Fang lowered his goggles and regarded the man whose deep-set eyes widened. "You attended the briefing."

"Yes, Captain--"

"Then you heard what I said to Major Liang and the Americans and Filipinos."

"I did. And they said they cannot provide the air reconnaissance you requested."

"Because it is cheaper for them to use us as bait."

"But, sir--"

"Our morale is already far too low, our recruitment numbers dropping. I won't waste good men on an ill-conceived mission. We need a victory here, but the Americans have not planned one for us. They planned to sacrifice us to save a dollar."

"Sir, they will call us cowards."

Fang raised his voice. "We are not cowards! And we are not sheep! Do you think they care how many of us die?"

"But, sir . . ."

With his temples beginning to throb, his teeth gnashing, Fang rolled over and burst to his feet, reaching over his shoulder and into his pack. His gloved hand locked onto his sword cane, a one-of-a-kind weapon and family heirloom that had been passed down to him from his father, who had died last year.

The cane's wooden shaft was slightly longer than an Eskrima stick and had been hand-carved with a tiger-stripe pattern. The blade inside was much more than just a flat sword, its cross section forged to resemble the Chinese character representing a square, side, part, or scheme, but, more importantly, the Fang family name:

Although the sword's design prevented it from cutting in the traditional sense, whipping strikes produced distinctive welts. Repeated strikes resembled the tiger-stripe pattern of the cane itself. The ultimate signature was the puncture wound from multiple sharpened tips. Fang Zhi's great-grandfather, who had designed the weapon, had wanted his enemies to never forget the Fang name, whose bloodline could be traced to one of the premiers of the Tang Dynasty.

As he had risen through the ranks, Fang had employed the sword cane to keep his men in line, beating them with the wooden sheath for minor offenses, drawing the sword and whipping them to produce welts for larger transgressions. He reserved the thrusting signature mark for those he wanted to teach the ultimate lesson. Thus far in his career, he'd never had to do that.

Yet at the moment, his anger had bested him, and the sword slipped fluidly out of the cane. He clutched the round handle, the ornate steel pommel etched with the same character representing the Fang family name. Yes, he could easily bludgeon someone to death with that hardened globe, but it was the sword he raised above Sergeant Sze Ma's head.

The sergeant scrambled up, raised his hands in defense. "Captain, please!"

"How dare you question me!" Fang reared back and struck the sergeant in the side of the neck, even as Sze Ma ducked from Fang's advance. Fang followed up with two more heavy blows to Sze Ma's head, dropping him.

Then Fang stood there, panting, seething, listening to his sergeant whimper in pain.