It's 4pm on September 12, 2003.

Somewhere deep in the mountains of Northern Columbia, a group of people follow the ridge above a deep, jungle-filled gorge.

There must be around 20 of them, marching single file, heads lowered against the rain, trooping along in a neat, orderly procession.

The group is a strange mix. Some are tourists, bewildered, nervy, unfamiliar with this terrain.

Others are dressed in camouflage and wielding assault rifles.

It's the men with the guns who hold dominion over the confused, frightened holidaymakers

who have little choice but to silently follow orders.

That is, until suddenly, one of the tourists breaks rank and darts lightning quick from the line.

Matt Scott's plan is simple.

Get as far away as possible, as quickly as possible.

I thought, let's go.

And just kind of pushed off.

With one last glance over his shoulder at the armed guard walking behind him, Matt

hurls himself off the ridge in a desperate bid for freedom.

The side of the gorge is alarmingly steep, practically sheer, uncovered in a mixture of vegetation

and loose, gritty scree.

Matt slides, feet first, sending up a fine spray of mud and gravel as he skids on his backside. If there are gunshots

behind him, you can't hear them. His ears are filled with the roar of rushing blood and the

fizz of adrenaline.

The mountains across the valley become a blur as he accelerates,

letting gravity take the reins, not daring to slow down until he's outside the range of a bullet.

But even if he wanted to slow down, he couldn't.

...