by Tom Clancy
Huang peered out his window and saw the dead guard lying beside the central building. It was happening now, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
They were in the west building, on the fifth floor. He glanced over at his wife, who slept soundly, the candle-light playing over her face.
A knock came at the door. Huang frowned and answered it.
There stood Pan, a flashlight in one hand, a pistol in the other. "Step out here onto the balcony," he said.
"Pan, what is this?"
"You know what this is."
"No, I don't."
"I went back to my quarters and began thinking, and I realized that your little deal with the police has given me the perfect opportunity."
Huang shook his head. "I don't believe you."
Pan raised the pistol even higher. "They will think you were accidentally shot by the police or by one of Fang's guards. Your family has no money for an autopsy. There will be no investigation."
"Pan, listen to me. If you fire that gun, everything will be ruined. Is killing me worth that much to you? Think of your own sons. And remember, if you didn't have doubts, you wouldn't be talking to me."
Pan stepped forward, the pistol poised over Huang's forehead. "This is the only way I can save face with the council."
"No, it's not. When this is over, I will leave, okay? There is no reason to shoot me."
Pan's breathing grew labored, and Huang could almost hear the gears grinding in the man's head.
"Pan, go back to bed."
Fang stood outside Xu's door, his flashlight beaming at the floor. The row of fifth-floor balconies was otherwise dark. He tried to get in touch with Sergeant Chung, who'd once more failed to respond. What was that fool doing now? Huddling inside to smoke a cigarette? Fang was a few seconds away from going down there to beat the man with his cane.
He checked his watch. The power should be back up soon, and that was good. The rain, thunder, and lightning strained his eyes and made his bones ache. Just across the balcony, the building's roof sagged as chutes of water funneled down and tumbled five stories to the muddy courtyard below.
After calling once more into his radio, Fang decided to check in with his snipers. No response from the first.
But the second man's voice came tight with exertion: "Captain, I think I've spotted someone along the south ridge. Another sniper, maybe. Need time to confirm, over."
"You find out who that is."
"I will, sir."
Fang immediately called out to his first team of guards in the east building. After a long pause, only Sergeant Keng, the guard posted outside Admiral Cai's door, responded. Fang demanded to know what was happening with the others, but Keng was not sure. He could only see the courtyard from his vantage point.
Fang rushed along the balcony and toward the staircase. He ordered one of Sergeant Chung's men to come up and assume his position, but again, his order was met with static.
It took incredible force of will for Mitchell to crouch there, peering from behind the cracked door as Fang Zhi jogged right by him.
Yes, Mitchell could have chanced an interception. But any noise, even the slightest, could alert Colonel Xu — and he was the true target.
Behind Mitchell, Smith held the young village man and his wife at gunpoint, his finger to his lips after he'd ordered them to be quiet in Mandarin.
For a long moment, Mitchell remained there, just breathing, his thoughts lost in another decade, in a moment that turned his blood cold.
"Boss? We ready?"
Mitchell stared through the sergeant. Only one fact registered: that he had allowed Fang to walk away.
"Boss?"
"Yeah. Come on. Three doors down. Let's do it."
Mitchell stood, slid over his Cross-Com's monocle, then he and Smith reached into their packs and tugged out their lightweight enhanced night-vision goggles (ENVGs). Their eyes had adjusted to the outside, but they wouldn't take chances within the darker confines of Xu's room. The straps fit firmly over their heads.
Mitchell opened the door and returned to the balcony. He skulked along the wall with Smith in his shadow. They reached Xu's door and took up positions on either side. Mitchell gave Smith a terse nod.
As the sergeant's size-thirteen foot connected with the warped wood, a gunshot rang out in the distance, leaving Mitchell confused as the door swung open and he dropped to the floor, with Smith coming in above him.
In a bed on the opposite side of the room lay a screaming woman pulling blankets up to her neck. Next to her, on the side nearest Mitchell, was the young colonel, who rolled over toward a small nightstand, where his sidearm sat in its holster.
TWENTY-SEVEN
HAKKA CASTLE
XIAMEN, CHINA
APRIL 2012
After more than an hour's worth of dizzying passion, Colonel Xu Dingfa had fallen onto the bed, breathless and relaxed, with the comfort girl's head resting gently on his chest. He had vowed in the morning to ask her name and make arrangements to see her again.
He'd thought he'd been dreaming when the door had smashed inward, the faint light from the candle near the bed illuminating two figures, their faces concealed by masks, their night-vision goggles protruding like antennae from their heads. One was hunkered down, one stood, and as Xu's eyes had opened wider, he'd spotted their guns.
The reach for his own weapon was instinctual, worthless, really, but he couldn't just lie there.
Now, as the girl screamed and the first silenced rounds finished her, Xu wondered who was responsible for his death. Who had betrayed him? Fang? Had the man been lying in wait for these past four years, a tiger himself? No, it couldn't be. Could it?
The shots ripped through Xu's chest, and it took another second for the pain to register like a claw shredding his gut with slow, even strokes. He coughed, and his mouth immediately filled with blood.
Xu felt no sorrow for himself, only for his dear mother and father, whom he had failed. They would not see their lost children, and that was the greatest tragedy.
