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  "No!" he shouted. "I defend myself!"

  Payne nodded, taking a small step forward. "I know you are. That's why I'm not upset. You were scared, so you did what you could to protect yourself. There's nothing wrong with that. In fact, it's instinctual. You felt threatened, so you fought back."

  Park stared at him, his gun still trembling.

  "Unfortunately, sometimes a problem can be so big, you can't face it alone. Sometimes you need help to survive. Which is why I'm here. I'm here to help."

  "How you help me?"

  Payne stepped closer. "First of all, I can take you somewhere safe. That's most important. Wherever you want to go. To the mainland. To Japan. To the States. Anywhere you'd like."

  He paused, letting that sink in. "Then, once I know you're okay, I'm going to hunt for the men who attacked your village. No matter what, no matter where, I will search for them. And when I find them ..." His voice trailed off for just a second. "Let's just say what happened here tonight is nothing compared to what I'll do to them. I promise you that."

  The wail of sirens cut through the night, somehow rising above the fireworks, gunshots, and screams from the crowd. Payne heard the sound and realized what it meant: Park had to decide immediately. No way they could risk police involvement. Not with so much on the line. Unfortunately, he wasn't sure if Park felt the same way. For all he knew, Park might view the cops as a better option. Safer than talking to Payne. It was a risk Payne couldn't afford.

  "Mr. Kim told me horror stories about your village and all the atrocities that have happened in the cave. Through it all, the thing that surprised me the most was his hatred of the local police. The way they killed innocents during the massacre, the way they betrayed their own people. Until that point, I couldn't understand why you had decided to run. Then it made perfect sense. This island isn't safe for you. And it isn't safe for your son."

  The sirens grew louder, coupled with the glow of flashing lights.

  "I know you don't trust me. And the truth is you probably shouldn't, considering all that's happened in the past week. But in my heart I know you trust your neighbor Mr. Kim. That's why you ran to him in your time of crisis. You trusted his wisdom and guidance above your own."

  Payne lowered his gun, going for broke.

  "So tell me this. If he was here right now, which would he recommend? The police or me?"

  The Korean National Police Agency (KNPA) is the only police organization in South Korea. Based in Seoul, it is divided into fourteen local bureaus, including one in Jeju.

  During the Sunrise Festival, most on-duty officers were assigned to crowd control, helping the flow of traffic, arresting drunks, and doing what they could to make the celebration safe. Seongsan was a small village with very little crime, so the last thing they expected was a series of shootings. Not only at the marina, but at the theater as well.

  By the time they were notified, crucial time had been lost, made worse by the hordes of people who blocked the roads. Sirens sounded and lights flashed, but the streets were so narrow that people had nowhere to go. A journey that usually took a minute suddenly took ten. Way too long to make a difference.

  The first officers at the scene—proudly wearing the new police insignia, a Steller's sea eagle carrying a Rose of Sharon—checked the theater for gunmen before rushing to the aid of six victims, all of whom had black ninja outfits and a number of bruises. One was missing a knee, and the others were visibly shaken.

  Their Tiger-Strike teamwork had been ineffective against a more worthy opponent.

  Other witnesses were rounded up. Some Koreans. Some Japanese. Even a few Europeans. When questioned, all of them said the exact same thing. A crazed American had started the brawl. A tall, muscular guy who carried a gun and wiped out half the crowd.

  Then again, they said, his violent behavior should have been expected.

  Why? Because he played in the NBA.

  Payne knew the main roads would soon be blocked. So they left town to the east, taking Jung's fishing boat to the open sea.

  The hardest part of the journey was the first thirty minutes. Sneaking the Parks into the marina. Convincing Jones, who was bleeding from his biceps, to play nice with the guy who'd just shot him. Hot-wiring the boat, since they didn't have time to wait for Jung's guide. And keeping the Parks calm as Payne steered past hundreds of boats that filled the harbor. Kia played a major role in the last one, speaking to the Parks in Korean, doing whatever she could to reassure them of their safety. Still, despite her best efforts, Chung-Ho refused to part with his gun.

