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Chapters (39)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Page
  3. Acknowledgements
  4. Epigraph
  5. ONE
  6. TWO
  7. THREE
  8. FOUR
  9. FIVE
  10. SIX
  11. SEVEN
  12. EIGHT
  13. NINE
  14. TEN
  15. ELEVEN
  16. TWELVE
  17. THIRTEEN
  18. FOURTEEN
  19. FIFTEEN
  20. SIXTEEN
  21. SEVENTEEN
  22. EIGHTEEN
  23. NINETEEN
  24. TWENTY
  25. TWENTY-ONE
  26. TWENTY-TWO
  27. TWENTY-THREE
  28. TWENTY-FOUR
  29. TWENTY-FIVE
  30. TWENTY-SIX
  31. TWENTY-SEVEN
  32. TWENTY-EIGHT
  33. TWENTY-NINE
  34. THIRTY
  35. THIRTY-ONE
  36. THIRTY-TWO
  37. THIRTY-THREE
  38. THIRTY-FOUR
  39. THIRTY-FIVE

Diaz's voice buzzed from the earpiece/monocle lying on the ground, "Captain, we're in position. Why are you still up there?"

As Mitchell turned to bring his rifle to bear, Fang wrenched free the blade and with both hands batted away Mitchell's weapon, even as Mitchell squeezed the trigger, the rounds going astray. The sword's metal edges struck Mitchell's support hand with such force that he reflexively released that hand from the weapon and held his breath in extreme pain.

Exploiting that opening, Fang dropped to his knees, releasing one hand from the hilt and placing it near the sword's tip. He now used the weapon to drive Mitchell's rifle back into the mud as he straddled Mitchell.

With his still-throbbing free hand, Mitchell struck a roundhouse to Fang's chin, stunning the man into releasing some pressure on the sword.

Now Mitchell pushed forward, driving Fang's sword back just enough to slip his hand free of the rifle.

Seeing that, Fang came back up, and now one-handing the sword, drew back in, preparing for a thrusting blow to Mitchell's heart.

Because only the sword's tip was sharp, Mitchell locked bare hands onto the wet metal shaft, and, with eyes tearing through the excruciating, throbbing pain from his wounded arm, he drove the sword up, over his shoulder, as Fang made his thrust and once more impaled the mud.

Then Fang wrenched the sword back so quickly that it slipped through Mitchell's fingers.

Holding the weapon once more in a reverse grip, Fang reared back, his face contorted in a mask of sharp, inhuman angles, his eyes dark voids that narrowed as he issued an ear-splitting war cry and brought down the sword.

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-ONE

LEAVING HAKKA CASTLE
XIAMEN, CHINA
APRIL 2012

What Fang did not realize and could never truly appreciate was that Captain Scott Mitchell was not alone.

His father, mother, brothers, and sister were with him.

Kristen was with him.

His Ghosts were with him--as was every Special Forces operator with whom he had ever served.

Maybe it was their presence that Fang detected. Or maybe it was something else.

But as the man came down for the kill shot with that sword whose tip was already familiar with Mitchell's flesh, there was a moment of recognition in his eyes, as though maybe, just maybe, he realized who was behind the balaclava covering Mitchell's face.

It was only a second of hesitation.

But it was enough.

Mitchell slammed his knees into Fang's back, even as he reached out and knocked the sword to the left while throwing Fang back, over his head. He rolled and clawed frantically through the dirt, toward his rifle, Diaz's voice still rattling from the earpiece/monocle, the rain turning torrential and blown sideways through the trees.

Mitchell seized the MR-C, rolled back onto his rump, and took aim at Fang, who was coming at him once more, clutching the sword in both hands like a baseball bat.

Fang froze. He had a decision to make.