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?”
“Allah 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.