Holding the weapon once more in a reverse grip, Fang reared back, his face contorted in a mask of sharp, inhuman angles, his eyes dark voids that narrowed as he issued an ear-splitting war cry and brought down the sword.

Chapter Thirty-One.

LEAVING HAKKA CASTLE

XIAMEN, CHINA

APRIL 2012

What Fang did not realize and could never truly appreciate was that Captain Scott Mitchell was not alone.

His father, mother, brothers, and sister were with him.

Kristen was with him.

His Ghosts were with him--as was every Special Forces operator with whom he had ever served.

Maybe it was their presence that Fang detected. Or maybe it was something else.

But as the man came down for the kill shot with that sword whose tip was already familiar with Mitchell's flesh, there was a moment of recognition in his eyes, as though maybe, just maybe, he realized who was behind the balaclava covering Mitchell's face.

It was only a second of hesitation.

But it was enough.

Mitchell slammed his knees into Fang's back, even as he reached out and knocked the sword to the left while throwing Fang back, over his head. He rolled and clawed frantically through the dirt, toward his rifle, Diaz's voice still rattling from the earpiece/monocle, the rain turning torrential and blown sideways through the trees.

Mitchell seized the MR-C, rolled back onto his rump, and took aim at Fang, who was coming at him once more, clutching the sword in both hands like a baseball bat.

Fang froze. He had a decision to make.

Mitchell blinked the rain from his eyes and wondered if Fang would drop the sword.

Fang was no doubt wondering why Mitchell hadn't already fired. He'd find out in a second.

Slowly, Mitchell got to his feet, as Fang held his ground, his chest rising and falling, his mouth twisting as he flinched from his chest wound.

Holding his rifle in one hand, Mitchell ripped off his balaclava, shoved it into his pocket, and stepped toward Fang, whose eyes widened in shock.

"You . . . you are Mitchell. Master Sergeant Mitchell," Fang said in English. He was unaware of Mitchell's promotions since then, unaware of so much.

"That's right," Mitchell answered. "Let's talk before I put a bullet in your head."

"You will never have that pleasure."

In a blur of movement, Fang adjusted his grip on the sword and turned the tip on himself, ready to plunge the sword into his chest.

Mitchell fired a single round into Fang's abdomen, blood spraying as Fang twisted and fell onto his back, the sword tumbling from his grip.

As Fang turned onto his side to retrieve the sword, Mitchell splashed past him and kicked the blade out of the man's reach.

Then he set down his rifle and seized Fang by the collar, hauled him back into a sitting position.

Fang's head lolled back as he threatened to lose consciousness.

"Fang, look at me!" cried Mitchell. "Look at me."

Fang felt the blood seeping into his chest and lungs. It would not be long now. He'd wanted to deny Mitchell the satisfaction of killing him, but that wouldn't happen.

As he gazed up, past the man's shoulder, he saw eleven sweaty soldiers carrying M4A1 rifles, the rain dripping from their boonie hats.

Was he dreaming? Hallucinating? Had he already died?

Fang remembered some of their names and their call signs all starting with the letter R. Rutang, Ricochet, and Rockstar stood there among the others. And there was Fang's American counterpart, Captain Victor Foyte, shaking his head and glowering at Fang.

Mitchell rose, picked up Fang's sword, and faced Fang as the other men formed a semicircle behind him. "Only Billy, Rutang, and I made it. Everyone else is dead. Did you know that? Do you care? You should have been a politician--because you're not a soldier. We're all brothers in arms no matter where we come from. But you don't get that."

The other eleven men pushed past Mitchell and came toward Fang. The rain began washing the skin from their faces, leaving grinning skulls and bulging eyes. They opened their mouths and shrieked, the noise sending shock waves through Fang's body. He closed his eyes and screamed against them. No! I didn't mean for it to come to this! We would not be pawns. We were soldiers! I am a soldier!

Mitchell shook Fang again, and the man's eyes flickered open. Mitchell held up the sword. "You see this? It's mine now. You have nothing." Mitchell shoved Fang into a puddle.

With a grimace, Mitchell got to his feet, retrieved the sheath, and slid the sword home. He tucked the cane into his pack, took one last look at Fang, lying there, dying, then picked up his earpiece/monocle and started down the hill, just as Diaz, pistol in hand, came running toward him. "Captain!"

Fang knew that if he lost the sword, his spirit would not be in harmony with his ancestors. The sword represented that harmony, and it had been destined for the hands of Fang's own son, the child he'd yet to have. He should have been less focused on his career. He should have found a woman in China and had that son. Now Fang had nothing left, save for one more breath.

"Diaz, I'm right here," Mitchell called, wiping off the earpiece/monocle and slipping it back over his ear. He was too exhausted to feel vindicated, justified, or anything else.

As she approached, her gaze lifted past him. "Nice work, Captain."

Mitchell shook his head. "It should have never come to this. Never . . ."

"Let me see that arm." She tugged out her rescue knife with its secondary blade for cutting past uniforms.

"No time. Nolan will look at it. Let's go." He started forward, lost his balance, and Diaz grabbed his good arm, draped it over her shoulder.

"It's okay, Captain. I got you."

USSMONTANA(SSN-823)

SOUTH TAIWAN STRAIT

SOUTH CHINA SEA

APRIL 2012

"And there she goes, twenty-six million dollars of pure fun," said Lieutenant Moch, as the Predator's onboard camera showed an image of the dark, roiling waves before the screen went blank.

Captain Gummerson turned his attention to Moch's playback monitor. "Show me that fuel barge and that crane one more time before I talk to Mitchell."

"Rewinding now. And there they are, sir," said Moch, rapping a knuckle on his screen.

As Gummerson studied the infrared images, he pointed his finger at one heat source and said, "What is he still doing there?"

"I don't know, sir," said Moch.

Gummerson glanced back over his shoulder. "XO? Tell the SEALs we may have a change of plan."

"Aye, aye, sir."

UNITED STATES SPECIAL OPERATIONS COMMAND

MACDILL AIR FORCE BASE

TAMPA, FLORIDA

APRIL 2012

"All right, son, what am I looking at?" said General Keating to the young intelligence officer seated before the wide-screen display.

"Here's Xiamen Harbor. Right here is the first patrol boat, heading up to the seawall. From what I can tell, sir, the DIA's mole got off that order to the patrol boats, but only one's heading up. The other captain has either been ordered to remain behind, or maybe he didn't receive the second order. Bottom line is we still have one Shanghai to deal with. See him, right there, running along the gap between Haicang and Gulangyu Island."

"And there's no way my Ghosts can exfiltrate with that guy patrolling the gap."

"It would not be easy, sir."

"And what do we have here?" Keating pointed to a window that had just opened on the display.