As the men rifled through his belongings, Xu thought of raising his fist in one last act of defiance, but the room had already grown dark around the edges, and there was only the strength for one final breath.
As Huang and Pan had stood facing each other on the balcony, Huang had realized that Pan was not going to leave and had every intention of shooting him.
So Huang had lashed out, seizing Pan's wrist to shift away the gun. Pan had fought against Huang's grip with one hand while clubbing Huang in the head with his flashlight.
Even as the blow seemed to reverberate through Huang's head, the gun had gone off, the round tearing through Huang's shoulder.
Pan gasped, muttered his disbelief that he had fired, and the gun slipped from his grip. Huang kicked the weapon away and shoved Pan against the railing with so much force that the warped and rotting wood cracked and gave way.
Pan flailed his arms and screamed as he fell back into the chutes of rain, plunging five stories to splash hard to his death.
Huang's wife was crying and rushed up beside him. Down in the courtyard, one of Fang's guards ran up to Pan's body and checked for a pulse. Then he gazed up at Huang and screamed, "I heard the shot! What's going on here?"
Clutching his bleeding shoulder, Huang was about to answer when a click sounded from below, and the guard's head snapped back before he toppled.
Huang gasped as a fresh volley of automatic weapons fire rattled loudly through the courtyard.
Buddha sat in the idling SUV, chomping on a chocolate bar and staring at the streaming video of the castle being fed to his laptop. Boy Scout was doing likewise and issuing his banal and obvious commentary on the action.
That first shot had been barely audible from their range, but Buddha had pricked up his ears and now leaned out the window, grimacing over a lot more gunfire.
"You were right," came Boy Scout's voice from the phone on the seat.
"About the noise, yes," Bu
ddha answered. "I was hoping I would not be."
"We should get in closer. The cowboys will need us soon."
"We stay here."
"That's a mistake, old man."
"Shut up. Do what I say." Buddha wiped his hands on his jeans and stared at Boy Scout's SUV, just ahead.
If the kid acted rashly, he would not live to regret it.
Beasley had shot the guard who'd run into the courtyard, then he'd paused and frowned. There were two bodies lying there. He glanced up, saw an old couple staring down at him from the fifth-floor balcony, the railing busted away.
The other two guards had come in from the north side entrance of the building, and one of them had begun firing at Jenkins and Hume, who were about ten meters behind Beasley, close to the wall.
"Damn it, Jenkins, he sees you!" cried Beasley. "Move up and take him out!"
Just then Lieutenant Moch got on the Cross-Com with an intel update from his Predator: the power crew was at the fence, working on the gate, and yet another truck was inbound.
The news prompted Beasley to call the captain. "Ghost Lead, this is Bravo Lead. I'll need to blow that transformer within the next couple of minutes."
When Mitchell and Smith reached the south building, only one guard had remained outside, thanks to Nolan. Smith had just tagged the other guy with an impressive shot, and the main door had split under Mitchell's foot as though it'd been made of balsa, thanks to years of martial arts training.
Now, as they headed up the staircase, en route toward Major-General Wu's quarters and the remaining guard there, Mitchell drew in a long breath and spoke evenly over the radio, responding to Beasley's call: "Hold off on the fireworks as long as you can. Looks like Chen's on the move in the north building. Change of plan. You move in and take him out."
"Roger that. On our way."
"Diaz?" Mitchell called. "Help him out."
"Roger that," she said.
Mitchell and Smith reached the fourth-floor balcony. They crouched near the wall, taking about a dozen more steps toward the major-general's door.
Suddenly, that door swung open, and one of the guards hurried out. Behind him came Major-General Wu Hui himself, wearing only boxer shorts and brandishing a pistol. Both men thundered directly toward them.
Their expressions changed as they spotted the two men crouched near the wall, but they were already too late.
Smith got off the first shot, striking the guard just as he was lifting his rifle.
Mitchell cut loose with his MR-C, hosing down the balcony with suppressed rounds and sending the muscular Wu to the wooden floor.
As Mitchell dove forward himself, Wu began squeezing off rounds and hollering obscenities in Mandarin.
Smith issued a half-strangled cry as Mitchell kept firing until Wu's pistol fell silent.
"Paul!" Mitchell rolled onto his side, sat up, where Smith was clutching his right biceps.
"Stings bad."
"I'll tie it off quick."
Mitchell reached into his pack for his medical kit. Every Ghost carried one except Nolan who, as medic, toted the full medical bag.
Within two minutes Mitchell had Smith's arm tied off and a big trauma bandage slapped in place.
"Let's go take a look," said Smith, lifting his chin at Wu's quarters.
Mitchell nodded, and while Smith double-timed ahead, Mitchell rushed over to Wu, his blood spreading across the floor like a dilating pupil, dark and oily. He lifted the man's head, making sure the folks back home got a good picture of his face. Then he rose. "Ghost Team? Targets Bravo and Delta terminated. Two more to go!"
"Captain, we got more stuff," called Smith from behind Wu's open door.
They had already seized several flash drives and two portfolios of documents from Xu's room.
"Take it all," grunted Mitchell.
