can be heard coming from behind the buildings on the right. He recognises the accent and some of the words, his Spanish was rusty but he knew exactly what was happening from the pitch of her screams and the sounds of a child crying. He stops, but pauses again, looking at the clock on the dashboard and the fuel gauge which only has about a quarter tank left.

A voice calls out, making the decision on what to do next for him, and he holds his palms up and away from the steering wheel. An older, pudgy looking man walks alongside the driver’s side door and points an AK-47 towards his head and shouts an instruction towards him. He recognises this as Arabic but the accent is strange and he slowly slides out as the man opens the door and steps back, shouting something else at him before calling