The rain fell harder, sifting through the thick canopy, the heaviest drops tapping on Mitchell's shoulders like a nervous buddy trying to get his attention. That buddy began whispering in his ear: "He's over here. No, he's over there. Check that tree. That bush. No, that one." The gun cam's screen glowed softly, and Mitchell wiped off the rain and used it to peer around the next trunk.

No movement. He switched off the camera now, lest its light give up his position.

He took a huge breath and darted from the tree, ascending along mud-covered stone toward the rocky wall ahead. He veered left toward the last few trees.

The satellite image set his pulse racing even more.

Fang was on top of him. Literally. He whirled--and at that moment the grave error he had made finally, inevitably dawned on him.

Mitchell threw himself forward as Fang, who had just climbed a tree and was positioning himself on the lowest, heaviest limb, opened fire.

A round tore into Mitchell's right arm, just above his elbow, and another sparked off his MR-C as he slid forward and rolled, raising the rifle to unleash a volley up through the trees, even as Fang continued firing, seemingly bent on unloading his entire magazine.

Mitchell rolled again, releasing another burst.

Fang screamed, but his voice broke off into a gurgling sound.

Smoke wafted up from Mitchell's barrel. He lay there struggling for breath, the million taps of rain on limbs and leaves droning on.

He squinted up, saw Fang's arm just dangling over the branch.

It was over. Finally over. And Mitchell's only regret was that Fang had not known his killer.

"Diaz, this is Ghost Lead. Bring the truck down. I'm hit, but I'll be there in a minute."

"Roger that. How bad are you?"

He moved his wounded arm. At least he could do that. "We'll see. Just come."

Before Mitchell could get to his feet, something thumped into the mud not a meter from his feet.

He blinked hard through the pain.

The object was a wooden shaft hand-carved in a tiger-stripe pattern: Fang's cane. But there was only the empty sheath. It must have slipped off the sword on its own.

Or had it? Mitchell looked up.

Fang had balanced himself on the limb and drawn the sword high above his head in a reverse grip, tip down. A guttural cry exploded from his lips as he launched himself off the limb.

He came down toward Mitchell like a tiger baring its fangs, and no force in the world could stop him.

With a gasp and a violent shudder, Mitchell reacted, his thoughts shutting down, his muscles taking over.

He rolled out of the way, his Cross-Com falling off his ear just as the man hit the mud and his sword impaled the mire, burying itself to the hilt.