Preview of …………… HOSTAGE

The Incredible True Story of the Kidnapping of Three American Missionaries

By Nancy Mankins

Chapter 1

Night of Terror

January 31, 1993

On January 31, 1993, millions of Americans were watching the Dallas Cowboys and Buffalo Bills compete in Super Bowl XXVII. At that same time, in the middle of the dense rain forests of eastern Panama, the lives of three missionary families were being torn apart, moment by terrifying moment.

For seven years, my husband, Dave, and I had served as missionaries in this remote Kuna Indian village. We were living in the small house that we had built just six months earlier. Our two children had graduated from high school and were no longer staying with us, so we didn’t need the larger house we had been occupying. We gave that house to our newest missionary partners, the Riches, and built a one-room house with a loft bedroom and a small back porch area, where we had a shower, a dresser, and a small workshop. The downstairs walls were made of screen from floor to ceiling, allowing the air to move through and make it seem a little bit cooler in the sweltering Panama heat.

The last remnants of sunlight quickly faded away, signaling the end of another day in the village. We were lying in our hammocks on either side of the front door. Dave was listening to the news on his shortwave radio. Thinking he heard a noise outside, he turned his attention to me. “Nancy, is someone coming?”

I stopped reading my book and leaned close to the screen. “I don’t think so, honey. I don’t see a light,” I said.

I had no sooner gotten the words out of my mouth when we heard the sound of running feet. As both our heads jerked up and our questioning eyes met, the screen door flew open. Three men in camouflage uniforms rushed in and aimed their machine guns at Dave. They yelled something at him in Spanish, and he stood up out of his hammock. They yelled at him again, so he sat back down. A third time, they yelled at him. When he stood up again, they hit him with the butts of their large automatic weapons.

In horror, I watched the scene play out before me. By God’s grace, however, my mind instantly returned to a one-hour course on terrorism we had attended four years earlier. Like a recording playing in my brain, I thought, Stay calm. The first few minutes are the most dangerous.

I said to them in Spanish, “We cannot understand what you are saying. Please show him what you want him to do. He will do whatever you say.”

They led him to the half-wall that separated our living area from our office and made him kneel, facing the wall. Then they tied his hands behind his back. One man stood with a machine gun aimed at Dave’s head, while another man propped open the screen door and fired a deafening shot outside. Dave’s body jerked and all of the blood drained out of his face.

My ears were still ringing as I prayed, Please Lord, maybe they don’t know that there are two other American families in the village. Please, let it only be us.

But, even as I was praying, I heard another gunshot from the direction of the Richs’ house, and a third report echoed from the direction of the Tenenoffs’ house. I knew then that these must be signals and that all three houses had been captured at the same time.

I felt like I was moving in slow motion as one of the armed men signaled for me to follow him around our house. How incongruous, I thought. This intruder is nice looking and clean cut. He stood about five foot eight. His light-colored eyes, fresh haircut, and neat appearance made him look totally out of character in his camouflage uniform. Never mind his orderly outward appearance—his evil motives were all too apparent. Systematically, he began collecting tape recorders, radios, batteries, and our laptop computer—things he obviously was stealing from us. He swept his arm across the desk—sending books and papers sailing to the floor.

“Pack a suitcase for your husband,” he demanded in Spanish.

I walked up the wooden stairs to our small loft bedroom. Dave’s satchel was still sitting on our bed. Just that afternoon I had looked in it for our vaccination records, because I’d heard that a cholera epidemic had broken out across the border in Colombia. Along with the vaccination records, I’d found our birth certificates, marriage license, and other important papers. So when I grabbed the satchel, I remembered the papers, took them out, and quietly slid the packet underneath my pillow. Carrying his bag down the stairs, I asked, “What should I pack?”

“Three sets of clothing. He will need warm clothes. Does he have boots for hiking?” the man barked.

“Yes, he has boots,” I said numbly, as I walked toward the back porch. My mind was still running in slow motion as I tried to process his words. Why would he need warm clothes? Even on the coolest nights it never seems to get below 75 degrees in this part of the country, I thought to myself, so I grabbed two pairs of long pants and a pair of shorts. The thought of Dave being too hot all of the time seemed unbearable to me. He didn’t have any long-sleeved shirts or jackets. Three sets of clothes—they must be keeping him for three days. I found myself trying desperately to make sense out of their words and commands. I grabbed Dave’s good leather hiking boots and took the packed suitcase and boots back into the main room of our house.

There sat my beloved husband, hands still bound, the machine gun still pointed squarely at his head. But unlike the intruder, who had asked me to pack the physical necessities, Dave called out in Spanish, “I want my Bible.”

