by Marc Cameron
Quinn moved from side to side to check out as much of the room as he could. Relatively satisfied there weren’t any guards inside, he took a deep breath and opened the door.
“Hey, guys,” he said as the startled boys turned to see who was interrupting their program. “How are things?”
“Who are you?” A dirty-blond boy with heavy freckles and an evil sneer stood up from his cushion. Maybe eleven, he didn’t appear the oldest, but the other boys stood back in respect as he spoke, deferring to him. “I haven’t seen you before.”
Quinn played a hunch.
“I’m from another school in Iraq…”
The boys glared at him through narrow eyes, chewing over the concept.
“Another school?” A pimple-faced teenager with a gap between his front teeth whispered, as if in awe of such a notion. A hushed buzz ran through the group.
“We haven’t ever heard of another school.” The blond boy in particular remained stone-faced. He stared at them with hard green eyes.
“We’ve come to take a look around and see how things are going,” Quinn added. He prepared to quiet the kid should he start to raise the alarm. “Are you well taken care of?”
“Dr. Badeeb tells us if we will have important guests,” the glaring kid muttered.
“ Wo Xin Chang Dan, ” Quinn said in Chinese, taking a gamble. He shifted back to English immediately. “I was once a boy just like you. American commandos killed my parents, but I was rescued and trained at just such a school as this.”
It worked. The group pressed closer, reaching to touch him. “Have you been to America?” A dusty boy no older than nine asked, haunting blue-gray eyes gleaming as if he’d just met a hero.
Quinn motioned Garcia up beside him. “We both have. This is my wife. She was trained in Chechnya.”
Ronnie spoke a quick sentence of Russian to illustrate her origin. The boys, pressed closer, instinctively hungry for friendly female companionship. Tears filled the younger boys’ eyes.
“You have a prisoner?” Quinn nodded at the woman in the corner. She stared back at him with a raised brow, as if trying to figure him out. “You have done well.”
“She has a good accent but isn’t useful anymore,” the green-eyed blond boy snorted. He leaned in and gave a conspiratorial wink. “She refuses to talk with us after the teachers cut off her lover’s head.”
“Too bad,” Quinn said, working hard to hide his disgust for the little tyrant.
“It’s okay.” The boy shrugged. “Dr. Badeeb gives us lots of music CDs and videos to watch.”
“Your English is perfect,” Garcia said, smiling as if she was really glad to meet him. “What’s your name?”
“Kenny,” the boy said, puffing his chest proudly. “I am small for my age, but I’m almost fourteen. Dr. Badeeb visited us a month ago and said I could go to America before winter is over. I cannot wait to go to the U.S. and begin to kill Americans. Have you killed many?”
“A few,” Quinn said honestly. “I hope to be going back very soon.” He took a step sideways so his back wasn’t to the door. “Learning some good English from the television, I see. What else do they give you to watch?”
Kenny ignored him, his own questions gushing out like a river. “Tell me about America. Have you met any others like us? We have watched videos of the actions at the CIA. Seth… he became Seth Timmons-was my teacher when I was a small boy. He died as a martyr. Maybe you knew him… Do you get to see others of us who have gone before? My sister was here-she is so very smart. Maybe you have met her.” The boy grinned, showing huge white teeth. “You’d know her if you had. We kept an oil company worker here from Abilene, Texas. He would not shut up, but that was a good thing. My sister talked to him day and night for weeks… before Dr. Badeeb had the man’s head sawed off.” The boy smiled, lost in the memory. “I was young, but Dr. Badeeb tells me stories about her. I remember her face. She loved to practice her accent.” Kenny grinned proudly. “She always told me she was going to go to America and be the queen of West Texas bitches-”
Quinn felt Garcia stiffen beside him. She opened her mouth to speak as the wooden door flew open.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
The three guards entered quickly, fanning out across the room. The apparent leader held his fire, screaming in heavily accented English for the children to move out of the way. Quinn knew they wouldn’t take him prisoner a second time.
