Flags of Sin (31 page)

“Because
it’s true, Professor.”

The wall
panels snapped to life, and radio communications could be heard faintly over
the headsets still either on the heads of the fallen, or dangling beside their
terminals.

“I’ll
get you to send that stand-down order now,” said the man covering General
Liang.

Bo
looked at the panel showing troop placements, and saw the column rushing to
their rescue only minutes away. He shrugged his shoulders, and nodded to Liang.
Liang looked at the same display, then back at him, his eyes conveying that he
too knew the column was mere minutes from rescuing them. He stepped over to one
of the consoles, pulled the headset off the dead lieutenant that had been
manning it, and placed it on his head. Tapping a few keys, he was about to
speak when the American stepped toward him.

“And if
you think that column on Dawang Road is going to save you, you probably didn’t notice
they haven’t moved in the past two minutes. I’m guessing they’ve been engaged.”

Bo’s
eyes darted to the display, and his heart sank as he realized what the American
said was true. He hadn’t noticed it before, the scale of the displayed map too
small, but the blinking dot had indeed not moved any closer. Liang looked at
him, his eyes resigned to their fate, and snapped to attention, saluting. Bo
returned the honor, and Liang spoke into the microphone.

His
words sent a surge of pride through Bo’s heart, his chest swelling with the
implications, the bravado, the ballsy audacity just displayed by his
second-in-command, and the complete and utter cluelessness of their captors as
to what had just been said.

Except
one.

Inspector
Li’s eyes shot wide open and he began to spin toward Liang as he shouted the
translation.

“He said
to fight to the death!”

Bo
reached forward, grabbing the pistol from the distracted Li’s hand. Liang,
seeing this, surged forward and grabbed the American’s gun, trying to twist it
out of his hand. A shot rang out and Liang dropped, the weapon he had been
struggling for, his downfall.

All
weapons turned toward Bo as he raised the Inspector’s gun to his own head.

“For my
family, for my Emperor, for my China.”

He squeezed
the trigger, his last images that of blood splattering on his beloved flag,
then the sensation of his body collapsing backward against the wall, his hand
reaching up, grabbing the gold and blue silk, pulling it from the wall. He
collapsed to the ground, and with his life moments from ending, he watched as
it rippled down, covering him as he would want to be buried, draped in the flag
of his ancestors.

Dongzhimen Hospital, Beijing, China

The helicopters had left, and the attention had returned to the two
Americans that had arrived in a screech of tires and brakes, their car shot up,
the occupants covered in blood and dirt.

Dawson
didn’t blame them for not trusting them.

The
question was how far did that lack of trust go? How much did these men know of
what was happening in their city? In their country? The highest rank he had
seen was a lieutenant, and he seemed just as young and green as the men he led,
a group of men who appeared terrified, and if he didn’t know any better, a
group of men who had no standing orders beyond protecting the hospital.

And that
could be dangerous. With no rules of engagement, two suspicious Americans could
easily be construed as the enemy, and prime sources of intel. Intel that would
not be forthcoming.

Dawson
was grabbed by two men and forced toward the hospital entrance. He spoke
reassuringly, his hands up, his body language that of someone cooperating. A
glance over his shoulder, which was rewarded with the butt of a rifle between
his shoulder blades, showed Jimmy between two guards, trying to reassure them
he was no threat.

The
doors opened automatically and they were shoved through, the entire lobby
stopping and staring at the two disheveled foreigners. The lieutenant led the
way deeper inside. Dawson’s trained eye took in everything. The route they were
taking, the location of elevators, stairwells, emergency exits, cameras. He
knew this could get ugly, and though he didn’t want to kill any innocent
Chinese soldiers, he wasn’t about to sacrifice himself or Jimmy due to their
ignorance.

If he
had to, he would kill to free themselves.

But for
now, he had to assume they were going to be interrogated, and hopefully that
meant time. Time for things to settle down. Time for a message to hopefully get
through to the embassy. Time for the chaos outside to end.

