It took Ruan five days to recon his assault. Starting from Pearl City Peninsula, across from the northwest side of Ford Island, he made his way down to Hospital Point. In the world he left behind, part of Joint Base Pearl Harbor-Hickam, here it was marshland. He lay motionless in the muck for hours, invisible behind the shoreline grass as he noted the habits of the final hidden sentry.

  A cool wind had picked up, and a wall of clouds built against the peaks to the northeast. By nightfall, their cover would extend into the Pacific Ocean, and pounding raindrops would make it impossible to discern his movements against the water. Then he would strike.

  Although the men keeping watch remained disciplined, their unwitting companions had betrayed them. The fishermen tracked the same path twice a day, distributing rations of food and water to their hidden protectors, revealing their locations, and providing a blueprint for Ruan’s attack. A trail of scuffed dirt and bent grass would lead him to their hiding spots. The one advantage they still had was that he could not determine their sleep cycles. They’d been too still and well-concealed for him to figure it out.

  It didn’t matter. In the predawn hours, he would make the seven-hundred-meter crossing and engage. If he waited any longer, they might declare O’ahu safe and go inland—or leave to return in greater numbers.

  Hours later, already soaked from the rain, Ruan waded into the water under cover of darkness. He couldn’t even see the outline of Ford Island, and knew that he, too, would be invisible from across the stretch of lagoon.

  With everything but his combat knife and compass packed safely in waterproof nylon bags in his ruck, he waded into the water a hundred meters before the bottom dropped away and he had to swim. The compass aloft in one hand, he propelled himself forward with an awkward sidestroke. A tradeoff—but he’d rather take longer on the crossing than arrive on the other side with no idea of his position.

  Heavy rain pummeled the lagoon, splashing water in his face and assaulting his eardrums with its patter. He could hear nothing but the rain, and see nothing beyond the pale green glow of the decaying tritium lighting his compass. Overloading one sense, he knew, diminished the brain’s ability to process information from the others, and required intense focus to overcome. Ruan had been trained to operate under duress, and so viewed the conditions as being overwhelmingly to his advantage.

  After less than an hour, his feet found the bottom. He held his head barely above water, crawling along the sand for the last few meters until below the field of vision of the nearest sentry. Then he scurried ashore, ducking behind a shrub before retrieving his sidearm from its waterproof bag and holstering it at his hip.

  Assuming he’d held course, he’d landed halfway between the fishermen’s campsite and the nearest sentry. All he had to do now was find the path. He edged into the jungle, shimmying forward on his elbows and knees, and quickly realized the flaw in his plan.

  “Shit.”

  He had timed his crossing to arrive on the island as one of the fishermen started his early morning rounds. After dispatching him silently with his knife, Ruan would assume the dead man’s routine, following the path from one target to the next. The hidden sentries would never suspect a thing, attributing signs of his approach to a colleague bearing food and water. It all went to hell if he couldn’t even find the trail.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Too dark to see a damned thing. Ruan had no choice but to retreat to the other side of the lagoon and rethink his plan. As he turned to leave, a twinkle in the darkness caught his attention. A globe of light danced through the trees, advancing on his position. He smiled.

  “Gotcha.”

  If he couldn’t see the path, neither could his targets. The approaching fisherman made his rounds by torchlight, delivering an opportunity to salvage the plan.

  As the bobbing light neared, it gave evidence to the man holding it, illuminating his face in a flickering glow. Ruan went still, holding his breath as the fisherman passed by. Then he fell in behind, hiding in the torchbearer’s shadow and synchronizing his pace to disguise the sound of his footsteps. Though unnecessary amid the din of the pounding rain, a force of habit nonetheless.

  When they reached a fork in the path and turned for the shore, the fisherman raised a hand to his mouth and made a call like a bird. From somewhere in the trees ahead came an echoed reply. A birdcall in the middle of the night while carrying a lit torch? Unlikely an attempt at stealth. More likely, a way of identifying the approaching man as a friend. If this were Ruan’s operation, the call would be different for every man along the way to prevent someone infiltrating the route unchallenged. He would have to gamble their operational security wasn’t as meticulous as his own.

  Ruan crouched low, holding position in his unsuspecting escort’s shadow. Taking on two targets at once complicated the plan, and he could not afford to reveal himself too soon if he hoped to survive. The fisherman called into the darkness, and a hulking, tattooed warrior stepped from the vegetation. He held a short, fierce-looking spear, its tip festooned with shark’s teeth.

  The warrior raised a hand against the glow of the torch, providing the opportunity to strike. Ruan closed in and, with a swift thrust, plunged his knife between the fisherman’s ribs. It sliced out as he fell away and hit the ground. Beside him, the torch lay in the mud, its struggling flame casting distorted shadows against the trees.

