by Marc Cameron
A jangle of keys outside the heavy timber door jerked her back to reality. She was thirty-three, not nearly old enough to be at the end of her own movie.
Hunt swallowed. They’d left her untied. She still had the skills from her training. Killing a man quickly was not as difficult as it sounded.
The hinges creaked as the door began to swing open, rusty from the constant drip inside the mountain. Hunt resolved to meet them head-on, to make them kill her more quickly than they’d planned. They expected her to be paralyzed with fear.
Kenny poked his head around the door, staying well outside her reach.
“How are you feeling, Karen?” he sneered.
She stared at him, saying nothing.
“I had to tell the teachers, you know.” The boy’s face brightened. “Sam’s gotta pay for being weak.”
Karen looked into Kenny’s twisted face and decided that no matter what happened, she would see him die before they killed her. He was just cocky enough, he’d get too close to taunt her… and then…
“Anyhow”-he shrugged-“it’s not you today.”
“What?” She couldn’t help herself. Relief, even guarded, trumped anger.
“Think about it.” He howled with demonic glee and snatched his head back before slamming the door.
Hunt swayed, falling into a curled, fetal position against the cold, unfeeling floor.
A moment later, Lieutenant Nelson shuffled past the door. She pushed herself up on both hands, straining to hear.
“Hang in there, kiddo,” he said, a catch in the whiskeyed timbre of his low voice. He wasn’t fighting anymore.
A tear pooled on her cheek as she realized his inaction was to buy time for her.
“You’re a good man, Nelson!” she screamed, giving over to sobs as she collapsed back to the floor.
But for the initial muffled growl at being subdued, the lieutenant made no sound. A jubilant cheer rose up from a group of excited children and Hunt knew it was over.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Quinn lay facedown on a gray stone outcropping overlooking a valley with seven felt yurts. A battle-weary Kalashnikov rifle lay on a tuft of frostbitten grass beside him. Ainura was an extremely poor woman and had little to give, but she’d been able to provide homespun wool coats for both Quinn and Garcia-and a beat-up old rifle that looked to be in working order. It was chilly out and though Quinn was appreciative of the weapon, he found himself more grateful for the coat.
Situated in a U-shaped valley, the gray-white mounds were surrounded by snowcapped crags that disappeared into the clouds. A ribbon of smoke curled up from an outdoor cook fire midway between the shelters. Three men stood around the fire while two women in head scarves stooped beside it, presumably cooking their dinner. A thin trickle of smoke escaped from the nearest two yurts. The rest stood lifeless in the chill of the valley floor.
Sweeping aprons of shattered boulders and stones fanned from the mountain bases, giving way to a green pasture, nearly a mile long. Every few minutes another rock tumbled to the valley floor with a series of echoing cracks and thuds, forced away from the mountain by a freezing wedge of water in the cracks and fissures of stone. A hanging glacier, blue as the lapis from the mountains above, fed a large lake at the far side of the green pasture. It was from just such a valley the surrounding Pamir Mountains got their name. Lush and protected Shangri-las in the summer, these valleys, or pamir, were a favorite grazing ground for local herdsmen.
Quinn sniffed the air, tasting the familiar metallic scent of a storm. A brooding, guncotton sky hung close enough to touch. It was already spitting snow.
Garcia’s shoulder rubbed against Quinn’s as she lay beside him, peering through the single pair of binoculars that had survived the Hellfire strike.
“If there is an orphanage around here somewhere, the kids must sure hate Americans… I mean, if they believe our soldiers murdered their families…” Her voice was breathy with the cold and altitude.
“I was thinking about that,” Quinn said. “It would be pretty easy to dupe a bunch of terrified kids with a few American military uniforms. Plant a seed of hate strong enough that even living in the U.S. wouldn’t be enough to root it out.” He rolled up on his side. “Remember what the CIA shooters had written on their calendars the day they went on the spree?”
Garcia kept her eyes pressed to the binoculars as she spoke, her voice muffled against her hands. “A Chinese character.”