Grabbing Kenny by the collar of his heavy sweater, Quinn heaved the little terror like a screeching sack of sand at the nearest guard.
Garcia stepped into the guard nearest her, slapping away the barrel of his Kalashnikov to give him a well-executed cross elbow to the face. He staggered back against the wall, down but not out.
Somehow comprehending that things had changed with the new arrivals, the captive woman launched herself at the guard nearest her. With her bound hands and feet there was little she could do but roll and bite. But even that made a difference. The guard screamed in pain as she drove her shoulder into the side of his knee. His finger convulsed on the trigger, popping three rounds into the gap-toothed blond kid beside Garcia.
Quinn’s opponent swatted Kenny out of the way. Before the man could bring his weapon up again, Quinn swarmed him with a quick round of percussive blows to his neck and throat. With both hands on the useless AK-47, the stunned guard was unable to defend against the onslaught. He slumped to his knees, gasping for air, as Quinn snatched the rifle, still hanging from the sling, and shot him in the chest.
Quinn put two rounds in each of the other two guards. The captive woman had managed to climb on top of a squalling Kenny. She bashed his head against the stone floor again and again before rolling off, exhausted.
Alive, but subdued to tears with his head covered in blood, the glaring boy crawled to the rest of his cowering group against the back wall.
Jericho did a quick peek outside the door. The hallway was empty for the time being, but it was sure to start raining guards soon enough. He’d counted at least seven when they’d first entered the mountain school-and that didn’t count the men outside in the yurts.
He stooped to cut the woman free with his Swiss Army knife, taking stock of the room as he worked. Three guards and two boys lay dead. Kenny’s scalp was awash in blood and Alan Alda still bantered away on the episode of M*A*S*H.
“Quinn, U.S. Air Force.”
“Karen Hunt,” she said. “Civilian, attached to the Army.”
“Can you walk on your own?” he asked.
“I’m fine.” Hunt rubbed circulation back into her wrists. “Your friend’s not so good, though.”
Quinn handed Hunt the AK. “Mind watching the door?”
The woman nodded, checking the weapon as if she had handled one many times.
Garcia stood, swaying slightly in the center of the room. A quizzical look crossed her oval face.
“Ronnie?” Quinn grabbed her by the shoulders. “Are you hit?”
She shook her head slowly, not sure herself. Blinking, she twisted, reaching over her shoulder to claw at her back.
Quinn’s eyes fell to the dead boy who’d been killed by one of the guard’s stray fire. To his horror, the grimy hand held a sharpened metal spike just larger than a number-two pencil. Garcia followed his gaze down to the weapon, realizing what had happened at the same moment as Quinn.
Her knees buckled and Jericho lowered her to the cushions the boys had been using to watch television. Gasps and muffled croaks escaped her trembling lips as she strained to speak. Frothy pink blood pooled on her tongue.
“How we looking at the door?” Quinn pulled Garcia toward him, rolling her on her side. He tugged up her coat. Her head lolled as he yanked the back of her shirt out of her wool pants and pulled it up over her head. She shuddered in his arms as he searched frantically for a wound.
Hunt shot a quick burst down the hall and got a string of return fire. “Doin’ just fine over here,” she said.
Quinn gave a withering lo
ok to the boys, who cowered less than ten feet away, backs to the wall. It occurred to him that more than one might have a homemade weapon.
“Are you all ready to die today?” he said.
They shook their heads emphatically. Even zealots need time to work up to the task of martyrdom-especially zealots in embryo.
He swore under his breath when he found the place where the spike had punctured her skin. Nearly the size of a dime, the wound was below her right shoulder blade in the pale flesh left by the tan line of her bikini top. Bubbles of pink blood oozed from the wound.
“Sorry, Ronnie,” Quinn said though clenched teeth. “I have to leave you on your stomach for a minute.”
Garcia nodded weakly. Her breath was reduced to shallow, labored croaks.
“Did it get a lung?” Hunt asked. She was barefoot and the translucent white robe did little to hide the swells and creases of her otherwise naked body. But she moved like a professional and the way she handled the AK was an intimidating sight.