  The warrior reacted in an instant. He took a step back as Ruan lunged at him, buying enough time to swivel his spear around. It caught the Recce in the side, the row of jagged shark’s teeth tearing at his ribcage as he drove his knife into the warrior’s gut. Eyes wide and chest heaving, the wounded man stumbled backward, clutching his stomach. Ruan pounced again, this time driving the knife into his heart. A last gasp of air escaped the warrior’s lungs, and he fell still.

  As Ruan grabbed the torch from the ground, searing pain shot through his side. The enemy spear. He examined the jagged cut in the torchlight, shaking his head. How much longer could he expect to challenge men half his age in hand-to-hand combat? With most of his ammunition spent, there would soon be no other choice—unless he could prevent their return. He pushed the pain aside and considered his options.

  Without the torch, he’d have no chance of finding the other men. Unfortunately, that also meant announcing his approach. To get close enough to strike, they’d need to believe him an ally until the last second.

  Ruan examined the dead fisherman, not much different in stature from himself. He removed the man’s loincloth before stripping off his own clothes and stuffing them into his ruck. Then, after wrapping himself in the crude garment the best he could manage, he passed one end through the belt loops on his holster and tied it off.

  Skin and hair color were still an issue. Though well-bronzed from his years on the island, Ruan’s skin tone didn’t match the natives—and the tan lines were all wrong. He scooped up handfuls of mud and rubbed them over his body, face, and hair. Not a perfect match, but close enough in the pale torchlight. Even if his disguise bought only a few tenths of a second, it could mean the difference between life and death.

  His own weapons didn’t suit the new tactics. The Ka-Bar worked best for close combat, and the report from the Sig couldn’t be drowned out by anything but the most intense island weather. He glanced at the dead warrior’s spear. Though crude, it seemed better suited to the distances of a face-to-face encounter.

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  Finally, he considered his ruck, debating the immediate utility of its contents. Should he stash it? No. The risk of losing track of it outweighed the potential detriment to his disguise. In the faint, yellow light, the straps almost vanished against his mud-covered body.

  Satisfied with his preparations, he followed the side trail back to the fork where it rejoined the main path, and counted out two hundred paces—the distance he’d estimated between the first two posts during his recon. Bent grass, damaged from the repeated passage of his careless targets, betrayed the location of the next sentry.

  Ruan started toward the water, holding the torch behind his head to obscure his features in a halo of light. He held the spear low at his side to appear unthreatening. Approaching the shore, he mimicked the birdcall and waited for the countersign. To his relief, the echoed reply came without delay. It seemed they hadn’t considered a unique call for each post after all.

  He tightened his grip on the spear but did not cock back his arm for fear of betraying his intentions too soon. A shape emerged from the tall grass at the tree line.

  “E aha hana ?oe!”

  Though Ruan couldn’t understand the words, the tone conveyed the warrior’s displeasure. He pointed at the torch, perhaps unhappy to have his position revealed by such poor discipline. Ruan didn’t bother with a response. Without breaking stride, he closed the gap and held out his torch as if handing it over.

  His prey reached for it, his mouth falling open as it illuminated Ruan’s face. Too late. The spear pierced the base of his sternum, its placement ensuring he could manage no cry of warning to his brethren. Ruan’s heart pounded as he stared down at the body. God, how he missed the rush of close combat. With a quickening pulse, he hurried to find his next target.

  He employed the same tactic at the next offshoot, holding the torch back to keep his features in shadow. He repeated the birdcall, but got no answer from the warrior. Perhaps he was on his designated sleep break. Ruan called again, and a hulking form appeared in the pale, flickering light.

  “?O wai ma laila.”

  When Ruan failed to offer a reply, the warrior assumed a defensive stance, pointing the spear at his chest.

  Shit. He didn’t have the experience with the short spear to best a stronger, younger man in close combat.

  As his foe took a few cautious steps forward, Ruan lofted the weapon over his shoulder and let it fly. The warrior turned his body and raised his arm to shield his head. The spear, not designed as a projectile, made contact at a bad angle and glanced off his shoulder, leaving only a superficial cut.

  His nostrils flaring, the warrior let out a cry and lunged. Ruan stepped aside, losing his balance as his heel caught an exposed root. As he stumbled to the ground, he hurled the torch, desperate to slow his attacker and buy a few precious seconds. Rolling to one side, he fumbled for his sidearm and raised it at the hulking shadow bearing down on him, the momentary flash illuminating his attacker’s harsh, tattooed features.

  The warrior collapsed on top of him, forcing the air from his lungs. Ruan gasped for breath as he struggled out from underneath the lifeless mass. Sitting in the mud catching his breath, blackness replaced the fading purple-white imprint of the muzzle flash.

  Fuck. The torch.

  To make things worse, the nearest of his remaining targets had surely heard the report. He needed a new plan.

  Unless he felt like wandering blindly toward alerted prey, he’d have to backtrack on the familiar part of the trail. With any luck, those remaining would gather at the campsite, where he’d hit them before they could take to their canoes. If they stayed hidden, he’d have to retreat across the lagoon and figure out how to salvage the operation.