“Right,” Quinn said. “ Dan. It means gall — as in bitterness. There’s a story from ancient China about a ruler named Goujian. His armies were beaten and he lost his kingdom to a rival. He and his wife were captured. They swore allegiance to the new king, who treated them very well. So he would never forget the humiliation of his great loss, for ten years Goujian slept on a pile of uncomfortable brushwood instead of his soft bed provided by his captor-and tasted bitter gall before every meal.
“Eventually, Goujian conquered the rival king and took back his kingdom. Wo Xin Chang Dan.” Quin emphasized the last word. “ To sleep on brushwood and taste gall. If these kids are being prepared to come to the United States and hurt us, there has to be something bitter in them to keep them on track once they get there.”
“Watching their families slaughtered would do that,” Garcia said. “If one group of terrorists murdered their families posing as Americans, then another group staged a rescue to liberate the kids from the Great Satan…” Still on her belly, she lifted her foot slightly, as a cat might flick just the tip of its tail to drain off excess energy while hunting. “Makes sense.”
Quinn rolled back onto this stomach. “Now we just have to find them.”
“The yurts are right where Ainura said they would be.” Garcia played the binoculars back and forth. “I count a dozen horses, that many yaks… maybe a hundred sheep and goats… No children, though. You think they’re inside the yurts?”
“Not likely-”
“Maldita!” Garcia cursed. “Look at the size of that dog. At first I thought it was a horse.” She passed him the binoculars.
“Nope,” Quinn whispered, scanning the herds. “The horses are smaller. It’s some kind of mastiff. Seems to be hanging apart from the men at the fire. Probably stays with the sheep to guard against predators.”
“And intruding hit men from America,” Garcia said under her breath. “I’ve honestly never seen a dog that big.”
The guard dog presented a problem, but before Quinn could plan around it, he had to figure out where the kids were-if they were anywhere at all.
Convinced there was more to this valley than they were seeing, he began a visual grid search-looking near, then far, and dividing the valley into smaller increments. First he looked with his naked eye, then followed up with the binoculars. Five minutes into the search, he found the door leading into the side of the mountain on the other side of the glacial lake, a hundred yards from the yurts.
Once he pointed out the door, they were able to locate an uneven line of windows and vent holes pocking the mountain face. Low stone walls, nearly invisible at first glance, became clearer with every sweep of the binoculars.
“They’d need food if they stay here all winter,” Garcia said, shaking her head.
“Look at the yurts closest to the horses,” Quinn said. “There’s no smoke coming out of them. What if they’re used to store hay? As long as they keep the animals fed they’ll have a ready food source all winter…”
“So the kids are inside the mountain?”
Quinn nodded, still studying the layout.
“And how do we get inside the mountain?” Garcia rolled half on her side, resting her face against her hand. She was absurdly beautiful in her ratty wool clothes and grime-smeared face. “You got another Hellfire missile we can call in?”
“Nothing quite so sophisticated,” Quinn grunted. He nestled down into the heavy quilted robe-like coat and gazed up at the brooding sky. Spitting crystals had given way to large flakes that floated lazily do
wn to meet him. “It’ll be pitch-black in two hours. This snow will dampen the sound of our approach. We’ll just walk up and let ourselves inside.”
Garcia’s brown eyes widened. “Let ourselves inside? Me and you and Ainura’s beat-up Kalashnikov?”
Quinn grinned. “I’ve seen you fight,” he said. “We won’t even need the rifle.”
He closed his eyes, feeling the soft brush of snowflakes hit his face. If this kept up, they could be stuck in these mountains for a very long time. He pushed the thought from his mind, focusing on the tasks at hand.
Garcia cuddled in next to him, sharing her warmth. “And what about that giant dog?”
Quinn pulled her in tighter. “I’m thinking we’ll have to make a sacrifice,” he said.
The approach to far side of the valley floor took a painstaking three hours of picking through the shadows of a mile and half of rock. They had to cross three mountain streams. Shallow and braided, the crossings were made more difficult by near complete darkness and slippery, ice-slimed rocks.
