The light turned green.
Kao, along with a half dozen other pedestrians, rushed into the crosswalk, a few wrestling with their umbrellas.
A terrific thunderclap echoed off the buildings.
Yeh, still parked at the corner, held back until the last possible second, then he roared into the street, coming directly at the pedestrians, who swung their heads.
Fang flinched as screams rose from the street.
And then, strangely enough, the whole event unfolded before his eyes as though in slow motion.
Two women dove out of the sedan's path.
One man was struck in the leg and went spinning to the asphalt, his umbrella carried off by the wind.
Yeh rolled the wheel and screeched toward Kao, who looked up and had no time to move.
Another young man, about Kao's age, who was now within a meter of the car, reached out to grab and save Kao, but the sedan came between them.
It was almost too much to watch, but Fang couldn't help himself. His gaze was riveted, and, with a horrid fascination, he stood there as Yeh struck Kao head-on before the other man could reach him.
The sedan's front bumper slammed into Kao's legs and hips, sending him knifing over the hood and up, onto the windshield, which shattered as he rolled over it, across the roof, then went tumbling down onto the street, limbs flopping, head lolling and scraping across the pavement.
The other man had been sideswiped by the sedan, and he now lay in the street, as Yeh screeched off into the rain.
Other pedestrians who'd been gathering at the corner began running into the street, crying for help.
Fang stared in shock a moment longer, seeing that Kao was not moving, his arms and legs twisted at improbable angles.
Suddenly, a powerful chill ripped through him, and he shivered and realized he needed to get out of there, couldn't be identified at the scene.
He ran off, but then remembered that running would draw too much attention, so he slowed to a brisk walk as his cell phone began to ring.
Yeh was calling about his payment.
Two weeks later, Fang Zhi received the phone call he was waiting for. He took a cab down to the National Sports Training Center in Tsoying, where Tsao Chin-hui, Fang's coach, had his office.
Tsao, who had won several Olympic medals himself, greeted Fang with a broad grin. "I'm sure you know why you're here."
"I feel terrible and excited at the same time."
"I understand. Kao was a fine young man and an excellent marksman."
"I have been busy with other things," said Fang. "And I haven't followed what's been happening. Have they caught the driver of that car?"
"No, they found the vehicle. I heard that the driver might have fled to China."
"A tragedy. He was probably a drunk driver like they said."
"Probably." Tsao's gaze narrowed. "Kao had many friends, no enemies."
"That is true. The police asked me many questions."
"Kao beat you by only a few points to make the team. Of course they would suspect you, but I told them you were a great sportsman and the last person who might do something like this."
"Thank you."
"Well, then, you will take Kao's place. I am sorry it had to be this way for you, but welcome to the team."
"I am honored."
Fang left the office and hailed another cab. On the way back to his apartment, as the driver navigated through the congested streets, it finally struck Fang.
He was going to Beijing. He would compete in the Olympic Games as a marksman.
Yes, the competition would be thrilling. But more so was the notion that after the games, he would not return home.
He would finally turn his back on the country that had abandoned him.
Fang Zhi would defect to China, and the chance to do that was worth even more than being an Olympic athlete.
It was worth Kao's life.
Chapter Seven.
FORT BRAGG
NEAR FAYETTEVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA
JUNE 2007
Scott Mitchell took a deep breath and grinned in satisfaction over the scent of fresh-cut pine. He was out at the storage garage he rented, just fifteen minutes off the base, where he'd set up his woodworking shop.
Although it was only ten A.M., he was already soaked in sweat. He tugged off his T-shirt and used it to wipe away the perspiration running down his chest and over the scar on his abdomen. That curiously shaped mark often drew questions that he avoided in an effort to bury the past. He got back to work on the table saw, cutting his next piece.
Some Special Forces operators went hunting or fishing in their off time, and Mitchell did a little of both. He'd bagged a few nice deer in his day and could tie on a Texas-rigged worm to bass-fish with the best of them, but it was the woodworking that gave him both a perfect release of stress and an incredible sense of accomplishment when he finished a piece.
While he was hardly as accomplished as those woodworking hosts on TV, he had designed and built some very intricate and ornate pieces: writing desks, curio cabinets, gun racks and display cases, and even a large entertainment center that he had sold to the battalion commander, whose wife had ordered Mitchell to do so.
His current project was a little different. One of the warrants of an ODA team in his company was a breeder of African and South American tortoises: sulcatas, leopards, and redfoots, respectively, and Mitchell had been hired to build several tortoise tables upon which the critters would roam and live indoors when the weather did not permit them to graze outside.
So he'd come up with some rather simple but attractive designs for these enclosures and was hoping to finish the first table and have it ready for stain by the end of the day, because he'd be quite busy that evening.
Ah, yes, the smell of fresh-cut pine in the morning. Better than napalm any day.
The party was supposed to be a surprise, but Mitchell knew all about it. So when he walked into the banquet hall, he mouthed a Wow then delivered the broad grin for which they'd been waiting.
They had even strung a banner across the wall:
CONGR ATULATIONS
CAPTAIN SCOTT MITCHELL
Getting promoted to captain was a pretty big deal. When someone referred to the "detachment commander," they'd be talking about him. That would feel a little weird.
Moreover, the joke was that captains were just the token officers on ODA teams, coming in to spend six, nine, maybe even twelve months, after which they'd be shipped out and go on to lead companies and battalions. They were sometimes treated a bit coldly by the NCOs, especially those younger captains fresh out of school who lacked real-world experience. The team sergeants often said that the best captains were the ones who knew how to take orders--from them.
A few of Mitchell's colleagues led him up to a podium and screamed, "Speech, speech!"
They'd already become sloppy drunk while waiting.
His cheeks warming, Mitchell eyed the sixty or so men and their spouses and girlfriends seated at the tables. Damn, they'd even hired a DJ. Yes, these were his people, his family, and he couldn't have felt more proud.
"Uh, I'm so surprised."
That drew a few laughs.
"And you'd think as Special Forces operators, you'd be able to plan something like this without me finding out. But, you guys, you know you're the best of the best. Unconventional warriors. But as party planners? You suck."
Now the whole room broke into laughter.
"Seriously, thank you so much. I really appreciate this."
Out of the corner of Mitchell's eye he spotted a familiar face and immediately got choked up.
It was Rutang, seated there, now sergeant first class and senior medic who'd just come back from a tour in Iraq. Mitchell had kept in touch with him, but he'd had no idea the man would be present.