I hobbled down the office building corridor, every step a stab of pain, my mind replaying the harrowing scenes from moments ago. I’d barely made it to the freight elevator when the doors hadn’t yet closed and the thugs spotted me. Guns barked in unison. I ducked behind the button panel and felt a ricochet slam into my right thigh. The bullet didn’t penetrate deeply—I pinched out the tip and yanked it free—but the wound slowed me. The moment I planted weight on that leg, a cold sweat pricked my brow.

  I checked my ammo: only two AKM magazines and four pistol magazines left. I’d already been shot twice; mobility was shot to hell. If I ran into more enemies, I wouldn’t outrun them. I needed to find a hiding place, somewhere to lie low.

  Everyone always called me cheerful and optimistic, but with these wounds and the situation closing in on me, death kept slipping into my mind. They say that only a hero can still laugh in the face of death. Clearly, I was no hero. I couldn’t laugh. I thought of my parents. Maybe I should call them—what could I even say? “I’m about to die”? No, I couldn’t do that—my aging parents couldn’t bear such a blow.

  Just as I hesitated whether to phone home, my radio buzzed of its own accord—it was Qin Zhong again.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, his tone oddly gentle.

  “No,” I admitted. “I’ve been shot in the leg. If you don’t get here soon, I’m done for.”

  “Our men are almost back,” he said. “But if we charge in now, they might execute the hostages… ”

  “They’re hunting me down,” I snapped. “If you don’t come, I’ll die.”

  “Why are they chasing you? You’re just a nobody—why would they care whether you live or die?” His words stung, but I couldn’t deny their truth.

  “I heard them on the radio: they said their boss’s surname is Yang, and that he’s got two top lieutenants with him.”

  “That’s it? They wouldn’t hunt you down just for that.”

  “That’s all I know! They just said Boss Yang is dangerous and that this plan was perfect. Nothing more!” I felt helpless—what else could I tell him?

  “Hello? Hello?” Qin Zhong yelled. “What did you say? I can’t hear you!”

  “Now you tell me!” My radio went dead—battery flat.

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  I let the handset slip from my hand. Of course they wouldn’t chase me just to kill a random bystander. Why was I so important to them? If it wasn’t because I’d overheard their boss’s name, what was it for? Their plan was in full swing—hundreds of foreigners, heavy weapons—if it were merely a robbery, they wouldn’t be this well organized. It had to be a larger conspiracy. I needed to warn Qin Zhong.

  But my phone was dead; the only option was the radio—and the thugs would hear me too. If they learned I’d exposed their scheme, they’d make me regret it, whether or not this job succeeded. What could I do? Finally, the word “foreigners” pushed me over the edge: I would serve my country one last time… and hope I wasn’t making a fatal mistake.

  “Qin Zhong! Can you hear me? Qin Zhong! Over!” I fumbled with the walkie, scanning all around.

  “What is it? Speak!” came his voice.

  “I know why they’re hunting me,” I said, voice shaking. “They’re all foreigners—none of them speak Chinese. They have a plan, and it’s more than a robbery. It’s some kind of plot.”

  “What plot? My men have the building surrounded. They can’t do anything now!” Qin Zhong sounded convinced.

  “Not so fast—they must have accomplices. Have there been any recent incidents involving foreigners? They speak perfect Chinese—clearly not Japanese, more like… Asian.”

  “Foreigners? Nothing comes to mind. Asian? We border Myanmar—maybe drug traffickers?”

  “That’s it!” Almost as soon as I blurted it, a dry voice crackled over my radio: “You’re dead meat, kid—you’re dead meat!” A few mocking laughs followed.

  I knew in that instant they’d realized I’d tipped off the cops. Now there was no hope they’d call off the hunt. I was finished.

  With a herculean effort, I hoisted myself upright and peered down through the window at the police below, managing a bitter smile. Then—bang!—a sniper’s rifle cracked overhead, and a bullet slammed so close I ducked, watching one cop drop to the pavement below.

  That sniper was directly above me. Another shot—another officer down. The police scrambled in blind return fire, only to be cut down one by one. I knew what I had to do.

  I rose on tiptoe, edging toward the stairwell door. Rounding the corner, I came face-to-face with a man wielding a PSG-1 sniper rifle, a sadistic grin plastered on his face as he treated the victims like playing targets. I lifted my AKM, but realized firing would draw every gunman in the building on me. Instead, I set the rifle aside, drew my crossbow, nocked an arrow, aimed, and let it fly. The bolt thunked into his left rib; he shrieked, clawing at the shaft, but couldn’t reach it. After a few agonized seconds, his body went slack. I had to tear my gaze away—and that’s when I saw another sniper on the same floor.

  Another bullet tore away flesh from my left shoulder before I even processed it. On a battlefield, I’d learned, every moment you look away can be fatal.

  I hastily brought up my AKM, but with two wounds in my shoulder, I could barely keep the weapon steady. My first magazine emptied in a wild spray and missed him entirely. No wonder the AKM was being phased out—recoil uncontrollable, muzzle blast deafening. I tossed it aside, drew the MK23, and played cat and mouse around the circular corridor. He was a trained marksman; he carried a sidearm like me. Now it was pure luck—whoever caught the other unprepared would fire the fatal shot.

  I squatted in a shadowy alcove, watching. Suddenly, a silenced pistol pressed against my temple. My world went black, time froze—and all I could think was: this is it.