  He clung to it with one hand, his son with the other.

  The waters of the Korea Strait were notoriously tough to handle, especially in the dead of night. The sea was deep, the currents were strong, and all the boat's gauges were in Korean. After some translation help from Kia, Payne called Jones to the wheel.

  "How's the arm?"

  "It's fine. I found a first-aid kit and patched myself up. I'm sending the bill to Harrington."

  Payne laughed, glad to see Jones's sense of humor still intact. "Any mobility problems?"

  "Jon," he stressed, "I'm fine."

  "Good. Glad to hear it. Because we have a decision to make." He pulled out a map of the East Sea. "We don't have many choices. Either Japan, mainland Korea, or one of the islands along the way."

  "Forget the islands. We could never blend in."

  "What about Korea? We could make it in a few hours."

  "That depends. How many people did you hurt back there? I hear Korean prisons are kind of brutal on pretty boys like yourself."

  "Good point. In that case, what about Japan?"

  Jones studied the major ports along the Korea Strait. There were several options. "Fukuoka is the closest big city. Roughly two million people. Plenty of places to sneak ashore. That might be our best bet.... Then again, what are we going to do when we get there?"

  Unfortunately, Payne never got the chance to answer.

  He was too distracted by the helicopter that hovered up ahead.

  * * *

  31

  Monday, January 1

  The roar of Jung's boat masked the chopper's engines until it was too late. Throw in the wind and the choppy seas, and Payne didn't spot it until it was a hundred yards away. Of course, even if he had, what could he have done? The damn thing just hovered there, directly in his path. No movement. No lights. Like an iceberg in the night, just waiting for the Titanic to strike.

  Payne swore to himself and eased the boat to a stop. He told everyone on board not to panic, that everything would be all right. But deep down inside, he wasn't so sure. Technically, they were in a stolen boat and had just fled a country where he'd shot someone and assaulted five others. Park was carrying a gun and had recently fired it several times in the crowded streets of Seongsan. Jones was bleeding. The boy was traumatized. And Kia was privy to everything.

  Yeah, they were screwed.

  Things got worse when the chopper turned on its gigantic spotlight and shined it directly on the boat. Payne shielded his eyes, trying to figure out who he was dealing with. The police? The coast guard? The Korean Navy? Any of those would have ruined his New Year.

  Suddenly a booming voice—like the voice of God— filled the night. It was broadcast in English over the chopper's speaker system, echoing louder than the roar of the turbines. "Do not be alarmed.... Do not make a move.... Prepare to be boarded."

  Jones grimaced at the announcement. "That sounds painful."

  "Let's hope not," said Payne as he inched his way toward Mr. Park, who sat in the back of the boat. When he got there, he spoke firmly into his ear. "If you want to help your son, drop your gun overboard. If they see it in your hand, you will be arrested. Or worse."

  Park nodded in understanding.

  Five seconds later it was sinking to the bottom of the sea.

  The next few minutes were a whirlwind of surprises. The chopper rose several feet above the water, then crept forward until it hovered d
irectly above the cramped deck of the boat. Payne heard the rumble of a large winch as two men were lowered on board.

  Both of them were dressed in black, their faces covered with visors.

  No patches. No badges. No insignias.

  Neither man carried a weapon.

  Confused, Payne stood there, assessing the situation. He knew they were in Korean waters, yet no one on the chopper had identified whom he worked for. The orders to halt had been given in English, not Korean. And the men standing across from him were tall and muscular, closer to Payne's size than Park's.

  Something about this didn't seem right.

  Things got stranger when one of them whipped out a cell phone and waited for it to ring. A few seconds later, it did. But instead of answering the call, which would have required him to take off his helmet and show his face, he walked forward and handed it to Payne.

  The man said, "It's for you."

  "It is?" Payne took the phone and answered the call. "Hello?"

  The voice on the other end was American. Masculine. All business. He said, "We've been sent to evacuate you and your friends."

  "Who is this?"

