by Marc Cameron
Specialist Nguyen rose up on one elbow beside Karen. “Hey,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. “How did you get here?”
Kenny smirked, glancing back at his two companions. “I told you,” he said. “I’m from Milwaukee.”
One of the boys, a freckle-faced kid of eight or so, bobbed his head and shoulders quickly, giggling.
Karen fought the urge to jump up and pound the little kid’s face against the rock wall. “Listen, you guys, I don’t know where they took you from. But we’re Americans too. Kenny, just before we were attacked you said you were from Wisconsin. I’m from Boston. We’re all on the same side here.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Kenny snorted. “After what the Americans did, we’ll never be on the same side.”
“What do you mean, the Americans?” Nguyen gasped, his voice wobbling like he might cry. “Why are you guys doin’ this? We didn’t do nothing to you but give you chocolate. Have they brainwashed you or something?”
Nelson held up a hand, shushing him. “Let’s just eat something and see where that leads.”
“I’ll tell you where it will lead,” Kenny said. “It’ll lead to getting your infidel heads sawed off… but what do I know? You guys eat up.”
The freckled kid’s head moved like a bobbing dog statuette and he broke into a maniacal giggle.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Kashgar, China 0530 hours China Standard Time
“You cannot win. Do you understand?” A cloud of vapor enveloped Gabrielle Deuben’s face in the pink-orange chill of early morning.
“I know,” Quinn said.
Garcia rubbed her eyes and gave a long, feline yawn. “I’ve seen you fight,” Garcia said. “I think you can take this guy. He’s big, but he’s fat.”
Deuben shook her head. “That’s not the point. If he wins, Umar loses even more face.”
Garcia’s eyes followed a potbellied Uyghur who looked more like a draft horse than a man. She’d been disappointed but not surprised last night when Quinn had slept on the floor, letting her have the bed. Even on the hard floor he appeared to have slept better than her. “And what if he kills you?” she asked.
“I won’t let that happen.” Quinn sat with his back to the wall. The eight-foot-high clay block enclosure was normally used to house livestock during the Sunday market. It was five-thirty in the morning and the camels would be arriving in a half an hour.
The fight would be long over by then.
“But remember,” Doctor Deuben whispered. Her eyes, too, followed the Uyghur as she spoke. “You can’t throw the match. That would be the worst of all for Umar’s reputation.”
“Don’t win and try not to lose.” Quinn nodded as if taking a mental note. “That should be easy enough.”
Garcia wanted to scream.
Umar leaned against the same clay wall and did a press-up twenty feet away, stretching calf muscles the size of grapefruit. He wore a pair of dirty canvas pants and scuffed leather boots. A morning chill pinked the hairy skin of his bare back.
Garcia shook her head. The man’s neck looked as big around as Quinn’s waist. She’d spent no small amount of time wondering what Quinn might look like with his shirt off. Now her stomach was too tied up in knots to enjoy it.
“Shall we begin?” Umar’s ancient gray-bearded assistant wheezed around his smoldering cigarette. Two lines of at least a dozen men each squatted stoically along the outer edge of the oblong arena.
Quinn turned to Garcia and smiled. “You think anyone’s betting on me?”
Ronnie watched Umar flex his thick chest, bouncing his pecs as he ground a huge fist into an open palm. Quinn peeled off his white T-shirt to reveal at least a dozen puckered white scars on the tight copper flesh across his lower back. She wondered if maybe he’d been shot. His body was fluid and moved easily, seeming as much tendon and bone as muscle. He looked like a well-built ant about to fight a hippo.
Shivering at the sight of him, Ronnie gave Quinn a soft jab in the shoulder.
“Sorry, mango, my money’s on Umar.”
Quinn stood, stretching his neck back and forth to either side, hearing the cracks. But for the odor of animal dung and the sound of braying donkeys over the walls, he was taken back to his boxing days at the Air Force Academy. There was something about a pending fight that changed the very nature of the air and made it sweeter to breathe.
