He started to walk toward the corner of the house, when a flash of light from within the cab of the truck made him abruptly stop. A second later, an explosion sent a ball of fire straight up. Pieces of sharp, jagged metal and wood shot out in every direction.
The men at the front of the house fell to the ground, trying to protect themselves from projectiles of every size. Then, as small pieces of burning debris hit the ground, they heard a sudden whooshing sound. It was too late for anyone to take cover. The debris lit off a trail of black powder, leading directly to the house.
The second explosion blew the house apart as if it were made of matchsticks. Walls, roof were broken into slivers, falling on grass, trees, setting everything on fire. All those near the house were blown in every direction. Clothing burned. Skin burned. If they weren’t already dead, it was going to be a painful death, or very painful recovery.
Chiu was knocked unconscious. As he started coming around, he heard sounds of crackling fire, moans, cries of pain. He pushed himself to his knees, shaking his head. His ears were ringing. Parts of his uniform were shredded. Blood seeped through the remaining material. A gash on his forehead was oozing.
He got up unsteadily, then looked at the destruction, at blackened bodies. Some were missing body parts. Some had shards of wood stuck in them. It was hard to distinguish who they were, except for Faan. Chiu was able to recognize the one side of the face that wasn’t burned. Kneeling next to him, he placed a hand on Faan’s chest. He was dead.
The officer that he was, Chiu had already begun to analyze the situation. Even if there had been a timed device, it was impossible for anyone to know when he would have arrived. He looked across the property, thinking perhaps the person was still close by, holding a remote of some type. That answer didn’t make sense. He turned very slowly, trying to maintain his balance, as he continued perusing the area. No matter how it was carried out, whoever did it was already gone.
His suspicions were confirmed. A CIA operative was in Shanghai — and had just committed murder.
He’d been ready to leave the house, on his way to find Alpha Tango when he heard the ChiComs in the distance. The truck and house had been wired. A trail of black powder was hardly noticeable in the grass.
Now, more than a safe distance away, he lay flat on the ground. He looked at the remote in his hand, then slipped it into his pocket.
Still not certain if anyone had started looking for him, or even if anyone was left alive, he crabbed his way backwards, until he felt it was safe. Then, he got up into a crouch position. Taking a final look toward the destroyed house, he turned and started running.
The first street outside the boundary of the ghetto was less than fifty yards away. He sprinted as fast as he could, finally seeing the car, an old beat-up Shanghai taxi from the 1960s. All markings had been removed, except for a picture of Mao that still hung from a cracked rearview mirror.
As he drove out of the ghetto, he tried to bring his pulse back down to normal. The feeling he was now experiencing was completely exhilarating. Concentrating again on his driving, he slowed the car. He didn’t need to draw attention to himself, or have an accident. The craziness of early morning traffic in downtown Shanghai had begun, even with the fog. He kept his distance from other vehicles, seeing the constant blinking of blurry, red taillights. He turned off the main road, taking the shortest route to the house behind the Consulate.
He remembered the discussion. Stevens said they were going to follow the two suspicious men. But where? They couldn’t have gone too far from the Consulate.
Nearing the neighborhood, he slowed. Finally, he approached the alley near the building they had used for surveillance.
Shifting into reverse, he backed the car into a side alley then killed the engine. He started to close the door, when he remembered. He reached behind the seat, feeling along the floorboard, then under the seat, trying to find the radio. A picture flashed through his mind. He left it in the truck! He was sweating now. He couldn’t waste any more time. He closed the door, then headed for the surveillance building. Stevens had left two men inside to keep an eye on the Consulate, watching for any more suspicious characters.
He went inside, stopping on the first floor, listening for anything to tell him the men were still here. It was too quiet. He carefully climbed the steps. Once on the second floor landing, it didn’t take long to see that the building was empty. He turned quickly and went downstairs, then ran into the alley. Looking both ways, he had to decide where to start first, which way to go. There were more buildings, more alleys he’d have to investigate.
He was wasting time. He had to find Grant Stevens and his men. He took off.
Chapter 15
With the two SEALs safe, with Slade and Stalley ready on the inside, Grant motioned the men closer. They had to get it done fast, and with surprise. They couldn’t give the UFs any chance of setting off the devices, or injuring the SEALs.
Making sure Stalley and Slade knew what to expect, he pressed the PTT, but spoke barely above a whisper. “Zero-Niner. Deuce approaching front.” He pointed to Diaz and Novak. “Three at back.” He, Adler and James would enter from the rear door. “Go.”
Diaz and Novak would take up positions to the side of the front door, in case anyone tried to make a run for it. They walked quickly but silently behind the target house, then circled around until they were at the corner. It was a long way around, but they wanted to avoid crossing in front of the window.
Diaz held up a fist, then leaned his head, confirmed it was clear, then motioned to Novak. They just started forward, when in the distance a loud noise erupted. Then, within seconds, another one brought them to a standstill. Explosions, maybe a couple of miles away, at their three o’clock. They jumped back, then stayed against the side of the house, getting farther away from the front.
Grant, Adler and James rushed around the side of the house. It didn’t matter what the noises were, or what may have caused them. It could work in their favor. A distraction. Someone was bound to come out to investigate. This could be their chance. It could be the break they needed. They didn’t have to wait long. The back door opened.
Grant didn’t hesitate. Pushing the PTT, he whispered, “Go!”
He immediately swung around the door, catching the exiting man totally by surprise. With a swift and powerful backhand motion, Grant’s fist and the barrel of his .45 smashed directly into the man’s face, knocking him backward. He collapsed on the floor, unconscious. Blood spurted from a broken nose and gash on his cheek.
Adler rushed from behind Grant. Another UF barely had time to raise his rifle when Adler fired two rapid rounds, striking the man high in the chest. He was dead before he hit the deck.
James sprinted over the downed men. He and Adler took up positions to Grant’s left. Within seconds it was over. Three weapons were now aimed at three UFs.
Two men were standing behind a makeshift table with their arms over their heads. One defiantly stood with his back to the three Americans.
Grant pressed the PTT, notifying the rest of the Team. “Clear!”
Novak and Diaz ran around the building, coming in through the back door. Stalley and Slade came rushing down the stairs with their weapons ready.
Novak rushed toward the front of the room, positioning himself between the door and window. Diaz stood near the man who was still unconscious.