By the time they made it all the way around, nearly six inches of snow lay on the valley floor. Quinn had explained his plan before they left, going over Garcia’s job twice to make certain she’d have the timing down.
Timing, he knew, would be almost as critical as luck.
He held up his fist as they drew near the yurt farthest from the mountain face. It was one of the ones that he guessed held fodder for the milling herds of animals. The glacial wind hit them full in the face, bringing with it the odor of wet wool and the smoky bite of a cook fire. Though it chilled them to the bone, the wind direction was a blessing and made it less likely the big mastiff would pick up their scent.
“First contact is the trickiest part.” Quinn leaned in close to whisper in Garcia’s ear. “We have to make it happen on our terms.”
“Okay,” Garcia said, teeth chattering. “I’m ready to get out of this cold when you are.”
Crouching, Quinn covered the open fifty yards to the white mound of the nearest yurt in a matter of seconds, sensing, more than hearing, Garcia on his heels. He kept the AK in tight to his side, hand around the pistol grip, ready.
He stopped, straining his ears for sounds of danger, sniffing the wind to make sure it still worked in their favor. Satisfied they were still relatively safe, he handed the rifle to Garcia, then took out his Benchmade folding knife. In darkness thick enough to feel, he began to slice at the thick felt where the yurt was tied to the base of its inner wooden frame. Five minutes of sawing brought him through the thick felt and able to cut enough lashing cords to pry a two-foot gap in the wooden lattice support structure.
The sweet, dusty odor of hay and grain wafted out into the freezing air.
“Bingo,” Quinn said, reaching it to find a small bag of grain he could drag out through the opening. He sat upright, stretching his back from the effort of being stooped for so long. His ribs were still sore from Umar’s crushing bear hug and he was pretty sure at least one was cracked.
He held the grain up to Garcia. The bag was about the size of a pillowcase but only partially full so it was easy to carry.
“You hang on to the rifle,” he said.
“Ten-four.” He could hear her body shaking from cold and tension. They had to get out of this snow one way or another.
Crouching again, they moved toward the grunts and baas of milling sheep bunched together in the darkness. Twenty feet out, the animals heard the shake of the grain bag and moved toward it as if called. The click and thump of hoofs over frozen ground grew louder and their gentle baa s became more excited at the prospect of food to warm them on such a cold night.
It was only a matter of time before the guard dog came to investigate the change in behavior.
Quinn stepped into the moving sea of animals, with Garcia close behind. In the darkness it was imperative they stay together.
“Gotcha!” Quinn grabbed a young lamb by the back leg as it came to the grain. It wasn’t much larger than a poodle. He turned away from the herd and used the Benchmade to cut the animal’s throat, holding it tight until it ceased to struggle.
Garcia hadn’t been happy about the idea of killing a baby sheep. He was thankful for the darkness so she hadn’t seen him do it.
“You hear a growl?” Garcia said, moving in to give him the rifle.
“That would be our Goliath,” Quinn said.
Garcia moved in behind, next to the milling sheep. The power of food kept them from panic.
The mastiff came in fast, galloping like a horse toward the smell of blood. Quinn braced himself, rifle in one hand with the lamb carcass in the other.
As the black shape of the dog launched toward him from the darkness, he pressed the muzzle of the Kalashnikov to the lamb’s ribs and fired.
There was a muffled pop as the woolly carcass absorbed much of the rifle’s report. A split second later, the huge dog slammed into Quinn, knocking the dead lamb and the AK from his hands.
Quinn rolled, bracing for another attack that never came.
“Pretty good at shooting by Braille,” Garcia whispered as she helped him to his feet. “Now get my ass out of this snow. I’m from Cuba, for crying out loud. I’m not built for this.”
“Okay, then,” Quinn panted, slowing his pulse. “Let’s go see if they lock their door.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Quinn left the rifle hanging on a sling around his neck as they approached the door. He and Garcia were dressed as natives, and a native without some sort of weapon in the high mountains would stand out.
