But hallelujah, he didn't notice it. Mitchell took in a breath before the man and his gun exploded in a cloud of mud backlit by fire and white-hot shrapnel.

"Rutang, go!" Mitchell shouted in his boom mike, although his order was easily loud enough for the assistant medic to hear without equipment.

The sound of another machine gun sent Mitchell back to his feet. He started toward a narrow passage between trees, picked up the pace, but suddenly tripped and hit the ground hard, losing his grip on his M4A1, though it was still tight in its sling.

He rose to his hands and knees and glanced back, wondering what the hell had caught his boot and guessing it was probably a tree root.

One of the terrorists stood there where the "tree root" should be, his AK-47 pointed at Mitchell's face. "Shoot me," Mitchell blurted out in surprise.

"No."

The guy was dark-skinned, gaunt-faced, and heavily bearded, with a black bandanna tied around his neck. His eyes bugged out as he opened his mouth once again to reveal a gap-toothed, evil grin. "Don't move, soldier."

This guy wasn't just Abu Sayyaf, Mitchell knew. His accent indicated he was the real deal, an Arab, a member of al Qaeda, on the island to help train Abu Sayyaf the way they were helping to train the Filipinos and Taiwanese.

Mitchell suddenly imagined his own head stuck on a pole, just like that missionary's. They would use him to send another message.

Mitchell's father, two brothers, and sister back home in Ohio would watch it all on CNN. His torture and murder would break their hearts.

And his mother, looking down from the heavens, would weep for her son, the boy she had left behind when he was only fourteen.

"Now . . . get up," said the Arab.

"You told me not to move."

"Get up."

Mitchell narrowed his gaze and bared his teeth. "No."

The Arab chuckled under his breath. "Whoa, you are a big man, huh? Big American? When I get you back to the camp--"

Mitchell rolled around, coming up with his rifle, knowing he'd be a second too late.

That was all right. They wouldn't take him alive. And they wouldn't take him without a fight.

He fired a half second after the Arab did.

However--and this was a big however--he was still coming around as the Arab fired, and only one of three rounds made contact.

That round pinched Mitchell's left biceps, just as he flinched and lifted his rifle a bit more, directing his bead across the Arab's chest, hammering the bastard with his third and fourth rounds.

The guy went down, groaning, and Mitchell silenced him with another salvo.

He sat there a moment, catching his breath, his hand going reflexively for his wounded arm. It looked like a clear entry and exit, not too much blood. But the wound was beginning to burn now, really burn.