Mitchell seized the MR-C, rolled back onto his rump, and took aim at Fang, who was coming at him once more, clutching the sword in both hands like a baseball bat.
Fang froze. He had a decision to make.
Mitchell blinked the rain from his eyes and wondered if Fang would drop the sword.
Fang was no doubt wondering why Mitchell hadn't already fired. He'd find out in a second.
Slowly, Mitchell got to his feet, as Fang held his ground, his chest rising and falling, his mouth twisting as he flinched from his chest wound.
Holding his rifle in one hand, Mitchell ripped off his balaclava, shoved it into his pocket, and stepped toward Fang, whose eyes widened in shock.
"You… you are Mitchell. Master Sergeant Mitchell," Fang said in English. He was unaware of Mitchell's promotions since then, unaware of so much.
"That's right," Mitchell answered. "Let's talk before I put a bullet in your head."
"You will never have that pleasure."
In a blur of movement, Fang adjusted his grip on the sword and turned the tip on himself, ready to plunge the sword into his chest.
Mitchell fired a single round into Fang's abdomen, blood spraying as Fang twisted and fell onto his back, the sword tumbling from his grip.
As Fang turned onto his side to retrieve the sword, Mitchell splashed past him and kicked the blade out of the man's reach.
Then he set down his rifle and seized Fang by the collar, hauled him back into a sitting position.
Fang's head lolled back as he threatened to lose consciousness.
"Fang, look at me!" cried Mitchell. "Look at me."
Fang felt the blood seeping into his chest and lungs. It would not be long now. He'd wanted to deny Mitchell the satisfaction of killing him, but that wouldn't happen.
As he gazed up, past the man's shoulder, he saw eleven sweaty soldiers carrying M4A1 rifles, the rain dripping from their boonie hats.
Was he dreaming? Hallucinating? Had he already died?
Fang remembered some of their names and their call signs all starting with the letter R. Rutang, Ricochet, and Rockstar stood there among the others. And there was Fang's American counterpart, Captain Victor Foyte, shaking his head and glowering at Fang.
Mitchell rose, picked up Fang's sword, and faced Fang as the other men formed a semicircle behind him. "Only Billy, Rutang, and I made it. Everyone else is dead. Did you know that? Do you care? You should have been a politician — because you're not a soldier. We're all brothers in arms no matter where we come from. But you don't get that."
The other eleven men pushed past Mitchell and came toward Fang. The rain began washing the skin from their faces, leaving grinning skulls and bulging eyes. They opened their mouths and shrieked, the noise sending shock waves through Fang's body. He closed his eyes and screamed against them. No! I didn't mean for it to come to this! We would not be pawns. We were soldiers! I am a soldier!
Mitchell shook Fang again, and the man's eyes flickered open. Mitchell held up the sword. "You see this? It's mine now. You have nothing." Mitchell shoved Fang into a puddle.
With a grimace, Mitchell got to his feet, retrieved the sheath, and slid the sword home. He tucked the cane into his pack, took one last look at Fang, lying there, dying, then picked up his earpiece/monocle and started down the hill, just as Diaz, pistol in hand, came running toward him. "Captain!"
Fang knew that if he lost the sword, his spirit would not be in harmony with his ancestors. The sword represented that harmony, and it had been destined for the hands of Fang's own son, the child he'd yet to have. He should have been less focused on his career. He should have found a woman in China and had that son. Now Fang had nothing left, save for one more breath.
"Diaz, I'm right here," Mitchell called, wiping off the earpiece/monocle and slipping it back over his ear. He was too exhausted to feel vindicated, justified, or anything else.
As she approached, her gaze lifted past him. "Nice work, Captain."
Mitchell shook his head. "It should have never come to this. Never…"
"Let me see that arm." She tugged out her rescue knife with its secondary blade for cutting past uniforms.
"No time. Nolan will look at it. Let's go." He started forward, lost his balance, and Diaz grabbed his good arm, draped it over her shoulder.
"It's okay, Captain. I got you."
"And there she goes, twenty-six million dollars of pure fun," said Lieutenant Moch, as the Predator's onboard camera showed an image of the dark, roiling waves before the screen went blank.
Captain Gummerson turned his attention to Moch's playback monitor. "Show me that fuel barge and that crane one more time before I talk to Mitchell."
"Rewinding now. And there they are, sir," said Moch, rapping a knuckle on his screen.
As Gummerson studied the infrared images, he pointed his finger at one heat source and said, "What is he still doing there?"
"I don't know, sir," said Moch.
Gummerson glanced back over his shoulder. "XO? Tell the SEALs we may have a change of plan."
"Aye, aye, sir."
"All right, son, what am I looking at?" said General Keating to the young intelligence officer seated before the wide-screen display.
"Here's Xiamen Harbor. Right here is the first patrol boat, heading up to the seawall. From what I can tell, sir, the DIA's mole got off that order to the patrol boats, but only one's heading up. The other captain has either been ordered to remain behind, or maybe he didn't receive the second order. Bottom line is we still have one Shanghai to deal with. See him, right there, running along the gap between Haicang and Gulangyu Island."
"And there's no way my Ghosts can exfiltrate with that guy patrolling the gap."
"It would not be easy, sir."
"And what do we have here?" Keating pointed to a window that had just opened on the display.
"That's video from the Predator, sir. It just hit the network a few minutes ago."
Keating watched as the bird flew up the long, L-shaped pier jutting out from the sand spit where the Ghosts had made their infiltration.
Only now there were two large heat sources down there, and the image zoomed in to a fuel barge tucked up alongside the pier and a floating crane out near the end.
"They just moved those in," said Keating.
"Yes, sir."
"Get the satellite over them. And get me Montana's commander."
"Yes, sir."
Nolan had already jabbed a needle into Mitchell's arm, numbing the area, and the medic was now in the process of removing the slug with a pair of straight forceps while Brown and Hume balanced dim lights over the incision.
It wouldn't be the first time Mitchell had lead plucked from his flesh, though he hoped it'd be the last. Nolan repeatedly urged Diaz to avoid the bumps in the dirt road as he pushed the forceps into the wound, and she did the best she could, saying they'd reach paved ground pretty soon.
"Almost there, Captain," said Nolan. "I see it."
"That's nice. Just get it out of me."
"And there it is," said the medic, holding up the slug. "I'll save it for you."
"Don't bother. Just stitch me up, thanks."
"It's a one-stop shop, Captain."