'02. We got ambushed, and he wouldn't order his team to attack. He said our orders were unconscionable. I lost a lot of good men because of that man.'
'Sir, are you serious?' asked Diaz.
'I am. When the drone was deployed, I got a good look at him.'
'Whoa, what the hell's he doing here?' asked Hume.
Mitchell sighed. 'I heard he got busted out of the army. He must've defected to China. But that doesn't matter. All I'm trying to say is, you guys come first.'
'Sir, the rumors have gone around,' said Diaz. 'He's the guy who gave you that scar, isn't he?'
'Yeah.'
'Then, sir, you tell me where to pull over.' Diaz's tone darkened. 'We'll go down there and take care of business.'
'No. I won't risk you guys for that. You give me five minutes. If you don't hear from me, I'm dead. You come down, get my body, and get to the coast. All right, this is close enough.'
As Diaz slowed, she shook her head and raised her voice: 'Sir, we have no intention of collecting your body. You're going to kill that bastard. And maybe you don't want us with you, but we can still help.'
Mitchell climbed out of the SUV, gave her a curt nod. 'Okay. Stay in touch.'
When Fang's Brave Warrior had slammed onto its side and skidded down into the mud, he'd just sat there, stunned. He'd thought,
After snatching up his rifle and loading his last magazine, he'd slung the weapon over his shoulder and had crawled his way out of the truck through the back door.
Once on the ground, his gaze had swept across the dark sky for the drone. Was that its engine humming lowly in the distance? Maybe. Maybe it was retreating.
He'd surveyed the embankment. The road had become more narrow again, and trees with thick, talonlike limbs rose on a slope just off to his left. He'd draped the heavy tow line over two thick branches and, after hooking it back over itself, he'd run back to the truck and switched on the winch. The truck slid forward, plowing up mud, but the angle was no good. The line simply dragged the truck forward and did not, as Fang had anticipated, lift it upright.
Suddenly, one limb cracked, the tow line fell slack, and the truck stopped. Fang raged aloud and rushed back to the truck to switch off the winch. He would try once more; then he would abandon the truck and take off on foot.
As he leaned forward toward the winch, something nicked his shoulder. He rolled over, felt the sharp stinging, then looked down at his uniform shirt. A small amount of blood had soaked through the fabric.
He desperately reached back for his rifle, came up with it, and began easing forward on elbows and knees, keeping tight to the truck, calculating where that shot had originated. The wound began to throb, the blood beating in his ears.
A shadow shifted up on the slope to his left, near the trees.
Fang swung his rifle around and opened fire, laying down a vicious salvo while screaming through the rattling and pouring rain.
The second he ceased fire, he rose, got around the truck, and charged across the road and into the thicker knots of trees and waist-high shrubs.
Mitchell knew he'd struck Fang, but the perfect head shot had turned into a slight shoulder wound, damn it. Even with the IWS's aiming assistance, he was no Diaz. He'd been shifting toward the next tree when Fang had returned fire. He crawled forward now, checking his HUD. Fang had retreated into the opposite woods.
'Ghost Lead, this is Diaz. We heard the shots. I have your position. Target is heading north, but there's a big rock wall in his way. He probably doesn't see it yet. Follow him in. You can trap him there.'
'Roger that,' said Mitchell, already jogging away from the slope. He stomped past Fang's truck and splashed across the road, heading toward the forest.
'Ghost Lead, this is Bravo Lead. Our ETA is two minutes. You want us to hold back with Diaz?'
'Negative. You guys take point and head on to the coast.'
'Roger that, Boss.'
Mitchell pushed through the weeds and grass, shifted around the next few trees, then the slope grew rockier, steeper, and he reached the next tree and crouched down as he studied the satellite image in his HUD. Fang was close.
The rain fell harder, sifting through the thick canopy, the heaviest drops tapping on Mitchell's shoulders like a nervous buddy trying to get his attention. That buddy began whispering in his ear:
No movement. He switched off the camera now, lest its light give up his position.
He took a huge breath and darted from the tree, ascending along mud-covered stone toward the rocky wall ahead. He veered left toward the last few trees.
The satellite image set his pulse racing even more.
Fang was on top of him. Literally. He whirled — and at that moment the grave error he had made finally, inevitably dawned on him.
Mitchell threw himself forward as Fang, who had just climbed a tree and was positioning himself on the lowest, heaviest limb, opened fire.
A round tore into Mitchell's right arm, just above his elbow, and another sparked off his MR-C as he slid forward and rolled, raising the rifle to unleash a volley up through the trees, even as Fang continued firing, seemingly bent on unloading his entire magazine.
Mitchell rolled again, releasing another burst.
Fang screamed, but his voice broke off into a gurgling sound.
Smoke wafted up from Mitchell's barrel. He lay there struggling for breath, the million taps of rain on limbs and leaves droning on.
He squinted up, saw Fang's arm just dangling over the branch.
It was over. Finally over. And Mitchell's only regret was that Fang had not known his killer.
'Diaz, this is Ghost Lead. Bring the truck down. I'm hit, but I'll be there in a minute.'
'Roger that. How bad are you?'
He moved his wounded arm. At least he could do that. 'We'll see. Just come.'
Before Mitchell could get to his feet, something thumped into the mud not a meter from his feet.
He blinked hard through the pain.
The object was a wooden shaft hand-carved in a tiger-stripe pattern: Fang's cane. But there was only the empty sheath. It must have slipped off the sword on its own.
Or had it? Mitchell looked up.
Fang had balanced himself on the limb and drawn the sword high above his head in a reverse grip, tip down. A guttural cry exploded from his lips as he launched himself off the limb.
He came down toward Mitchell like a tiger baring its fangs, and no force in the world could stop him.
With a gasp and a violent shudder, Mitchell reacted, his thoughts shutting down, his muscles taking over.
He rolled out of the way, his Cross-Com falling off his ear just as the man hit the mud and his sword impaled the mire, burying itself to the hilt.
Diaz's voice buzzed from the earpiece/monocle lying on the ground, 'Captain, we're in position. Why are you still up there?'
As Mitchell turned to bring his rifle to bear, Fang wrenched free the blade and with both hands batted away Mitchell's weapon, even as Mitchell squeezed the trigger, the rounds going astray. The sword's metal edges struck Mitchell's support hand with such force that he reflexively released that hand from the weapon and held his breath in extreme pain.
Exploiting that opening, Fang dropped to his knees, releasing one hand from the hilt and placing it near the