“Afraid so,” Quinn said. He fished a black Cordura wallet from the cargo pocket of his pants. It was a simple wound kit he’d carried with him everywhere since his first deployment. It contained just four items-a windlass tourniquet he could apply by himself, a foil envelope of QuikClot, a 14-gauge needle, and an air-tight Vaseline bandage.
He ripped the seal from the bandage and applied it to the wound. It stuck well to the smooth skin over Garcia’s back, sealing the entry point.
Her eyelids fluttered when he rolled her over on the cushions. She struggled, mouthing something. Her eyes shot frantically around the room. Her hand came up and brushed his face, pulling him to her.
“West… Tex… Wes…” She swallowed, her windpipe arched unnaturally to one side. Her chest heaved in a futile effort to draw air.
Quinn touched her lips to shush her, then bent to put an ear to her chest. Her heartbeat was barely audible. Even with the seal, she struggled to breathe.
He’d seen it before.
“Okay, kiddo,” he said, trying not to sound as grim as he felt. “You’ve got an air pocket building up in your chest. I have to give it a way out or it’ll kill you.”
She nodded. Glistening eyes stared up at the stone ceiling.
“We still good back there?” Quinn asked over his shoulder. He popped the top on the red plastic case containing the fourteen-gauge needle. Anything he did for Garcia would be short-lived if they were overrun by guards.
“We’re good for now,” Hunt said. “But they’re working themselves up for an assault. We should move as soon as you get her stabilized.”
Ronnie’s eyes fluttered. A trickle of foamy pink blood dripped from blue lips.
“Stay with me, Veronica.” Quinn held the three-inch needle between his teeth while he wrestled her sports bra over her breasts and under her armpits. He drew a mental line from her right nipple up to her collarbone. Staying outside that line to be sure he cleared her heart, he inserted the needle between the second and third rib.
It went against human nature to stab a friend-especially a wounded one-but an instant after he felt the tiny pop that indicated the needle had pierced the chest wall, he heard a hiss of escaping air. Ronnie drew a deep breath as if she’d just broken the surface from a long underwater dive. She smiled softly as the color returned to her face. Her head lolled to one side, exhausted.
Quinn withdrew the needle, leaving the plastic catheter in place to let air escape. He pulled her sports bra back down, praying the tight but breathable Lycra would hold the catheter in place long enough to get her out of the mountains.
Quinn hauled the unconscious Garcia over his shoulder, then looked up at Hunt.
“Ready?” he asked.
“One minute.” She turned to a tall boy wearing a wool sweater and heavy sweatpants. “Gary, throw me your clothes.”
The boy glanced sheepishly at Kenny’s bloody face and stripped off his clothes. He threw them to her, sneering. “Bitch!” he spat.
Hunt snapped her fingers. “Shoes and socks too, kid.” She slipped the boy’s green army sweater over her white robe, tucking the flowing end into the sweats before putting on the shoes. She picked up two AKs, slinging one, and stood at the door.
“Now I’m ready,” she said.
“CIA?” Quinn said. “You’re the one who left the blood chit.”
“That’s me,” Hunt said. She turned to stare at the remaining boys.
“Where is Sam?” she spat.
They stared back with the maddeningly blank faces that only preteen boys can muster.
She threw the rifle to her shoulder, aiming in.
“We don’t know,” Gary stammered, hands folded across the crotch of his dingy shorts. “Kenny told the teachers he was starting to like you and they took him away.”
“We haven’t seen him since,” Kenny said, through swollen lips.
Hunt stood, aiming the rifle, chewing on her top lip. “These boys stood by and cheered while my friends were murdered. They’re screwed up for life. I should shoot them all right now…”
“Knock yourself out,” Quinn said. “But whatever you’re going to do, do it quickly. We gotta get out of here.”
He was pretty sure she wouldn’t shoot unless the kids attacked. As a CIA para, she’d been extremely well trained. From his experience, well-trained people didn’t talk much about killing. When it needed to be done, they simply did it without wasting a lot of breath.
