight.

But if they're spotted before they reach the tree line, they'll either be captured or shot.

They walk slowly, their heads lowered, carefully avoiding stepping on sticks or broken glass,

anything that could draw attention to them.

The woman is Haitian, small and wiry, but the man is tall, well over six feet, with broad shoulders and long arms.

His head is wrapped in a swaddle of black fabric, but a few wisps of scraggly dark facial

hair escaped the makeshift mask.

His name is Jeff Frazier.

He's an American, and in this dangerous neighborhood, foreigners are easy targets.

But however unsafe it is out here, it's better than where they've come from.

For the past 28 days, Jeff and the woman, whose name is Stephanie, have been living in captivity, locked in a filthy cell, suffering abuse at the hands of the gang who kidnapped them.

...