the waist, hovering near one of the statuelike pillars. He was knee-deep in water, holding an old AK-74 and staring toward where Smith and Mondragon hunched. “I’ve got one,” he said softly to Mondragon. “Move. Show a shoulder. Look like you’re coming out.”
Mondragon rose, bent. He thrust his left shoulder out as if about to make a run for it. The skinny man behind the pillar opened fire. Smith squeezed off two careful rounds. In the green light, the man jerked upright and pitched onto his face. A dark stain spread around him as he floated facedown in the sea. Mondragon was already back down. He fired.
Someone, somewhere in the night, screamed. “Over there!” Mondragon barked. “To the right! There’s more!” Smith swung the Beretta right.
Four green men had broken cover and dashed away from the sea toward the inland road. A fifth lay sprawled on the beach behind them. Smith fired at the lead man of this outflanking group. He saw him clutch his leg and go down, but the two behind him grabbed him by each arm and dragged him onward into cover. “They’re flanking us!” Sweat broke on Smith’s forehead. “Move back!” He and Mondragon leaped up and pounded across the coral sand toward the ridge that sealed the cove in the south. Another fusillade behind them said a lot more than three of their attackers were still standing. With a jolt of adrenaline, Smith felt a bullet sear through his windbreaker. He scrambled up the ridge into thick bushes and fell behind a tree. Mondragon followed, but he was dragging his right leg. He flopped behind another tree. A fresh fusillade ripped through leaves and small branches, spraying the air and making Smith and Mondragon choke with the dust. They kept their heads down. Mondragon pulled a knife from a holster on his back, slit his trousers, and examined his leg wound. “How bad is it?” Smith whispered. “Don’t think the bullet hit anything serious, but it’s going to be hard to explain back on the mainland. I’ll have to hide out ‘ vacation,’ or fake an accident.” His smile was pained. “Right now, we’ve got more to worry about. That small group’s on our flank by now, probably up on the road, and the gang in the cove is going to drive us to them. We’ve got to keep moving south.” Agreeing, Smith crawled ahead through the brush, forged hard and tough under the sea-bent trees by the constant wind and spray of the South China Sea. They made slow progress, Smith clearing a path for Mondragon. They used only their feet, knees, and elbows, as they cradled their pistols. The bushes gave reluctantly, the branches tearing at their clothes and hair. Smaller twigs broke and scratched their faces, drawing blood from forearms and ears. At last they reached the high bank above another less-sheltered angle in the island’s coastline. It was far too open to the sea to be called a cove.
As they crawled eagerly on toward the road, voices carried in the windless night from there. Behind them, four silent shadows materialized ashore, while two remained ankle deep in the sea. One of the shadows, larger than the rest, motioned the others to spread out. Bathed in gentle moonlight, they broke apart and emerged as four men dressed completely in black, their heads covered by hoods. The man who had ordered them to fan out bent over. Smith heard a whispery version of a deep, harsh voice give instructions over what was probably a handheld radio. “Chinese,” Mondragon analyzed quietly, listening. His tones were tight. He was in pain. “Can’t make out all of the words, but it sounds like the Shanghai dialect of Mandarin. Which means they probably did follow me from Shanghai. He’s their leader.”
“You think someone tipped them?”
“Possibly. Or I could’ve made a mistake. Or I could’ve been under surveillance for days. Weeks. No way to know. Whatever, they’re here, and they’re closing in.” Smith studied Mondragon, who seemed to be as tough as the ocean-forged brush. He was in pain, but he would not let it stop him.
“We could play the odds,” Smith told him. “Head on for the road. Are you up for that? Otherwise, we’ll make a stand here.”
“Are you crazy?
They’ll massacre us here.” They crawled deeper into the brush and trees, away from the sea. They had gone a slow twenty more feet, when footsteps approached from the rear, grinding through the undergrowth.