The
lieutenant opened a door and Dawson was shoved through, followed by Jimmy. The
door was slammed shut, and two guards posted on either side, the lieutenant
shouting orders in Chinese.

“You
okay?” he asked Jimmy.

Jimmy
nodded. “You?”

“I’ll
live. We’re dealing with amateur hour here.”

“Which
is never good.”

“Agreed.
Speaking of amateurs, I still have Spock’s satellite phone,” said Dawson,
reaching into his pocket and pulling it out. “Watch the door.” He placed his
back facing the door, and rapidly dialed the embassy number. He put the phone
to his ear and leaned on a cabinet, pretending to relax as the phone rang.

“United
States Embassy, Beijing. How may I direct your call?”

“I don’t
have time, I need you to take a message,” whispered Dawson.

“You’ll
have to speak up, sir, I can barely hear you.”

Dawson
felt his chest tighten. He raised his voice a few decibels. “I need you to take
a message.”

“I’m
sorry, sir, I’m just the switchboard operator. Let me know how I can direct
your call and you can leave—”

“Listen
lady, you tell your Marine Detachment Commander that Ambassador Davidson, Mr.
White, and Mr. Black, are being held by Chinese troops at Dongzhimen Hospital.
We need embassy assistance immediately or we may be executed. Do you understand
me?”

There
was a pause.

“Yes,
sir. Dongzhimen Hospital.”

“Yes,
now get that message to your Marines right a—”

The door
burst open and Dawson spun around to see the lieutenant storm toward him, rifle
raised in the air. The butt came down on his nose as he made the split second
decision not to react, and the world went black.

Bo Yang’s Mobile Headquarters, Beijing, China

“What did he say?” asked Acton, standing over the body, the flag of
the Qing Dynasty covering the upper half of Bo Yang’s body like a cloak,
shielding him from any further indignities.

Inspector
Li stood up, having checked the man’s pulse to confirm he was dead.

“For my
family, for my Emperor, for my China.”

“Important
words,” said Acton. “This is history we’re living right here, right now, and
those words deserve to be remembered, to be written down. I’ll bet what
happened tonight will be erased from official history by the authorities, but
someday, people will want to know what happened, and historians will want to
investigate whether or not his claims were true. Was he indeed Mao’s grandson?
Was Mao the grandson of the last true Qing Emperor?” Acton shook his head at
the wonder of it all, vowing himself to attempt the undertaking. “Fascinating,”
he muttered as he stepped toward the flag, removing a handkerchief from his
pocket. He wiped it across the flag, then carefully folded the bloodstained
cotton, placing it in his pocket, preserving the DNA.

“Fascinating
indeed, Professor,” said Spock pointing at the screen. “But we need to get the
hell out of here now!”

On the
screen the column that had been stationary was moving again, as was a rapidly approaching
series of triangles that appeared to Acton to ignore all roads.

Incoming
aircraft!

Spock
grabbed Li and shoved him out the door, Acton following right behind him. They
sprinted down the short hallway and burst out the rear entrance, jumping to the
ground. Laura and Niner, covering their sixes, both spun around.

“What’s
going on?” asked Niner.

“Incoming!”
yelled Spock, pointing up. Acton looked and gasped as four fighter jets
streaked toward them. He grabbed Laura by the arm and they sprinted from the
parking lot, back toward where they had left the car, Li, Spock and Niner close
on their heels.

The roar
of the engines began to echo between the buildings, and was joined by several
higher pitched whines. Acton glanced over his shoulder and saw missiles
streaking toward the mobile HQ, their contrails like the lines painted on the
road to Hell, the source moving too fast for his eyes to pick out, but their
effect when they slammed into the large, armored trailer spectacular. The
massive machine jerked sideways, toward them, as if bent in half at the middle,
then a ripping sound was followed by a giant fireball that erupted from the holes
punched in the far side by the missiles. The entire structure at first bulged
as if preparing to release something held tightly inside, when finally, the
pressure proving too much for the armored lining, it tore open like a tin can,
flame pouring out, a shockwave rolling toward them as the unleashed fury tried
to consume all who had been involved.

