The lone machine gunner broke fire, jolting Mitchell back to the moment, just as the frag struck the ground at his side.

Mitchell swore to himself. All the guy had to do was turn his head, grab the frag--which was right there--and pitch it away. Two seconds.

But hallelujah, he didn't notice it. Mitchell took in a breath before the man and his gun exploded in a cloud of mud backlit by fire and white-hot shrapnel.

"Rutang, go!" Mitchell shouted in his boom mike, although his order was easily loud enough for the assistant medic to hear without equipment.

The sound of another machine gun sent Mitchell back to his feet. He started toward a narrow passage between trees, picked up the pace, but suddenly tripped and hit the ground hard, losing his grip on his M4A1, though it was still tight in its sling.

He rose to his hands and knees and glanced back, wondering what the hell had caught his boot and guessing it was probably a tree root.

One of the terrorists stood there where the "tree root" should be, his AK-47 pointed at Mitchell's face. "Shoot me," Mitchell blurted out in surprise.

"No."

The guy was dark-skinned, gaunt-faced, and heavily bearded, with a black bandanna tied around his neck. His eyes bugged out as he opened his mouth once again to reveal a gap-toothed, evil grin. "Don't move, soldier."

This guy wasn't just Abu Sayyaf, Mitchell knew. His accent indicated he was the real deal, an Arab, a member of al Qaeda, on the island to help train Abu Sayyaf the way they were helping to train the Filipinos and Taiwanese.

Mitchell suddenly imagined his own head stuck on a pole, just like that missionary's. They would use him to send another message.

Mitchell's father, two brothers, and sister back home in Ohio would watch it all on CNN. His torture and murder would break their hearts.

And his mother, looking down from the heavens, would weep for her son, the boy she had left behind when he was only fourteen.

"Now . . . get up," said the Arab.

"You told me not to move."

"Get up."

Mitchell narrowed his gaze and bared his teeth. "No."

The Arab chuckled under his breath. "Whoa, you are a big man, huh? Big American? When I get you back to the camp--"

Mitchell rolled around, coming up with his rifle, knowing he'd be a second too late.

That was all right. They wouldn't take him alive. And they wouldn't take him without a fight.

He fired a half second after the Arab did.

However--and this was a big however--he was still coming around as the Arab fired, and only one of three rounds made contact.

That round pinched Mitchell's left biceps, just as he flinched and lifted his rifle a bit more, directing his bead across the Arab's chest, hammering the bastard with his third and fourth rounds.

The guy went down, groaning, and Mitchell silenced him with another salvo.

He sat there a moment, catching his breath, his hand going reflexively for his wounded arm. It looked like a clear entry and exit, not too much blood. But the wound was beginning to burn now, really burn.

Raging aloud, he got up, one-handed his rifle, and started toward the sound of that second machine gun.

He fought for more breath as he ran, the air growing thicker, more humid, and there was no dry spot on his entire body. He neared a long ditch where the rain coming down from a small hill had eroded the jungle floor. At the top of that hill came the rat-tat-tat of the second gun.

"Ricochet, this is Rutang, over."

Mitchell got onto his haunches, keyed his mike. "Go ahead."

"You okay?"

"Yeah, you in position?"

Rutang's voice began to crack. "Scott, it's freaking horrible, man. I think you and I are the only guys standing. Can't get anyone else on the radio. Billy and Carlos are here, and they're shot up bad. I can't do anything more with them. And it sounds like those Tangos are moving in on us. We can't stay. There's a hill about fifteen meters back, but I can't carry them--not with all the incoming."

"Tang, listen to me. Calm down. I'll get the other machine gun. When you hear the bang, grab Billy or Carlos and fall back to that hill. I'll get the other guy."

"Scott, I don't know."

"Tang, you know everything you need to."

"Uh, right. Roger that."

"Okay, stand by . . ." Mitchell tugged out another frag and started furtively up the hill as the machine gunner opened up, the racket like a jackhammer on Mitchell's brain.

In the distance, more gunfire echoed, and two more mortars dropped in succession, assumably in the Filipino team's zone. Mitchell wanted to check in with Yano, but there just wasn't time.

As the last mortar's explosion died off, the shouts rose, growing closer now. Mitchell recognized Tagalog and Arabic, and even a few taunts in broken English: "No prisoners! Only dead bodies!"

Most members of Abu Sayyaf were just poor Filipino kids who'd been lured away by the Arabs with the promise of money, women, guns, and fun--and really, what was their alternative? Poverty, disease, and the false smiles of foreigners pretending to help? They didn't spend much time mulling over that decision.

And while Mitchell entertained all of the hypocrisy in his head (after all, he was human), he never, ever let those thoughts affect his mission or his men. Striving to remain apolitical was, in his estimation, the best way to remain sane.

So if these kids chose to join a terrorist group, then they would suffer the consequences of that decision. There was nothing else to consider.

Mitchell hunched over as he ascended the hill, his boots sloshing even more loudly through the mud. He cursed at the noise. Slowing his pace didn't help much.

Consequently, he nixed the "sneak up behind the guy" plan and went for the blitz. He tucked the M67 back into its pouch and stomped forward with pain shooting through his wounded arm. His gaze reached out into the darkness, toward the shifting shadows just meters away, near two trees off to his right.

There he was. The machine gunner lay on his belly, cutting loose with another burst.

Mitchell sprinted toward him as the guy broke fire, turned his head, and saw the deranged, mud-covered specter who was about to end his young life.

Rounds leapt from Mitchell's M4A1 and drummed the gunner into cold, wet oblivion.

It took a few seconds for Mitchell to remember that Rutang was waiting for a frag to go off, the one Mitchell had tucked back into his pouch. He yanked it out, pulled the pin, and tossed it in the direction of more incoming fire from the grainy green tree line to the east.

Three, two, one. The frag burst apart, and Mitchell barked into the radio, "Rutang! MOVE!"

"On my way!"

Mitchell dropped onto his gut, while pulling out his night-vision goggles.

Down below, through a maze of palms and rubber plants and vines twisting down across the trees like spiderwebs, he spotted Rutang carrying one of their buddies on his back, swaying hard as he ascended a hill.

Rutang shifted around a cluster of shrubs but then drew a spate of fire from at least four gunmen positioned in the dense trees about twenty meters opposite him.

Mitchell ran to the enemy machine gun, took it into his hands, and released a fierce stream to cover Rutang.

But not thirty rounds into his fire the gun's muzzle began glowing red-hot and smoking, about to melt off. It seemed the terrorist had been firing way too much, not waiting for the barrel to cool between salvos, leaving Mitchell with a gun far too hot to sustain fire.

Mitchell abandoned the DP and, holding his breath, pressed the goggles to his eyes.