Quinn banged on the heavy door, snow piling up on his shoulders as he stood, hunched over against the building wind. Garcia stood next to him, a scarf pulled piously over her head.
A short man wearing a wool hat and carrying a black Makarov pistol answered the door. He motioned them both inside the dark cave. Quinn explained that they were travelers who’d lost their way and needed a warm place to stay. The man kept the pistol pointed at Quinn’s chest, motioning them inside. He spoke irritated, rapid-fire Tajik, but Quinn spoke enough Dari, the Persian language of Afghanistan, that they were able to communicate.
He didn’t shoot right away, saying he needed to speak with his boss.
A second man, younger, but much taller than the first, appeared from around the corner and helped secure Quinn and Garcia’s wrists with plastic flex cuffs.
Both men shook their heads and muttered in amazement that their stronghold had even been found in the darkness, much less approached. They left Quinn and Garcia in a small holding room, not much larger than a closet, and slammed a dented metal door. The place smelled of sulfur and stale water.
“That didn’t go as well as I’d hoped,” Garcia said as she leaned back against the rough granite wall. A single bare lightbulb cast a dull yellow glow on the tiny room. She’d heard apocryphal stories of spies caught in worse jams and somehow managing to escape-but more often than not, they ended up an unnamed star on the Memorial Wall at CIA Headquarters. She found some solace in the fact that she was finally living her dream-and living it with the most amazing human being she’d ever met.
“They didn’t kill us first thing.” Quinn, who seemed a man always in motion, worked his hands under his butt and past his feet as he spoke. “And we got inside. That’s a win in my book.” He tipped his head toward the exposed lightbulb. “They must have some sort of generator inside the mountain. It would have to be vented outside. That’ll give us something to target when we get out of here.”
With his hands in front he was able to remove the five-fifty-cord laces on his right boot. The Haix P9s were high-tops and the lace was nearly three feet long. Garcia watched as he tied a six-inch loop in one end of the cord, and then ran the free end through the inside of the plastic flex cuffs before tying another similar loop. He looked up and grinned like a schoolboy as he put the loops over the toe of each boot and began to pedal his feet as if riding a bicycle. The friction of the five-fifty cord sawed through the
cuffs in a matter of seconds. Once free, Quinn quickly replaced the lace in his boot. “Never know when I might need to run without my shoes falling off.”
“What about my cuffs?” Garcia said. She could see he already had a plan in the calmness of his eyes.
He reached inside the front of his pants. “These guys never do a good job searching the manly man areas.” He produced a red knife no larger than his thumb.
“The Swiss Army teeny-weenie knife,” she said, turning so he could cut her free. “Don’t leave home without it. You got any more surprises?”
Quinn chuckled, his usual enigmatic self. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise…”
The lock on the cell door was a crude, pot metal affair and fell easily to Quinn’s small knife blade. He peered out to find a long corridor cut into the mountain like a mine shaft. Bare bulbs, similar to the one in their room, hung on twisted wire along the stone ceiling. Water ran in inky black blotches down the curved walls. Every few yards, a thick timber beam had been knocked in place to help support the structure. Even with the bulbs, the tunnel disappeared into a vacant void at the far end.
As soon as he stepped into the hallway, he was met by children’s laughter coming from the depths of the corridor. He motioned for Garcia to follow him.
“Wish we had the gun now,” she said.
“Keep an eye on our six o’clock,” Quinn said as he tiptoed down the tunnel toward the laughter. “If we need a gun, I’m sure there’ll be one available.”
Another eruption of laughter stopped him short. He peered through a six-inch-square cutout in the wooden door to his left to see a group of seven boys seated on thick cushions watching an episode of M*A*S*H on a color television. Ranging in age from what looked like seven or eight to their early teens, the boys were dressed in blue jeans and wool sweaters. They sipped on cans of soda and chatted to each other in perfect English. Across the room, slouched against the wall with her head between her knees, was a brunette woman in a white robe. Her hands and bare feet were bound, her face a bruised and swollen mess.