  But his question was dismissed. Simply ignored. "We'll hoist you up one at a time. Jones first, then the others, then you. Later tonight you'll be briefed in private. Am I clear?"

  "Crystal."

  "Good. My men will remain on board. Tell them where to dump the boat and it will be done."

  The United States and the Republic of Korea signed a Status of Forces Agreement (SOFA) in 1966, guaranteeing the presence of U.S. military personnel to protect against external threats. Currently, there are more than thirty thousand American soldiers stationed in Korea, scattered around the country on several official bases. And several more that are unofficial.

  Payne and his crew were taken to one of those, tucked in the rolling hills of Jeollanam-do Province, near the southwestern tip of the peninsula. On paper, the base was decommissioned a decade ago, yet it still housed enough soldiers to start a small war. From the outside, the facility looked abandoned—a series of dilapidated hangars and warehouses that should have been razed—but the inside was a different story.

  It was buzzing with activity.

  From the moment they got into the chopper until they were escorted to a small room on the northern end of the compound, the Parks were blindfolded. Kia sat next to them the entire time, whispering in Korean, assuring them that everything was being done for their safety. Her dedication continued once they reached the base. She refused to leave their side, even after their blindfolds were removed and they were locked in their holding cell, which had the feel of a cheap hotel room—equipped with a bed, desk, TV, and bathroom. A video camera was mounted in the far corner of the ceiling, allowing a team of guards to monitor them at all times.

  Meanwhile, Payne and Jones were taken to a different building, this one in the center of the camp, where they met the senior enlisted adviser in a tiny office with cement walls and an American flag as its lone decoration. His name was Crawford, and his rank was command sergeant major. He wore a beige T-shirt and camouflage cargo pants that were recendy ironed. His hair looked brown but was shaved so close its color hardly mattered. The type of guy who smiled so infrequently it looked like he had gas when he actually tried.

  Payne recognized Crawford's voice the moment he spoke—he was the man who'd called him on Jung's boat. "I hope you realize the position you put us in, having to save your ass in the middle of the night. We didn't appreciate the exposure."

  "Excuse me?"

  "You heard me. This is supposed to be a low-key operation."

  "Yeah," Payne snapped. "I gathered that from your office decor. I meant the saving my ass part. I never asked to be saved."

  "That's not what we heard from the Pentagon." He opened the lone folder that sat on his desk. "At oh-oh-oh-two hours, we were notified of a possible medical evac on Jeju Island. Details to follow. At oh-oh-eleven hours, medical evac was changed to personnel evac. Three soldiers, two civilians. Aerial resources were diverted from a training mission in the Korea Strait, course south-southwest toward Seongsan. At oh-oh-seventeen hours, our rendezvous point was updated when your boat was tagged by satellite." He glanced up from the folder and stared at them. "Shall I go on?"

  Jones spoke first. "Can you repeat the part about medical evac? That was so exciting!"

  "You think this is a joke?"

  "No," Payne said, "we don't. But unless you have transcripts of an unauthorized broadcast on our part, I think it would be best if you dropped your attitude. Last time 1 checked, sergeant majors were several notches below captain in the chain of command."

  Crawford stood from his chair. "Maybe so. But last time / checked, you were retired."

  He walked toward his office door, then stopped. "Stay put. I'm calling Washington."

  Payne and Jones waited for Crawford to close his door before they spoke. And even then, they did it in hushed tones, trying not to be overheard.

  Jones asked, "Did you call for evac when I was shot?"

  "Are you crazy? I was running down the street, chasing a gunman. When could I call?"

  "What about Kia?"

  "What about her? She was taking care of you. Did she use your phone?"

  Jones shook his head. She was busy, too. "Well, someone called."

  Payne nodded, confused. "Yeah, but the question is who."

  * * *

  32

  Twenty minutes passed before Crawford returned. When he did, he said nothing until he punched a series of buttons on his desk phone. Its speaker crackled to life.

  He muttered, "Washington is on the line. Hang up when you're done."

  Then he turned and left the room. No explanation. No name or hint of what was to follow. Payne couldn't tell if Crawford was angry, embarrassed, or pleased with himself, because the bastard had no facial expressions. Like the ultimate poker player. Or someone with Botox.

