Sergeant Marcus Brown had led the way up the staircase, and with a hand signal, he had told Beasley and Jenkins to hold.

The guard ahead had just rushed up a few more steps toward his buddy, whose ass had been tagged by one of Diaz's insanely accurate sniper shots.

Brown had charged up behind the guy, quads burning like they did back on the gridiron. He had leveled his MK48 light machine gun, a powerful and beautiful weapon used to preach the good word of democracy. He had fired a quick burst that pummeled the guard to the steps.

Then he had sighed, waved up the others, reached the dead guard, and was just stepping over him, when the wall exploded behind, pieces crashing into his head.

Then . . . nothing.

As Ramirez and Nolan neared Admiral Cai's door on the fifth floor of the east building, they smelled something burning.

There it was: smoke wafting from the admiral's half-open door.

Ramirez raced across the balcony, past the partially opened doors of frightened civilians peering at him.

He reached the door, which was hanging half-open, booted it in, and moved into the room, squinting and lifting an arm against the heat.

Flames shot up from the bed and licked the blackened ceiling. It seemed the admiral had burned his classified documents and other materials and had fled, but where the hell was he now?

Nolan, it seemed, already had the answer. "Joey! Down there!"

Ramirez rushed outside and glanced over the railing, where below one of the guards and another man, presumably the admiral, dashed across the courtyard.

Nolan's P90 submachine gun issued a quiet rattle as he tracked the pair, but his bead fell short, and they vanished beneath the awnings.

Ramirez was about to get on the radio and call for help, but Beasley was already reporting that Brown had been hit. Ramirez waited a second until his teammate finished, then cried, "Ghost Lead, this is Ramirez. Got even more bad news. My target is heading out of the east building through the south side door. I say again, he's heading out the south side!"

Fang Zhi had gone down to check on his men and had found their bodies. Seized by panic, he had sprinted back up to alert Xu, who was not answering his phone.

Now Fang stared in shock at the bodies of Xu and the comfort girl as the radio reports from his screaming men--what few remained--rattled in his ears.

It was over. And he might have called the other Spring Tigers, helped them escape, but he had never been given their phone numbers, only Xu's. They had kept him just outside their circle, and their lack of trust would cost them their lives.

There was only one thing left. The Brave Warrior was parked under the awning below.

Would he yet again be branded a coward because he chose to escape rather than stand up and fight to the death?