Simultaneously, they saw the shadows of the inland group pushing toward them and the sea. Their pursuers had guessed what they would do and were closing in from front and back. Smith swore. “They’ve heard us, or found our trail. Keep moving. When the ones from the road get close, I’ll rush them.”
“Maybe not,” Mondragon whispered back, hope in his voice.
“There’s a rock formation over there to the left that looks like good cover. We can hide in there until they pass. If not, we might be able to hold out until someone hears the shooting and shows up.”
“It’s worth a try,” Smith agreed. The rock formation rose out of the brush in the moonlight like an ancient ruin in the jungles of Cambodia or the Yucatan. Composed of odd-shaped coral groupings, it made a crude kind of fort, with cover on all sides and openings to fire through, if that was what they had to do in the end. It also contained a depression in the center, where they could sink low, nearly out of sight. With relief, they hunkered in the basin, their weapons ready, as they listened to the sounds of the island in the silvery moonlight. Smith’s scratches and small puncture wounds stung with sweat. Mondragon eased his leg around, trying to find a position that was less painful. Their tension was electric as they waited, watching, listening … Kaohsiung’s lights glowed against the sky. Somewhere a dog barked, and another took it up.
A car passed on the distant road. Out on the sea, the noise of the motor of a late-returning boat growled. Then they heard voices, again murmuring in the Shanghai dialect. The voices came closer. Closer. Feet crackled against the tough brush. Shadows passed, broken up by the brush. Someone stopped. Mondragon raised his Glock. Smith grabbed his wrist to stop him. Me shook his head — don’t. The shadow was a large man.
He had removed his hood, and his face was colorless, almost bleached looking, under a shock of oddly pale red hair. His eyes reflected like mirrors as they searched the coral formation for any shape or movement. Smith and Mondragon held their breaths in the depression inside the rocks.
For a long moment, the man continued his slow surveillance.
Smith felt the sweat trickling down his back and chest.
The man turned and moved away toward the road.
“Whewwww,” Mondragon let out a soft breath. “That was?”
The night exploded around them. Bullets slammed into coral and whined away into the trees. Rock chips showered down in a violent hail. The entire dark seemed to be firing at them, muzzle flashes coming from all sides. The large, redheaded man had seen them but had made no move until he had alerted the others.
Smith and Mondragon returned fire, searching frantically among the moonlit shadows of the brush and trees for a visible enemy. Their cover had now become a disadvantage. There were only two of them. Not enough in the darkness to beat off at least seven, possibly more. Their ammunition would soon run low.
Smith leaned close to Mondragon’s ear. “We’ll have to make a break for it. Head for the road. My motorcycle’s not far away. It can carry both of us.”
“There’s less fire coming from the front. Let’s pin them down and break that way. Don’t worry about me. I can do it!”
Smith nodded. He would have said the same thing. Right now, with adrenaline pumping through them like lava, either of them could run from here to the moon, if they had to.
On a count of three, they opened fire and rushed out of the rocks toward the road, running low while still moving fast, dodging brush and trees.
Moments later, they were through the circle of attackers. At last the gunfire was from behind, and the road was close ahead.
Mondragon gave a grunt, stumbled, and went down, ripping through the tangled vegetation as he fell. Smith instantly grabbed his arm to help him up, but the agent did not respond. The arm was without energy, lifeless.
“Avery?”
There was no answer.
Smith fell to his haunches beside the downed agent and found hot blood on the back of his head. Instantly, he felt for a pulse in his neck.
None. He inhaled, swore, and searched Mondragon’s pockets for the envelope. At the same time, he heard the killers approach, trying to be quiet in the heavy undergrowth.
The envelope was missing. Frantically he checked every pocket again, taking whatever he found. He felt around Mondragon’s body, but the envelope was gone. Definitely gone. And there was no more time.
Cursing inwardly, he sprinted away.
Clouds had built over the South China Sea and drifted across the moon, turning the night pitch-black as he reached the road. The deep cover of darkness was a rare stroke of good luck. Relieved, but furious about
