Vernon had never been a particularly religious man, but as he stared down the barrel of the gun, he found himself praying. He could see the cold, lifeless eyes of the man who was holding him hostage, and he knew that his time was running out. The only hope he had was that someone, anyone, would hear the gunshot and come to his rescue.

Vernon had been in the wrong place at the wrong time when the robbery had taken place. He had been walking past the bank when the two men had burst out, guns in hand. He had been shoved roughly inside, and now he was being used as a human shield. He could see the terror in the eyes of the other hostages, and he knew that they were all thinking the same thing: that this was the end.

The man holding the pistol to Vernon’s head was calm and collected, while the other was shouting and demanding money. Vernon could see the beads of sweat on the man’s brow, and he knew that he was getting desperate. The longer the standoff went on, the more chance there was of something going wrong.

Vernon’s mind was racing, trying to think of a way out of this situation.

The two men were caught a few hours later, but Vernon was already dead. His body was found lying in the alley, a single gunshot wound to the head. His killers never knew why he was singled out, but Vernon’s wife always suspected that it was because he was praying.