I looked toward the guerrilla and he nodded his permission. Walking over to Dave’s desk, I searched for a small Bible containing both the Old and New Testaments. I wanted to give him something that wouldn’t be too heavy to carry. Out of the clutter I retrieved a Bible, but Dave said, “No, not that one.”

My hands trembled as I frantically searched through the mess to find the one I knew he wanted. Frustrated, and afraid to take any more time, I just picked up the closest Bible, a Spanish/English New Testament, and I stuck it in the suitcase.

The man holding the gun at Dave’s head saw Dave’s eyeglasses sitting on a shelf. He asked, “Are those his glasses?”

“Oh, yes, his glasses,” I said gratefully, as I put them in his suitcase. This has to be a strange nightmare! I need to wake up, I thought. How could a man holding a machine gun at my husband’s head point out that he would need his reading glasses?

“Señora,” called the guerrilla who had told me to pack the suitcase. “Is your husband taking any medication?”

“No, he is not,” I said.

“Are you sure he does not take any medicine?” he asked again.

“No,” I repeated.

“Well, what is all of this?” he asked. He stood beside a pantry shelf filled with medicine bottles.

“That is medicine.”

“What is this one?” he asked as he pointed to a bottle.

“Those are cold pills, this is aspirin, that one is an antibiotic,” I explained as he pointed to different ones.

He took the bottles that interested him and then said, “You are sure your husband is not on any medications? If we give him a sedative he won’t react to it, right?”

A sedative? My mind tried to digest the ominous word. “I do not know,” I mumbled. My brain was on overload. It couldn’t keep up. Nothing made sense to me anymore. Why would they give him a sedative?

Suddenly, a fourth man rushed noisily in the door. With bushy black hair and wild, dark brown eyes, he stood much taller than the man who had been talking to me. He began shouting orders at me but I could barely understand his Spanish.

“Teléfono! Teléfono!” were the only two words I finally understood.

Oh, he wants my phone number. Could he really mean phone number? How could anyone think that we would have a phone in this remote village? Help me, Lord. I don’t understand. Then, it all clicked in my mind. These men are kidnapping my husband and they want a way to contact me. Should I give them our mission’s phone number? Would that be wise?

Agitated and waving his arms wildly around, the man again yelled, “Give me a telephone number!”

“All right,” I said. Somehow I located a pen and a scrap of paper and forced my foggy brain to remember our mission’s Panama office number. I wrote it down, folded up the paper, put it into a small plastic bag, and handed it to him. If they were going to use the phone to contact me about my husband, I wanted that number to stay safe.

With his wild eyes boring into my own, he said, “Money! Give me all of your money!”

I willed my legs to move toward the staircase. My purse was upstairs under my nightstand. With that wild man following me, I was afraid to go back up the stairs. God, help me, I prayed, as my feet finally began to move toward the staircase. Both men followed close behind me. As I reached the top landing, I leaned over and grabbed my purse. I spun around and found myself looking the meaner man right in the eyes.

“Go up the stairs,” he said.

“No,” I said firmly, remembering from our little course that after the first few minutes you can demand a few basic rights. Look them in the eye. Don’t be easily killed or abused.

“Go up the stairs!” shouted the wild-eyed guerrilla.

“No,” I said quietly but firmly. Then, reaching around him, I handed my purse to the second man, who stood behind him on the stairway. He grabbed it and ran down the stairs. Then the meaner guerrilla ran down after the man with my purse, and they began to quarrel over its contents.

I walked down the stairs and over to Dave, who was still kneeling on the floor. I wondered if my own face looked as sickly white as his. He looked at me and I looked at him. We were both so relieved and thankful that I hadn’t been harmed by those men. How helpless Dave must feel, being tied up and unable to defend me. Yet he is calling out to our mighty God who is able, I thought as I looked into Dave’s loving eyes.

A shot rang out from somewhere in the night, causing us to jump and to question each other with our eyes. All four men became more intense, and the first man (who had walked me around the house) demanded, “Give me your watch and your flashlight.”

“What?” I asked, not really comprehending what he wanted.

“Watch! Your watch!” he shouted as he pointed to my wrist.

As I took off my watch, he grabbed it and my flashlight.

“Say your farewells,” he barked.

I walked over to Dave, who was now standing near the door. I kissed him softly on the lips. “I love you,” I said.

Our moment was interrupted by that same man, saying, “Have faith, this will all be over soon.”

Dave looked the man in the eye. The last words that I heard Dave say as they led him out the door were, “We do have faith, but our faith is in the Lord Jesus Christ.”

They were gone. I was alone, standing in the front part of our little house. The hammocks were still. The house was deathly quiet. Shadows played on the table as a gentle breeze flickered the flame in the kerosene lamp. My thoughts drifted back to the first time I came to this village.

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