  Fumbling his way in the blackness, he soon lost track of the trail. Where the hell was it? Desperate for some way to speed his progress, Ruan remembered the flare gun. He unslung his ruck and pulled it out, loading one of his two remaining flares. With a hand shielding his eyes against the flash, he pointed the gun at the sky and pulled the trigger.

  A path through the trees revealed itself under the light of the towering flare. Ruan sprinted forward as he scanned the ground to stay on course, hoping he could cover most of the distance to the campsite before it faded. It was already too late to avoid the collision by the time the pair of muddy feet appeared in front of him. He looked up a fraction of a second before impact to see one of the fishermen standing transfixed; his mouth hanging open as he stared up at the flare.

  He turned his body and drove his shoulder into the side of the distracted man’s head. The pop, audible even above the din of the pounding rain, left no doubt that he’d shattered the man’s jaw. Ruan got up, rubbing his shoulder.

  The fisherman lay motionless on the ground with his jaw twisted to one side. Ruan dragged the limp body to a nearby tree, cuffing the man’s wrists around it with one of the nylon ties from his pack.

  He stayed crouched by the unconscious man for several minutes, catching his breath as he contemplated how to salvage the plan. While risky to push forward on the edge of control, waiting for daylight to expose him posed an even greater risk. With the rain easing, the clouds would not conceal him for long.

  Ruan took a deep breath. He grabbed the flare gun from his ruck, briefly examining his last flare before loading it into the chamber. Shielding his eyes, he fired into the sky and sprinted forward under the soaring white globe.

  The shadows of swaying tree branches danced in the uneven light, making it tricky to adjust to the terrain. Even so, he estimated he’d made at least three hundred meters by the time the light extinguished overhead. In darkness once more, he crouched down behind a tree to catch his breath.

  As the pounding of his heart against the inside of his chest subsided, so did the rain. Though a few drops pattered in the trees, a handful of twinkling stars showed through scattered openings in the clouds in the westward sky. He could hear the water lapping at the shoreline to his left amid the easing rain. Guided by the sound, Ruan eased his way forward through the blackness.

  Before long, the dancing glow of a fire revealed itself ahead. He crept forward, scanning the vegetation for hidden sentries as he advanced on the campsite. There were none. The two remaining fishermen and a pair of warriors huddled together beside the flickering yellow-orange flames. As they spoke among themselves, their eyes darted about the campsite perimeter.

  The rain stopped, its disorienting tapping replaced by the familiar sounds of night insects and early-rising birds. A rustle grew louder on the far side of the camp. With the fishermen cowering behind them, the warriors took a defensive posture, pointing their spears toward the jungle.

  When a pair of their colleagues emerged from the tree line, they held their stances as if expecting some unknown pursuer to burst into the campsite. The new arrivals added to the chatter, pointing to the sky where Ruan’s last flare had traced its arcing path.

  Moments later, another warrior—the final one—stumbled from the jungle and fell to his knees before his colleagues. His chest heaved from the exertion of a frenzied retreat. He spoke a few words and motioned to the canoes, igniting an intense exchange.

  While they argued, he eased his ruck from his shoulder and reached inside. A grin crept over his face as his fingers closed around a flashbang. Perfect. He pulled the pin and tossed it back in his pack. Then, easing onto his knees, he lobbed the grenade into the middle of the campsite.

  The men fell silent, their heads turning in unison as it hit the ground and rolled toward them. Ruan threw himself to the ground and clasped his hands over his ears. Though he knew what to expect, the violence of the concussive blast rocked his senses. He could only imagine what it had done to his prey.

  He leaped to his feet, drawing his sidearm as he strode into the campsite. Around him, the stunned men fumbled about in blindness and confusion. He approached the warriors one by one and put a single bullet into each of their heads, shattering their skulls. Then, confident no one had seen him, he slipped back into the cover of the trees.

  It took only a few minutes for the fishermen to regain their senses enough to find one another. After surveying the horrifying scene around the campfire, they wasted no time dragging one of their two-man outriggers to the water. The first pink hints of sunrise illuminated the tops of the now sparse clouds, providing enough light for to navigate their way out of Pearl Harbor. Soon, the silhouette of their canoe disappeared beyond the narrow inlet leading back to the open ocean.

  As the adrenaline rush subsided, Ruan noticed the throbbing pain on his side again. He walked over to the fire and examined the wound in its dying light. It didn’t look as bad as it felt. An acceptable tradeoff against the damage he’d inflicted on the intruders. The survivors never saw him, and would report back to their brethren that supernatural forces still guarded the island. Would they dare return after such a terrifying ordeal?

  With his ammunition running low, soon he’d be too old to fight off more than a couple of invaders at a time. He had to do more. He had to send an unmistakable message they were not welcome to return.