All that gunfire below left Diaz struggling to do two things: get a bead on that remaining sniper and get control of her breath.
Even as she sighted him, he was sighting her brothers in arms around the castle.
Although he had yet to fire, she could already hear the crack of his rifle in her mind. The bastard was set up on another rock, unflinching in the rain, as though he'd been there for a hundred years, calmed by the spirits of his forefathers and waiting for the perfect shot.
The rain tapered off, just a little, the forest growing more silent, as Carlos and Tomas began to voice their doubts.
Not now!
She blinked hard then took in a long breath and held it. The reticle rested squarely over the sniper's head.
Adios. She fired. And gasped. He fell away, pieces of him hurtling end over end.
She swung her rifle around, positioning herself to face the north building, where the two guards posted outside had gone inside, presumably to defend Major-General Chen Yi, the NMR commander with the lazy left eye.
Despite the thick, earthen walls, Diaz could still see those guards as red diamonds superimposed over the building and rising as they mounted the staircase.
Both men drew nearer the wall. She could take them, but there was only one round in her chamber, and the magazine was empty.
After estimating the first guard's angle of ascent, she lined up, took the shot, firing right through the wall, striking him dead-on. The red diamond winked out. Chills spidered up her spine.
Beautiful.
No more time to celebrate.
She worked the bolt, ejected the spent case, dropped her firing hand back two inches, ejected the cold magazine, reached forward, and seized the hot magazine, slapped it home, reloaded, and sighted in on the next target, all within three seconds.
She had him.
But an odd, tingling sensation worked across her face, and the hairs stood on the back of her neck.
Abruptly, static filled her HUD as a bolt of lightning struck not five meters to her left.
The HUD flickered back to life, now showing a green diamond where the red one had been.
Two more green diamonds appeared just below the first.
Oh my God! NO!
Diaz had been so startled by the lightning strike that she had pulled the trigger, the thunder coming a half second after the click of her rifle.
Sergeant Marcus Brown had led the way up the staircase, and with a hand signal, he had told Beasley and Jenkins to hold.
The guard ahead had just rushed up a few more steps toward his buddy, whose ass had been tagged by one of Diaz's insanely accurate sniper shots.
Brown had charged up behind the guy, quads burning like they did back on the gridiron. He had leveled his MK48 light machine gun, a powerful and beautiful weapon used to preach the good word of democracy. He had fired a quick burst that pummeled the guard to the steps.
Then he had sighed, waved up the others, reached the dead guard, and was just stepping over him, when the wall exploded behind, pieces crashing into his head.
Then… nothing.
As Ramirez and Nolan neared Admiral Cai's door on the fifth floor of the east building, they smelled something burning.
There it was: smoke wafting from the admiral's half-open door.
Ramirez raced across the balcony, past the partially opened doors of frightened civilians peering at him.
He reached the door, which was hanging half-open, booted it in, and moved into the room, squinting and lifting an arm against the heat.
Flames shot up from the bed and licked the blackened ceiling. It seemed the admiral had burned his classified documents and other materials and had fled, but where the hell was he now?
Nolan, it seemed, already had the answer. "Joey! Down there!"
Ramirez rushed outside and glanced over the railing, where below one of the guards and another man, presumably the admiral, dashed across the courtyard.
Nolan's P90 submachine gun issued a quiet rattle as he tracked the pair, but his bead fell short, and they vanished beneath the awnings.
Ramirez was about to get on the radio and call for help, but Beasley was
already reporting that Brown had been hit. Ramirez waited a second until his teammate finished, then cried, "Ghost Lead, this is Ramirez. Got even more bad news. My target is heading out of the east building through the south side door. I say again, he's heading out the south side!"
Fang Zhi had gone down to check on his men and had found their bodies. Seized by panic, he had sprinted back up to alert Xu, who was not answering his phone.
Now Fang stared in shock at the bodies of Xu and the comfort girl as the radio reports from his screaming men — what few remained — rattled in his ears.
It was over. And he might have called the other Spring Tigers, helped them escape, but he had never been given their phone numbers, only Xu's. They had kept him just outside their circle, and their lack of trust would cost them their lives.
There was only one thing left. The Brave Warrior was parked under the awning below.
Would he yet again be branded a coward because he chose to escape rather than stand up and fight to the death?
And what would happen to him now? His only allies in this country were dead or about to die.
Fang stepped out of the room and eyed the rain. Ying Long was the most famous Chinese dragon and god of the rain. Fang asked him now to bring an even greater storm to the mountains, one that would ensure his escape.
Sergeant John Hume had been sent to cover the north side staircase in the event Major-General Chen attempted to use that route. The rickety wooden stairs rose about five meters, then turned up to the next landing. Hume climbed as furtively as he could, keeping a two-handed grip on his pistol, ENVGs lighting his path. The Zeus T2 radio-guided missile launcher that he usually packed was inappropriate for a stealthy job like this. Too bad. The element of surprise was gone, and he could use a nice explosion to lift his spirits.
A clatter of feet came from above.
He stopped, thought he saw a head jut out from above. Then a flashlight's beam suddenly blinded him.
He fired, wood splintering.
Something clattered down the steps: a grenade!
