Sword of God

It was a comical scene on an anxious night.

Several minutes passed before Payne strolled back to the table. He briefed Jones and Kia on his phone call from Nick Dial, explaining his theory on Hakeem Salaam. From Payne's perspective, it fit all the pieces of the puzzle. Schmidt's black op in the Persian Gulf. Kia's need to speak Arabic. And everything else he could think of. He still wasn't sure what happened in the village, but he hoped Yohg-Su Park would fill in all the details.

That is, if he showed up with his father, like he was supposed to.

'May I ask a question?' Kia wondered. 'You mentioned that Salaam and his advisers recently disappeared. Does that mean we knew where they were beforehand? If so, why didn't we pick them up back then?'

'Actually,' Jones grunted, 'I wish it was that easy. That's the most frustrating thing about the war on terror. Sometimes we know people are terrorists-because of their associations, their business dealings, their ideologies-but can't prove it in a court of law. And in those cases, our hands are tied, especially if they're living outside of American jurisdiction. All we can do is track their movement and hope they screw up.'

Payne added, 'It's kind of like the Mafia. A lot of times we know who the bad guys are. We even know where they live. But we can't arrest them until we find the smoking gun.'

Jones agreed. 'That's a great analogy, because organized crime has the same basic structure. The goal of a terrorist cell is to protect the larger organization. Team A knows nothing about Team B, and so on. The leaders know what's going on-they're the ones pulling the strings-but the pawns don't know squat about long-term objectives. They keep everything compartmentalized, just in case the group is infiltrated.'

'And some terrorists are protected by so many layers that we can't prove anything. That means they can walk the streets and we can't arrest them. Or even threaten them. And if we do, we 're the ones who get crucified.'

'By whom?' Kia wondered.

'The UN, the media, his home country. Everyone expects us to be global peacekeepers, but no one wants us to get our hands dirty. And let's face it: that's just not practical. Sometimes, for us to do our job, we have to cross the line.'

'You mean, like the cave?'

Payne frowned. 'Obviously, that's an extreme example. But yes-'

'Hold up!' Jones whispered.

He nodded his head to the left, pointing out two people who had just opened the gate to the marina. One tall, one short. Both wearing winter coats and hunting caps that were clasped around their chins. They clung to each other like family. Maybe out of warmth. Maybe out of fear. Darkness prevented a positive ID, but this looked like them.

Payne checked his watch. It was nearly midnight.

'Kia,' he ordered, 'you stay here. D.J., come with me.'

As luck would have it, the marina was a dead end. One way in, one way out. A long wooden dock ran straight from the gate into the center of the cold water. Maybe fifty yards in length. Most of the slips were empty--owners had taken their boats into the harbor for a better view of the celebration-so there was nowhere for the Parks to go. They were trapped. Unless they decided to swim for it. Which was pretty damn unlikely in the middle of winter.

Payne and Jones decided to play it cool. They walked slowly, like tourists, talking to each other while pointing out the sights. Who knew how desperate the father would be? Was he armed? Was he irrational? After all he had been through, the odds were against a peaceful conversation. That meant they needed to get as close as possible before they made their move. And even then, it would probably get messy. Screaming. Shouting. Kicking. And that was just from Jones.

No telling what the father might do.

Payne hit the first plank as the clock stuck midnight, punctuated by a cheering crowd and a bolt of lightning that streaked across the sky. Then another. And another. But instead of thunder, the sky exploded with a burst of colors-fireworks being launched above Seongsan Peak. The burning embers fell toward the water as every boat in the harbor turned on their lights and sounded their whistles to greet the New Year. A raucous symphony of sights and sounds.

Up ahead, the two suspects stopped on the pier and admired the pageantry. They stood and turned like every other tourist in town. They smiled and clapped and enjoyed the moment. The taller one even pulled out a camera. And that's when Payne realized they had made a mistake.

They were following the wrong people.

He reached for Jones's shoulder, but it wasn't necessary. He'd spotted the same thing. They quickly turned around, hoping to retreat before the real Parks showed up. But it was too late. One glance was proof of that. The boy and his father were standing there, panicked. Watching them from the other side of the gate.

And the father had a gun.

The first shot was fired without warning. Just a muzzle flash and a splash of water, somewhere near Payne's feet. Common sense said to run in the other direction. But what good would that do? They needed to talk to the boy, and the only way to accomplish that was to subdue his father. So they did the irrational. They ran toward danger.

A second shot rang out, this one much closer. It buzzed between Payne and Jones and buried itself in the dock. Wood splintered in a puff of smoke as the two tourists dove into the harbor.

It was a sane response to an insane situation.

The father fired once again, this time hitting Jones in the upper arm. The bullet tore through his coat and ripped through his skin, casting goose down and blood splatter in every direction. The impact knocked him sideways, twisting him just enough to ruin his balance. One second he was running forward, the next he was falling backward on the slippery wood. His left hip took the brunt of the fall, followed by his injured arm and the left side of his face. Not enough to knock him out, but enough to leave him dazed.

Payne screeched to a halt, more concerned with his friend than the suspect, who suddenly stopped shooting and ran into the crowd. Blood oozed from Jones's left biceps but didn't squirt, a good sign with any injury. Jones would have a scar but would survive. No worries there.

'Get out of here,' he grunted. 'I'm fine.'

'You sure?'

'Yeah.' He blinked a few times, dazed from the fall. 'But I keep seeing flashing lights.'

Payne laughed. 'Those are fireworks.'

'Oh … then I'm fine.'

A shrieking gate stopped their conversation. Payne raised his gun before he could decipher the threat. But it was a false alarm. It was Kia.

'Oh my God! Is he okay?'

But Payne ignored her question. 'Where are they?'

'To the right. They ran to the right.'

'Stay with him,' he ordered as he ran past. He leaped the gate, swinging his legs sideways without breaking stride, and sprinted into the surging crowd. The Parks had a head start, but they were no match for Payne's speed. He dodged people when he could, knocked them over when he couldn't, and didn't slow down until he spotted them hustling toward the outdoor theater.

Fireworks continued to burst and boat whistles continued to sound, all of it masking the drama that was developing in the tiny town. All of that changed when the father used his gun again, this time firing a shot into the nighttime sky. People turned and stared, unsure if it was a firecracker or something more dangerous. What they saw caused them to panic. A muscular white man was running down the road, knocking everyone out of his way while waving a large firearm. It didn't matter that he was innocent. That the shot had come from someone else's gun. All they knew was that he needed to be stopped.

Things got much worse when Mr. Park started shouting in Korean. He screamed, He's trying to kill my boy. He wants to kill my son.

That was like fuel on a fire. In a flash, it was Payne versus an entire village.

Moments before, a team of six men had been on center stage, displaying their martial arts skills in a performance they called Tiger-Strike. All of them were dressed in black and wore permanent scowls. Three of them carried swords. The others held nunchucks. They ran toward him en masse,