Hal turned his head and whispered. “In front of the podium. Can you see it?”
“Affirmative.”
“Shoot ten feet in front of the podium and spray to your left, out into the seats.”
“Roger.”
Weng rose on his knees, aimed at the podium, moved his barrel to the left to estimate ten feet and pulled the trigger. RRRD RRRD RRRD! The suppressed fire of his Type 06 was much louder than the MP10s. It shot out yellow-orange tongues of fire, flickering like a torch and illuminating the entire assembly in strobe. A sprinting of footsteps pounded the carpet toward the muzzle flashes.
“Fire again! He’s coming!” Hal yelled.
Weng fired, but was aiming deeper into the auditorium. He missed the ghost, but Hal saw what he was looking for — a ripple of movement from the other ghost, sprinting toward the glow of the muzzle flash.
“MOVE!!” Hal yelled. Weng ducked for cover into the hallway. Hal ripped off a burst of shots at the moving ghost trail. He heard a PING! Hitting something. Hal switched his vision to thermal and could see a faint glowing dot just above the floor, moving slowly. Hal inched toward it. It was a bullet hole in the ghost’s rebreather backpack. Cool recycled air was spewing out, much cooler than room temperature, creating a signature in Hal’s FLIR. Electricity danced across the ghost’s pack and suit. Hal switched back to night vision. The enemy ghost’s suit was short circuiting, losing its optical camouflage. A human form emerged, crawling across the carpet, appearing uninjured. Hal thought the bullet must have only hit the backpack.
The ghost knew Hal had the drop on him. He tossed his MP10 across the carpet as if to surrender. In night vision, Hal could easily see him. “I’m unarmed,” the ghost said in a muffled voice through his helmet. He raised his hands up and started to rise. “I’m unarmed. Don’t shoot.” The ghost had no clue where Hal was, still unable to see him.
“Why is he giving up!?” Trest asked, agitated. “Tell him he doesn’t surrender!”
“Do not surrender,” McCreary said. “Under no circumstance. DO NOT SURRENDER.”
“I’m removing my helmet,” the ghost said. “Don’t shoot.”
Weng trained his gun on him from the doorway. Hal moved in closer to the ghost as he took off his helmet. It hit the floor in a thud. The man turned, raising his arms. Hal recognized him, astonished. “Yarbo?!?” Yarbo heard his muffled voice and lunged toward the sound, tackling Hal. Hal’s submachine gun fired wildly into the ceiling. Weng rose to his feet, entering the assembly. Training his gun on the wrestling ball of a man in a black suit and the invisible Hal. He didn’t have a shot.
Hal rolled and threw Yarbo off him. Yarbo clung to Hal’s MP10 as his momentum tore him away from Hal. The gun went flying over a row of chairs.
Yarbo rose to his feet and spoke into empty space, assuming he was looking at the invisible Hal. “Now, we’re both unarmed. Think you can take me, Sheridan? Deactivate and let’s go mano a mano. I know you’ve been dying for the chance. Now, you’ve got it. Here I am.”
Hal reached up and detached his helmet, immediately losing his stealth invisibility. He set the helmet down. Yarbo assumed a Muay Thai martial arts stance and Hal took a Brazilian Zu-Zitsu stance…
Weng could easily pick off Yarbo now, but he knew it would be bad form. He gave Hal a chance. Keeping his finger on the trigger, just in case.
Yarbo lunged first, striking with a punch that Hal deflected, and followed with a kick to Hal’s calf. His suit absorbed most of the blow, but Hal couldn’t take too many more like it.
Weng glanced back down the hall at the President Weilen. He was fine. Eyes closed, leaning against the wall. Weng flipped the NVGs down on the blood-soaked head band, scanning the General Assembly for other potential threats. He realized staying in the hall was the best way to keep the President safe. He ducked back into the doorway while keeping his firearm trained on Hal’s attacker.
Hal threw a jab with a right and Yarbo bobbed his head, dodging it. Yarbo kicked low at Hal’s calf. Striking the meaty part below the knee. It was a Muay Thai misdirection tactic. Yarbo kicked at his calf again. Hal jumped back to avoid it. Hal knew the tactic — get your opponent to focus on the leg and lower their guard on a more vulnerable target above. Yarbo threw another kick. Hal blocked it with a left arm, exposing his face. Yarbo threw a haymaker toward it. Hal saw it coming. He deflected it across his body, which opened Yarbo’s torso as a target. Hal rifled a shuddering left jab to Yarbo’s rib cage. Yarbo winced and couldn’t hide the sound of the air forced out of his lungs. That’s gotta’ hurt, Hal thought.
Yarbo stumbled backward and regained his footing. He pulled his SRK knife from his belt — standard issue fixed-blade for ghosts. It was similar to the sharkie they sparred with in class — only this one wasn’t rubber.
“Unarmed, huh?” Hal asked, mocking Yarbo’s cowardice.
“I lied!” Yarbo laughed. Lunging forward. Taking a poke at Hal. Hal easily dodged, stepping back. Hal reached for his own fixed blade, but the sheath was empty. He remembered losing it in the battle with the sniper. “You’re so naïve, Sheridan. That’s why you were a prime candidate for the proj—
— Hal lunged, throwing a right jab while his left shielded his face from a knife swing. Yarbo moved and Hal’s punch connected harmlessly with Yarbo’s shoulder.
Yarbo threw quick jabs with the fixed-blade knife. It’s sharp tip glinting from the doorway light. Hal dodged the knife. Hands open and fingers twitching — ready for a grab move. Yarbo aimed for his hands as the two rotated in a dance. Like two cobras fighting, measuring each other with faux strikes. Taunting and waiting for the opportunity for a lethal blow.
“Why?” Hal asked. “Why you? I thought you were above this.”
Yarbo chuckled with arrogance. “Isn’t it obvious? To be able to kill an enemy with impunity. Who would pass that up!?”
“The enemy?!” Hal said, implying himself. “You crossed the line, and you murdered Hank.”
Yarbo brushed the accusation off like a fly, swinging his blade through the air at Hal. Making no effort to pass blame or defend himself.
“You did do it,” Hal said. “It was you.”
“That’s right. And I’m gonna’ do you the same way.” Yarbo swiped the knife at Hal’s face. Hal arched his neck and head back, but not far enough. The knife sliced across his cheek, flicking blood through the air.
A scrambled call sounded from inside Yarbo’s helmet on the floor nearby. “Ghost two, SITREP?” Hal heard it, wiping the blood from his cheek. He turned toward Yarbo and charged head-first, tackling him like a linebacker drilling a quarterback.
They wrestled on the ground. Now, they were in Hal’s world—the domain of Ju Jitsu. Hal’s thick arms wrapped around Yarbo’s upper arms and neck, gripping him in a choke hold. The radio transmission repeated from Yarbo’s helmet. “Ghost two, repeat. SITREP?”
Hal gripped even tighter. Cinching the power of his strangle-hold on Yarbo. Giving him the same medicine he imagined Yarbo gave Henry.
“SITREP! Ghost Two reply!” McCreary’s voice crackled.
Hal leveraged his arms even tighter, squeezing Yarbo’s windpipe closed. Yarbo was powerless. Having to direct all his energy on breathing. He flailed his arm with the tactical knife, but to no effect. Hal leaned to Yarbo’s ear, tightening his grip, knowing Yarbo would soon take his last breath… “There’s a reason I’m Ghost One.” The tactical knife dropped from Yarbo’s hand.