Hunt kept the boys covered as she backed toward him, taking up a position beside the door. “I sure as hell hope they follow us.”
They made it down the hall as far as the T intersection where the side shaft and the main corridor connected. To their left, a row of metal barrels lined the dark tunnel that led deeper into the mountain.
“You think that’s fuel oil?” Hunt whispered, nodding toward the barrels.
Quinn shrugged. “Could be. They’re getting power from somewhere. Probably generators venting to the outside to diffuse any heat signature.”
He stopped to readjust Ronnie’s weight over his shoulder. She was facedown, buttocks in the air. His left arm wrapped around the crook of her knees. The posture pressed against her lungs and wasn’t optimal for her injuries, but it was the only way he could move with her quickly and shoot. He not only had to carry her, but he had to check her constantly to make sure she was still breathing.
Another volley of gunfire rattled down the tunnel, zinging off the rock walls with yellow sparks.
“They’re in the room on the left between us and the door,” he said.
“I’m going deaf from all the racket,” Hunt said. “But I think I hear footsteps.”
She did a low quick peek, stooping to thrust her head around the corner for a split second before pulling it back again.
“I count three. They’re inching along the wall trying to work up the courage to rush us.
“Think you can bounce a couple of rounds at them?”
“On it.” Hunt set her jaw and nodded.
She held the Kalashnikov parallel to her chest, with the barrel angled slightly toward her. Thrusting it quickly around the corner, she fired three controlled bursts.
High-velocity bullets shot at such an angle tended to bounce away a few inches and travel in a relatively straight path down a flat surface. A muffled cry came from around the corner, along with the unmistakable clatter of a gun hitting the stone floor.
Seizing the moment, Quinn and Hunt rounded the corner, each finishing off a downed guard. Hunt paused long enough to grab a hand grenade from the belt of one guard as they ran past.
Heavy footfalls echoed up the corridor from the way they’d come. There were cries of protest from the boys, followed by a prolonged volley of gunfire.
“Can’t say I’m sorry to hear that,” Hunt sighed. She looked over her shoulder at the last few pops.
“Must have had orders to silence them if the place was compromised,” Quinn said. Garcia was still draped over his shoulder, her ar
ms trailing down his back. He reached to feel her pulse, inside her pant leg and above her ankle. It was weak, but palpable.
A screaming wind yanked the door from Quinn’s hand as he pushed it open. He turned to Hunt.
“Ready?”
She pulled the pin on the grenade and held it in her hand. “Ready.”
Quinn felt Ronnie stir at the fresh slap of cold air. “Stay with me, kid.” He patted her tenderly on the butt, took a deep breath, and stepped into the darkness.
“We have a saying here in the Stans.” Hunt tossed the grenade into the door behind them as they trotted away. “Caves are graves.”
Quinn charged into the black storm, cutting left toward where he hoped the yurts and horses were waiting. Behind him, the mountain roared. Fire belched from the door. Tiny, slit-like windows glowed like rows of red eyes in the night.
Men poured from the yurts nearest the mountain. They scanned the blackness with feeble beams of battery-powered lights.
Quinn ran on, depending on surprise and night to help his escape.
The horses were right where he’d left them. Rumps turned toward the storm, they munched contentedly on a pile of hay Quinn had dragged from the feed yurt. He lay Garcia on the ground long enough to bring the horses to the leeward side of the structure out of the direct blast of wind. As gently as he could, he lifted Garcia’s thigh over the larger animal’s back. Hunt held her in place while he climbed up behind and let her slump back against his chest. With no stirrups and only a single lead rope from a leather halter for control, the going would be tricky-but at least they were moving. The driving snow would cover their tracks.
Hunt reined up beside him in the darkness on the other runty horse. “You’re going to have to lead,” she yelled above the wind. “I was under a tarp when I came in.”
Two hours later Quinn’s horse slipped. Both knees slammed into the ice with a sickening crack. They were already headed downhill and both Quinn and Garcia tumbled over the animal’s head to land in a tangled heap on the snowy mountainside.