'Please, sir. I am not working for anyone. I was just curious. Stupid.'
Wang crossed around the desk. 'Stand up!'
Zuo complied.
Wang reached down, removed Zuo's pistol, and handed it to one of the guards. Then he shook his head and abruptly smacked Zuo across the face. 'I have no tolerance or forgiveness or mercy for spies.'
With his cheek on fire, Zuo lowered his head and flexed his fingers. This was it. Wang would have him die in a robbery or an accident — nothing to arouse further investigation by State Security. There would be no new life back in America. No freedom. All of the spying he had done for the Americans had been for nothing.
Nothing!
Slowly, he raised his head, looked Wang straight in the eye, then he threw himself forward, wrapping his fingers around the director's throat. He drove the man onto the floor and began digging his fingers into warm, flabby flesh, just as the guards seized his arms and wrenched him off.
One guard reared back and punched Zuo in the temple. He rolled back, across the floor, the room spinning.
'Get him out of here,' Wang cried. 'Back down to my car. Hurry now!'
They hauled Zuo to his feet, dragged him out the door as he struggled to remain conscious.
The vehicle with the single headlight barreled toward Fang, its engine growing louder and issuing a strange and rhythmic whine. He thrust out his hand, firing his pistol until the magazine was empty.
But the thing kept coming.
He reached over, seized his rifle, propped the barrel on the side-view mirror, and unloaded the ten bullets left in the magazine. He let the rifle fall away, just as he cut the wheel to the right, veering sharply off the road.
With a violent jostle that threw him up from the seat, he hit the embankment, and the truck suddenly dropped a meter and began rolling onto its side.
His gaze flicked up to his left, and he couldn't believe what came roaring by.
THIRTY
Captain Gummerson approached the two naval aviators just as Lieutenant Moch shook his fist and muttered, 'Yeah.'
They were in the control room, and Moch and his copilot, Lieutenant Justin Schumaker, had been a study in sheer determination as they'd piloted the Predator over the twisting mountain road. Once they'd located a swath of ground wide enough to permit the Predator's wingspan of 14.8 meters, they had descended hard and fast through the rainstorm, putting the bird on a direct intercept course with Mitchell's fleeing guard.
Gummerson had listened to the initial request, which had raised a few brows on
'Predator support, this is Diaz,' called one of Mitchell's Ghosts.
'Hey, Alicia. Go ahead.'
'Jeff, remember that story you told me? Well, I need you to stop a train.'
'Are you kidding me?'
'No. It's up to you, Mr. Naval Aviator.'
'Roger that. Sit back and enjoy the show.'
Now Gummerson leaned over Moch and said, 'I assume you stopped your train — or is it a truck?'
'Oh, yeah, sir. All he saw was our headlight before we ran him off the road.' Moch pointed at one of his monitors with thermal images and pairs of reticles superimposed over several data bars. 'Check it out. You see the look on his face?'
'Wow. But he did see the bird.'
'True. But he won't be around long enough to tell.'
Gummerson nodded and glanced over at Lieutenant Commander Sands, who appeared equally impressed.
Moch's copilot began speaking quickly over his radio as flashing red circles appeared along a three- dimensional rendering of the drone's fuselage.
'What now?' groaned Moch.
'Looks like some hydraulic and engine damage, and a small fuel leak from all that gunfire,' said Schumaker. 'Sensor operators back home confirm.'
'Lieutenant, I need you to take her back over the harbor before you ditch. Can you still do that?' asked Gummerson.
'We'll sweet-talk her into one last pass, sir.'
'Focus on the gap between Haicang and Gulangyu Island. That zone concerns me the most.'
Moch gently shifted the joystick controller. 'On our way.'
Gummerson faced Sands. 'XO, are the SEALs ready?'
'Standing by.'
'Excellent. Tell 'em it won't be long.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
Satellite imagery relayed to Mitchell's HUD indicated that Fang was out of his ride, but he had not fled. He was trying to use the truck's forward winch to drag the vehicle from the embankment and, perhaps, tip it upright. If he could utilize a few trees and rig the tow line at the proper angle, he could get back on the road.
They were about five minutes away from his position, and Mitchell knew that if they roared up on him, he'd bolt into the woods.
A pang of guilt woke deep in Mitchell's gut. The mission and his people came first, yes, but this was a chance to slam shut one of the most painful doors of his life. Could he justify taking time out for revenge?
Maybe Fang had seen the Predator. Maybe he'd alert the PLA that the attack had come from Americans.
And didn't General Keating need more time to get those patrol boats away from the harbor?
He could rationalize it all he wanted, but the guilt still clawed at his neck and began robbing him of breath. He turned to the backseat. 'Nolan, how're we doing?'
'A whole lot better,' replied the medic.
'Hey, sir,' said Brown, moving his lips as though tasting something very bad, a symptom of a head wound. 'I'm okay.'
'Me, too,' said Hume.
'Marcus, I'm so sorry,' said Diaz.
'Forget it. I know if you wanted to kill me, you wouldn't have missed.'
'We'll talk more later,' she said.
Mitchell tensed. 'All right, listen up. We'll be on that last guard in a minute. He's rolled over and is trying to free his truck with a winch. I don't want to leave any loose ends — particularly a military witness like this guy, so I plan to take him out.'
'Sounds good to us, sir,' said Nolan.
'There's something else, something you have a right to know. That guard's name is Fang Zhi. He's from Taiwan. He was a captain in their army, and I worked with him in the Philippines, doing some joint training back in