Acton
was knocked to the ground, as were the rest of them. He hit hard, his chin
smacking the pavement. Instinctively he scrambled toward Laura, throwing his
body over hers, and looked back at the flames rolling toward them. Spock and
Niner were shielding Inspector Li, and were wisely not looking in the direction
of the oncoming flames.

“Hold
your breath!” yelled Spock.

Acton
turned away, burying his head under his arms, sucking in a lungful of air. A
wave of heat rushed over them, chewing through the oxygen, then just as quickly
rushed back, retreating toward the source of all the night’s chaos.

“Everyone
okay?”

It was
Spock. Acton rolled over, letting go his breath with a burst, and sucking in
several fresh ones as he looked at Laura who was thankfully doing the same.

“I’m
good,” he said, Laura echoing him. He jumped to his feet and pulled Laura to
hers. Li was limping, trying to avoid putting any weight on his right foot.

“Sprained
ankle,” he said as tires squealed behind them. They turned as one and saw a
jeep, gold flag flying from the back, bounce over the curb and enter the
parking lot, three of its four occupants standing, weapons ready, staring at
the burning hulk that had been their headquarters. One of new arrivals pointed
at them, shouting, and the driver gunned it toward the armed group. The one in
the passenger seat lowered his weapon, taking aim.

Niner
took him out, and Spock emptied a clip into the engine block, bringing the jeep
to a halt. Acton grabbed Li, throwing the man’s arm over his shoulder. Laura
got on the other side and they began to move the injured man as quickly as they
could toward the vehicle parked around the corner. More gunfire erupted from
behind them but Acton didn’t look, instead focusing on reaching the corner and
safety, however fleeting it might be.

“Doc!”

Acton
spun to see Niner throw the keys for the car, he watched them arc through the
air as he continued to move forward with Li. He jumped and grabbed them, Niner
already having returned his attention to the gun battle.

They
rounded the corner and Acton pressed the fob twice, unlocking all the doors.
They loaded a groaning Li into the back seat, and Laura climbed in with him as
Acton started the car. He put it in gear and hammered on the gas, sending it hurtling
toward the corner. Rounding it, he turned to the right then cranked it to the
left, the car skidding to a halt, its passenger side facing the two Delta Force
Bravo Team members.

“Get
in!” he yelled, reaching over and pushing open the passenger door as Laura did
the same with the rear. Niner and Spock backed toward the car, then climbed
inside. As soon as Acton saw their feet clear the pavement he hammered on the
gas, just as a tank rolled over the jeep they had destroyed.

“Where
to?” he asked as he whipped back around the corner they had just come.

“Embassy!”
yelled Spock.

“Turn
left here!” yelled Li, pointing. Acton spun the wheel, skidding around the
turn, and floored it, hoping to put as much distance as he could between them
and the tank he had just seen. “Keep going straight, I’ll tell you when to
turn. The embassy is only ten minutes from here.”

Unless
we run into more roadblocks.

Dongzhimen Hospital, Beijing, China

When Dawson came to, it was to the sound of thuds followed by
grunts. He had the impression of Rocky Balboa pounding flesh in the meat locker,
but as the fog cleared and his eyes opened, he found himself looking up to see
Jimmy tied to a chair, a Chinese soldier punching him in the face and the
stomach, each punch carefully lined up, intended to inflict maximum pain, the
black gloves the soldier wore, protecting the bastard’s knuckles from any
damage, or evidence he had inflicted the beating.

Another
soldier, apparently meant to cover Dawson, wasn’t doing his duty, instead
watching the show and assuming Dawson was still out cold. The lieutenant
screamed questions at Jimmy in Chinese, the apparent purpose of this entire
exercise not interrogation at all, but punishment under the guise of
questioning.

They
were mad, they were scared, and they were dangerous.

Terrified
men without orders.

Dawson
checked his wrists, and they were still unbound. So were his ankles.

Sloppy.

A quick
survey of the room showed the door was closed, no evidence of anyone outside,
and only the three soldiers.