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The big black car rumbles through the back streets of Franklin County, North Carolina on a cold December morning in search of its target. Inside are two military men in full dress.
“Are you ready for this?” the driver says to his passenger, who doesn’t answer but keeps looking straight ahead.
The car finds the Zarzours’ street and then turns into the family’s long dirt driveway, kicking up dust and gravel as it makes its final approach.
The driver turns off the engine, and the two men get out. Both are tall, strong, confident, handsome, serious. The driver is African American. The passenger is a Caucasian male, about 6-foot-6 and chiseled, with sharp green eyes. A long scar runs its way like a river on a map along one of his cheeks. Other scars and even fresher wounds are underneath his military clothing.
As the two take a few steps toward the house, Elizabeth Zarzour comes flying out of the front screen door to see who the visitors are, quickly trying to wrap herself in a robe. She looks at the two soldiers standing in front of her, then falls to her knees and wails, “Oh my God, my God, my God…”
At the sound of his wife‘s screams, Phillip Zarzour bolts out the door behind her to see what is wrong with his bride. He, too, is brought to his knees at the sight in front of him.
“Sweet Jesus, Sweet Jesus, Sweet Jesus,” is all he can say. “Sweet, Sweet Jesus.”
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