Umar the Uyghur had a jowly, egg-shaped face with short-cropped hair that reminded Quinn of Thibodaux’s marine high-and-tight. A roll of fat around the man’s belly said he didn’t get much cardio exercise, but the rippling muscles in his arms and shoulders said there was a good chance he won his fights without even raising his heart rate.
Umar lumbered to the center of the camel pen, slapping his great chest with hands the size of dinner plates. He swayed like a mountain gorilla. Each scuffing step of his heavy boots kicked up a pink cloud of dust in the long rays of morning light.
He turned to Quinn, tilting his big head into the beginnings of a nod. Quinn returned the gesture, hands hanging relaxed at his sides. There would be no referee and no one to explain the rules. There were none.
Umar slapped his chest again, leaving a pink handprint on the undulating flesh. He flicked his fingers, beckoning Quinn out. His twinkling eyes all but disappeared behind a cheeky grin.
“I don’t like this,” Ronnie said through clenched teeth. “Here we are at the edge of the world and all the local police are passed out drunk. What if he decides he has to kill you to save face?”
Quinn gave her a wink. “I’m pretty skilled in the not-dying category.”
He took a half step forward-and the giant Uyghur charged like a raging bull elephant.
Quinn stepped deftly to the side to avoid the oncoming freight train. A thick cloud of dust engulfed the Uyghur as he slid to a stop.
In general, fights with no rules lasted under a minute. Umar was over six and a half feet tall. Quinn knew one solid punch from this man and the fight would be over much quicker than that.
The Uyghur spun, dragging his left leg in an almost imperceptible gimp. His left shoulder sagged as he moved. Just a hair, but Quinn noticed. Big people tended to have big injuries. Sheer mass compounded any sprain, crack, or pull. Within ten seconds, Quinn was able to identify bruised floating ribs on the giant’s right side, a strained AC ligament on each knee, acute plantar fasciitis of the left heel, and a badly torn rotator cuff. Collectively, the injuries were debilitating enough Quinn could have scored a decisive victory in a matter of moments. Unfortunately he wouldn’t have that luxury. He’d have to drag out the battle-make Umar work for it. And both men would have to endure a considerable amount of pain.
Quinn dodged the direct effects of a crashing right hook, letting it graze his chest. He staggered backward, coughing as if it had been a devastating blow. For a man of his bulk, Umar could turn on a dime. Circling, he brought the screaming right fist around for another try. This time Quinn stepped past and gave him a swift cow-kick low on the left calf, an area sure to be painfully tight from the plantar fasciitis.
Umar turned again, nostrils flaring, panting hard. He gave a little shake of his leg and eyed Quinn through narrow slits. The kick had set his leg on fire; Quinn could see it in his eyes. Feinting with his left, the Uyghur followed with a growling bum rush. The crowd of squatting onlookers cried out in delighted surprise as they parted like the Rea Sea before the oncoming giant.
Quinn stepped aside again, a matador avoiding an enraged bull. He drove his knuckles into Umar’s cracked ribs, and then slapped him in the groin as he bowled past so the crowd couldn’t see what had just happened. Unable to stop in time, Umar slammed straight into the high block wall.
He pushed back, dazed and blinking. A trickle of blood ran from his nose and cracked lip where he had kissed the rough stone.
From the corner of his eye, Quinn could see the quizzical looks on the local men’s faces. They’d clearly expected their champion to wipe the floor with the
visiting American.
Umar wasted no time in rejoining the fight. In the blink of an eye he rushed back to the center of the camel pen, now a boiling haze of pink-tinged dust.
Umar kept his left arm tucked tight, clearly protecting the injured rotator cuff. He threw another staggering right, but Quinn stepped under this time, landing a punch of his own in the soapy exposed flesh of the giant’s armpit. The same nerves that made the area ticklish made it a perfect target to incapacitate the arm.
Umar’s elbow slammed to his side, the entire arm flapping unnaturally as he moved. His round face fell into a slack-jawed stare and he slouched forward as if he might vomit.
Quinn knew he had to let the man win soon, or risk a victory himself.
He sprang sideways, giving the stunned Uyghur a perfect target for a left hook. Quinn took the punch on the chin, counting on the injured shoulder to take out some of the sting.
