The sergeant stirred and said, "Matt, I think I'm going to puke."
"Your ears ringing, too?"
"Yeah."
"You got a little shrapnel, little head injury. Ain't nothing. Let's see if you can put some weight on those legs. Ready?"
Beasley rose, got in beside Hume to dig his arms into Hume's pits and haul him to his feet.
Hume hadn't been kidding about feeling nauseous. Just as he leaned over, about to hurl, Smith came rushing into the stairwell, took one look at them, and said, "Guess you got it covered here, Matt."
"Hold on, cowboy. Get back here, police up his gear, and help me get him out. Let's go!"
Seeing that the first SUV was barreling down the road, out of control, heading directly toward the east building, Mitchell raced toward it.
There was, however, nothing he could do as metal screeched and the vehicle crashed through the gate, heading straight for the curving brick wall. At least the gate had helped to slow the SUV so that once it struck the wall with a low boom, the bricks slid back a quarter meter or so, but the vehicle did not bust through and sat there idling, its black hood draped in dust and rocks.
Gasping, Mitchell reached the SUV, swung open the driver's side door, and grimaced. Their young CIA contact was gone and had bled all over the seat and wheel. He shifted the lever into park and turned as Diaz came sprinting up.
"Sir, I'm sorry, I just couldn't get a bead," she said, gasping herself, her face drenched, the Cross-Com's power light glowing like a small jewel near her ear.
"It's all right. Help me get him out. You take the wheel. I want to stop that other truck."
"You got it, sir. He's following our route, which is good, but he's got one hell of a lead."
Mitchell sighed in disgust. "I know."
As they dragged Boy Scout out of the seat and toward the back of the SUV, Diaz cried, "Wait a second. There might be a way to slow him down."
TWENTY-NINE
Mitchell ordered the others to load Brown and Hume into his SUV. Nolan climbed into the back to better assess their wounds and treat them while en route back to the coast. Hume was in and out. Brown was just coming around.
They raced off, while Ramirez, Beasley, Smith, and Jenkins climbed into Buddha's SUV.
As Diaz took them up onto the slick mountain road, struggling with the wheel, Mitchell just happened to glance in the side-view mirror.
Buddha's SUV had yet to pull out of the courtyard. A man was running toward the truck, waving one hand.
"Ramirez, this is Ghost Lead. What's going on down there?"
They had been screaming for Buddha to get the hell out of there, but the fat man had spotted someone running across the courtyard and had cried, "Wait!"
Ramirez, who was sitting up front, swung his pistol around and aimed at Buddha's head. "Drive!"
"No, that's Huang, our contact. Just wait one second!"
"Get moving now!" shouted Ramirez. "This place'll get hot soon. Come on!"
Buddha faced him with widening eyes. "Patience."
"Get out of the car!" screamed Beasley from the backseat. "Out, fat man! I'm driving!"
"Huang?" shouted Buddha, ignoring Beasley. "What is it?"
Huang waved and continued running toward the SUV, where he saw Buddha turn back and once more scream at the men inside. The pistol was tucked into Huang's pocket.
He had seen Fang escape in the Brave Warrior that was supposed to be Huang's.
He had watched the men climb into Buddha's truck and knew he was going to drive away, leaving Huang with nothing.
Fang had lied and made false promises.
Buddha had lied and broken his promise to kill Fang.
Huang must save face. He must.
"Buddha! Wait! I have something for you."
The exhaustion, lack of sleep, and the high humidity had all taken their toll on Buddha, who was slow to realize what was happening.
Huang did not have some last bit of information for him.
He had a bullet.
The scrawny old man reached into his pocket and produced a pistol.
Buddha reached for his weapon, even as the back door slammed open and one of the Ghosts burst outside.
But it all happened too fast for old Buddha. And there was a strange sense of resignation that took hold, that feeling just before he fell asleep after a long day.
Huang's pistol flashed.
The first round sliced through Buddha's neck just as Ramirez fired past Buddha's face.
The second round struck Buddha in the head, and while he should have died quickly, there was, it seemed, just enough time for a final thought, nothing profound, just a simple line from the Dhammapada, one he often repeated to calm himself: "Here shall I dwell in the season of rains, and here in winter and summer."
Smith flinched over his wounded arm, but he still managed to leap from the SUV, and, one-handing his MR-C, cut down the scarecrow with the pistol.
"Get Buddha out of that seat! Get him in the back!" shouted Ramirez, who then added. "Jesus, I'm hit, too!"
Beasley and Jenkins were out of the truck, rushing to the driver's side to haul out Buddha and load him into the cargo compartment. Smith figured they'd call higher to find out what they wanted to do with the bodies of the CIA guys, but it'd be unwise to leave them behind.
Mitchell was still calling for a SITREP over the radio, and Beasley filled him in while Smith ran back around the truck to check on Ramirez, who had been lifting his arm when that first shot had passed through Buddha's neck. The round had continued on to strike him in the right shoulder, near his upper chest.
"Hey, least you got shot by a bad guy," groaned Ramirez. "That old man got me."
"Yeah, kind of embarrassing."
Ramirez snorted. "Shut up."
"Kidding." Smith checked for an exit wound, found one. "All right, it passed right on through. I know it hurts. We'll tape you up for now."
Ramirez's face screwed up into a knot, and he cursed.
"Joey, if you can get in back, we'll treat you," said Beasley. "Jenkins, you take the wheel."
"Come on," said Smith, reaching out to help Ramirez down from the passenger's seat.
"Bravo Lead," called Mitchell. "Get out of there and light up those choppers."
"Roger that."
Once the last door had slammed shut and Jenkins was wheeling them around, Beasley issued a curt, "Three, two, one," and set off the C4 packed tightly into the helicopters and trucks behind the castle.
The idea, of course, was to keep any military or police response focused inland — and between the castle explosion and the one at the transformer station, Smith figured they had done a convincing job of baiting the hook.
He craned his head and stared back at the castle, water streaming off the rooflines like melting wax as four magnificent fireballs rose skyward and swelled into orange mushrooms behind it. The explosions cast the place in an otherworldly glow, and as they rose higher into the mountains, the valley shone once more in the flicker of lightning.
It was an unforgettable sight, a painting from ancient China coming alive before his eyes,
As Smith turned back and settled into his seat, window down, rifle at the ready, he thought of his parents back home, wished they could've come along with him on this mission. They might realize once and for all that giving up his position as a Ghost to become a small-town sheriff would be like playing in the major leagues and then deciding to coach weekend softball games.
Maybe one day, when he slowed down, but not now. Not when his blood coursed like a million volts through his veins.