  Payne pulled the speaker closer. "This is Jonathon Payne. Who am I speaking to?"

  There was a lengthy delay before a gruff voice filled the line. "Randy Raskin. Pentagon."

  Jones started laughing, happy to hear from his friend. "Damn, Randy, you scared the hell out of us. We thought you were someone important."

  "Thanks, man. I appreciate it. I love you, too."

  Payne said, "You know what he means."

  "I know, I know." The ever-present clicking of Raskin's keyboard could be heard in the background. He was the quintessential multitasker. "I'm guessing your host is out of the room."

  "Yeah. We're clear."

  "Thank God! That guy is an idiot. I've been forced to sound official for the past three hours. No matter what I did or said, he kept quoting rules and regulations. Blah, blah, blah. Even when D.J. was shot, he gave me flack about evac."

  Jones leaned forward. "I'm fine, by the way. Thanks for asking."

  "Oh, now I get it," Raskin teased. "You don't consider me important, yet you want me to care about your health? Sorry, fellas. You can't have it both ways. .. . Besides, I already knew you were fine. I've been monitoring your progress all night."

  Payne frowned. "How so?"

  "The amazing thing about Korea is their technology. They're way ahead of us when it comes to implementation. It's actually kind of creepy. Sorta like Big Brother."

  "Meaning?"

  "Did you know Jeju has more than six thousand traffic cameras? With a touch of a button, I tapped into their mainframe and followed your movement all over the island. I'm telling you, it was great. Just like a movie! When you got attacked by ninjas? Man, that was awesome! You were like, kick, punch, shoot! And that guy was like aaaaaaaagh! Only I couldn't hear him scream because there's no sound on their cameras."

  "Are you done?"

  "Not yet. If you want, I can burn you a copy on DVD. You know, like a home movie."

  "I'd like one," Jones said. "Please send it to—"

  But Payne cut him off. "Actually, I'd prefe
r if you deleted all traces of us from their system. If Korea sees that footage—"

  "1 know, I know. Don't worry. I already took care of it. I wiped out the entire feed from Seongsan. Their computers will interpret it as a power surge, but we know the truth."

  "Thanks," Payne said. "You're the best."

  "I know that, too."

  "So," Jones said, "was there a reason you called? Or were you just calling to brag?"

  "Damn! The guy gets shot one time, and now he's all business." Raskin pounded away on his keyboard until the correct file filled his screen. "You asked me to do more research on Dr. Ernie Sheldon, and I found some interesting nuggets. Is there somewhere I can send them, or will I have to go through Crawford?"

  "Fill us in now," Payne said. "You can send it through him later."

  Raskin scanned the data. "Don't crucify me on this one, but I gave you some misleading intel the last time we talked. Turns out, Dr. Sheldon might not be dead. In fact, I'm pretty sure of it. His main file lists him as deceased. Yet I tracked him through some back doors and found a fairly recent posting. For the past three years he's been working as a special projects coordinator at Fort Huachuca."

  Fort Huachuca is a major military installation in Arizona that became home to the U.S. Army Intelligence Center and School in 1971. Since then, its post has changed several times, yet in the past three decades one thing has remained constant. If a soldier wanted to be certified as an interrogator, he went to Fort Huachuca—where they taught all the necessary skills to become a 97E (pronounced 97 echo), everything from the art of interrogation to the rules of deception.

  Payne and Jones were quite familiar with the installation, a place both of them endured while prepping for the MANIACs. At times their training was horrific, bordering on inhumane.

  But it prepared them for what they'd face in the Special Forces. And how to handle it.

  Payne said, "Define special projects."

  "Everything from the latest torture techniques to mind-control experiments. Plus I hear there's been progress with gamma-aminobutyric acid. Combining GABA drugs and physical exhaustion to extract confessions." Raskin cleared his throat, as if catching himself before he revealed too much. "Of course, that's probably just hearsay. I have no specific knowledge as to what Sheldon was working on."