It did, but not much.
Quinn went down hard, slamming into the mixture of dirt and pulverized camel dung. Umar staggered over, trying to deliver a kick to his exposed ribs. Quinn rolled toward him, closing the distance and riding the leg up to wrench sideways against the torn knee ligaments.
A light of realization flickered in Umar’s narrow eyes. His massive arms dangled like broken wings. In that instant, he realized Quinn knew all his weaknesses. He was an accomplished enough fighter to know when he’d been beaten.
Quinn rolled to his feet, rushing headlong into the giant as if he meant to tackle him. He bounced off, landing on his seat. Umar stood still, blinking.
Quinn scrambled up and rushed in again. This time, the Uyghur caught him up in a bear hug. It was all he could do to hang on with one arm partially paralyzed and the other shoulder torn and out of commission.
Hands at his sides, feet dangling, Quinn hoped the big guy had gotten his message.
The crowd of onlookers surrounding the camel pen shot to their feet when they saw Quinn had fallen into what they knew as Umar’s crushing grip.
The giant Uyghur looked down and grinned-understanding.
Roaring, he squeezed Quinn tight against his chest and gave him a stiff head-butt to the nose.
Quinn’s eyes rolled back as he fought to keep conscious. In the cloud of dust, Umar winked at him.
“Only a tap, my friend,” he whispered. “You have my respect… and my thanks.”
Quinn slid to the ground, landing flat on the seat of his pants. Blood streamed from his nostrils.
The crowd began to chant their beloved Umar’s name.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Karen Hunt sat up with a start when the metal door clanged open. The three prisoners huddled close together for warmth as well as moral support. Specialist Tuan “Kevin” Nguyen had just been reminiscing about his parents making him study twice as hard as the white kids in his class.
As always, one of the adult guards peered into the room first before letting in the children. But this time, he followed them in, accompanied by three other men in knee-length shalwar kameez shirts and baggy pants. The men all looked to be in their thirties and forties with close-cropped black hair and dark beards. Two of them had strikingly green eyes.
Three of the men stood back against the wall, hands hanging loosely by their sides. The leader, one of the green-eyed ones, stepped forward.
Kenny stood beside him.
“You,” Kenny said, pointing at Nguyen. “Get up.”
“Why me?” Nguyen asked in a whisper like tearing paper. He didn’t move.
“Why not you?” Kenny smirked.
Nguyen turned to look at Hunt, breathing faster through his nose. “I…”
“Take me,” Nelson said, trying to push himself to a sitting position. He winced from the pain of his broken collarbone.
The kid folded his arms across his Pepsi T-shirt and gave an emphatic shake of his head.
“Nope,” he said. “It’s not your turn. Gotta be hi-”
Karen lunged, missing Kenny’s neck by mere inches. She had no plan but couldn’t let them drag poor Nguyen away without a fight.
One of the guards caught across the back of her neck with a heavy leather sap, driving her to the ground. A shower of lights blasted through her brain. Through the hazy shadows, she could hear the sounds of Kenny laughing and Kevin Nguyen screaming in terror as they dragged him away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Umar held a blood-soaked cloth to his nose and pushed the paperwork across the counter. “Royal Enfield Bullet,” he sniffed. “Only the best motorcycle for you, my friend.”
Quinn signed the rental contract, written by some Chinese lawyer in poorly translated English. He worked his bruised jaw back and forth as he handed back the pen.
Umar tossed the rag on the counter and raised his beefy hand. His injured lip split back open when he grinned, dripping blood on the contract. “Four hundred and ninety-nine cc, four stroke, twenty-seven horsepower-best bike for you. Altitude no problem.”
“Twenty-seven horsepower.” Quinn nodded, thinking about the hundred-twenty-plus of his modified BMW. Still, the Enfield was a sweet little bike. Gaunt and skinny enough to show its ribs, it was a motorcycle that brought back memories of black-and-white newsreels from the war and dispatches that just had to make it through enemy lines. The Indian government had started using the Enfield bikes in 1955 and later bought the tooling equipment from the British in 1957. Little had changed over decades of production, but the new fuel injection would come in handy climbing the sixteen-thousand-foot passes leading into the High Pamir.
