I didn't know her name, didn't ask. She just asked for the password, took my three dollars, and led me down the shoulder-width alley to the doorway along the left brick wall. Inside the little-known bar was the man who knew where my sister was. Rhonda had been kidnapped from the front yard of our West Van home when she was 15. That was 6 years ago. The deal was they wanted a million dollars from us for her return, they figured since we lived in the rich part of Vancouver we had the money. What these guys didn't know was the house was inherited from our grandparents- Dad’s Dad. We could barely make the property tax each year, let alone all the rest of the bills left to us. These assholes didn't know any of this, just assumed, and if they had just walked around back they would have seen the swimming pool drained, and the old BMW rusted on the yellow grass. Instead I am here in Rangoon with an Army issue Model 10, a grenade that I had no idea worked, and the remarkable belief that I might not make it out of here alive. When the eyes appeared in the opening in the door I pulled out the gun and fired through his left eye. Before he hit the ground I kicked in the door, released the grenade and hoped Ronny remembered me.