Umar knew his motorcycles. It a shame that these two little machines wouldn’t make it back into his stable. Quinn made a mental note to see that new ones were provided as replacements as soon as he got home-if he got home.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Gaithersburg
M ujaheed Beg ran a chipped fingernail across the black-and-white striped pillow from Veronica Garcia’s rumpled bed. Egyptian cotton. She had good taste. He held it to his nose and breathed in the musky floral scent of jasmine perfume. A pile of clothes lay strewn over the bed as if she’d dumped them out of a hamper. A small wicker basket full of lipsticks and eye makeup sat on the nightstand beside the bed. Two empty suitcases lay tossed on top of one another in the corner.
Wherever she’d gone, she left in a hurry.
Beg picked up a skimpy pair of leopard-print panties from the laundry on the bed and twirled them around his finger.
“It’s now or never,” he sang in a passable Elvis impression. His eyes wandered around the bedroom. “Show me her secrets…”
He’d made a similar trip to Grace Smallwood’s apartment. It was how he’d discovered her allergy to bees.
Garcia’s ballistic vest had been tossed unceremoniously on a pile of dirty laundry. A large-frame. 40-caliber Glock and a smaller, more feminine Kahr nine-millimeter sat loaded and holstered on the top shelf of the closet. He slid the hangers over one by one, stopping at a sequined blue evening gown. It made him laugh out loud to think of this buxom woman trying to hide a pistol under the sheer gown.
“What has become of you, my dear?” he muttered, running his hands along the hanging clothes.
He found it unbelievable that the dangerous woman he’d seen coming into Nadia Arbakova’s house would leave her weapons at home… unless she’d gone somewhere she could not take them…
Veronica Garcia’s bathroom revealed less than her bedroom. She took no medications but aspirin, used tampons instead of pads, and shaved her legs in the shower. Jasmine was her preferred scent for soaps and body lotions.
The familiar smell made him ache to meet her, to spend time with her alone in this house. He went back to the bedroom and shoved the pile of clothes on the floor to lie down on the striped sheets that smelled so strongly of her.
His phone began to buzz before his head hit the pillow. It had to be Badeeb.
He sat up, cursing in Tajik.
“Yes?”
“All
ah be praised. Are you well?”
“Yes.” He did not wish to waste time with the doctor on pleasantries.
“Are you nearby?” came the familiar clicky voice.
“How would I know if that is so until you tell me where you are?”
“Never mind,” Badeeb said, snapping his cigarette lighter closed. “I have a job for you. I believe it will be straight up your street, so to speak…”
Beg rubbed a hand over his hair. “I don’t know what that means.”
“You know,” Badeeb stuttered. “Something you will enjoy-up your street.”
“Right up my alley,” Beg corrected. That such a witless man could accomplish so much of such great importance was surely a mystery.
“Yes, exactly that,” the doctor continued. “This one will be quite enjoyable, for you. I need you take care of an issue with the congressman. There is a situation.” Badeeb paused to take a long drag on his cigarette. “A situation I have been, of necessity, keeping from you…”
Beg picked up Garcia’s striped pillow and held it to his nose.
“Of course.” He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, unwilling to leave the scent of Veronica Garcia so quickly for any reason. “I will meet you in two hours’ time.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Xinjiang Province/Uyghur Autonomous Region China
D ressed in matching olive two-piece Rev’it textile riding suits against the chill of high altitude, Quinn and Garcia reached the police checkpoint at Tashkurgan before lunch. They’d stopped on the way for a bathroom break along the Karakoram Highway at the black waters of Lake Karakul. Quinn paid a Uyghur man five quai — less than a dollar-to take a photo of Ronnie sitting on a camel. They didn’t have the time for such things, but a tourist who rode by the high desert lake and didn’t take stop for photos would be highly suspect. And, he had to admit, she looked pretty good sitting up there, snowcapped peaks in the background, her hair blowing in the wind.
