The missile’s impact had rendered Quinn partially deaf. He could hear snippets of Ronnie’s frantic shouting, but her voice sounded like it was coming from the inside of a metal can. He couldn’t see over the edge, but her hands clutched his forearm and he knew he had a good grip on some piece of her clothing. He could just make out the dust-covered crown of her head over the ledge.
Bracing with his legs against a thin fissure in the rock, he rolled backward, gaining inch by slow inch until he was able to haul her up like a fleshy, wriggling fish. She collapsed, wheezing on top of him, and he realized his handhold had been at the small of her back, on the bunched waistband of her wool long johns.
She looked down at his face as she rearranged her bunched clothing. “In some parts of Cuba, a wedgie like that would mean you’d have to marry me.” Bits of gravel covered her lips. “Good thing I wore my big-girl panties…”
“Yeah, good thing.” Jericho was already working out a plan to get them up the sheer ten-foot face and back to the smoldering crater where their camp had been. He explained about the Breitling while he studied the rock.
“All this time you had an exploding watch and you didn’t tell me?” She shook her head from side to side, her ebony hair a tangled nest of dirt and ash. “I am riding through China with James Bond.”
“The watch just sent up a signal. The explosion was courtesy of the U.S. Air Force. And, technically-” Quinn grunted, trying to pull himself up with a shallow handhold, then slipping back down to hug it so he didn’t fall backward into the dizzy drop behind him. “We’re in Afghanistan… and now I won’t even know what time it is.”
“How far do you think-to the Kyrgyz camp?”
“If they haven’t started their trek back out of the high pastures
… maybe six miles according to Gabrielle’s map.”
Garcia faced the rock, raising her arms above her head. She arched her back and stuck out her butt.
“Come on,” she said. “Give me a boost.” Even under their desperate circumstances, the stance took Quinn’s breath away.
“As inviting as that looks”-he grinned-“you’ll need to push me up first. That way I can pull you up.”
“Okay…” Garcia shot a worried look over her shoulder toward the sheer drop. “But you know how I feel about heights. Don’t leave me down here long.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
The sounds of Nguyen’s hoarse screams still rang in Hunt’s ears when the kids came back in the room. Kenny was all grins, but he didn’t mention the killing. They came and went at least five times a day. Both Hunt and Nelson talked to the other boys but refused to speak to Kenny again.
“What do you call it when a person likes to set things on fire?” A freckled blond boy of eight or nine asked Hunt from his cushion next to a sullen Kenny. His name was Sam and he had an earnest look in his eyes Karen found disarming.
“Pyromania,” Lieutenant Nelson said, deadpan. He leaned against the curved stone wall of the cell. “Why? You know somebody who’s into it? It usually means they wet the bed like Kenny.” He’d talk sports or hunting with the other boys to pass the time, but he didn’t pass up the opportunity to give the little jerk a jab if it presented itself.
The rest of the boys giggled until Kenny stared them down.
Little Sam scribbled in his spiral notebook, then looked up under blond bangs. “Don’t you sometimes call them something else? I know there’s another word…”
Karen shrugged. “Just plain pyro.” She’d decided to play along. Since the guards had dragged poor Nguyen away, a number of boys-all between the ages of eight and twelve-had come to the cell every few hours to talk. Karen counted seven different boys in all, but they came three or four at a time. Kenny was always with them and appeared to be their de facto leader. All spoke perfect English.
Sam seemed to be the most tenderhearted among them. He scooted his cushion closer, smiling up with the gap-toothed adoration of a kid brother. She tried to reach out to him a little, whispering in Tajik while the other boys were busy in a deep conversation with Nelson about baseball and the last World Series. He shook his head as if stricken, throwing a terrified look toward the door. He put a finger to his lips.
“The teachers will beat me if I talk like that,” he said. All the boys called the guards teachers. “You should be careful so they don’t hurt you.”
“I see.” Karen nodded. “I’m going to ask you something, Sam. Have you been taken from your parents? Are you American?”
He frowned, setting his jaw. “Americans killed my mother and sister,” he said, tears forming in his eye. “I saw it.”
She couldn’t help but notice the hint of Boston in the boy’s accent. The boy sighed, the weight of the world on his tiny shoulders. “I hate Americans… but you’re a good lady, Miss Hunt. You sorta remind me of my mother. I wish…” His little voice trailed off and he stared blankly at the cell wall. He shook his head, stifling a sob.
“What?” Karen asked. She kept her voice calm and hushed so as not to alert the other boys just a few feet away. This conversation was something Kenny surely wouldn’t approve of. “Tell me what you wish, Sam.”
“Miss Hunt,” the little boy said. “I should study.”
“Sam.” She gave him an exhausted smile. “I think you work way too hard.”
“That sounds funny-‘ ya wook too hod… ’ ” He mimicked her Boston accent perfectly, dropping his Rs.
“Don’t you see what they’re doing?” Nelson had stopped his sports talk with the other boys and was now staring. “They’re English bandits-learning how to speak like us. Copying our accents. That’s why they killed Nguyen first. His parents came to the U.S. from Vietnam when he was just a kid so his accent wasn’t perfect enough for them.”
“Way to go,” Kenny sneered. He stood to tower over the younger boy. “Idiot!” He knocked Sam off his cushion with a swift kick to the ribs. “Now they’re on to us.”
Hunt snatched Kenny’s arm, yanking him down to face her. The guards might be able to push her around, but she wasn’t about to let some runty kid get away with it.
“You didn’t have to kick him, you little shit.” Her fingernails dug into the flesh of his arm, drawing blood.
Kenny stared back at her with black pig eyes, breathing softly. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll let go of me… you little shit.”
Karen’s entire body shook with rage. She shoved Kenny away and reached to comfort a crying Sam. He buried his face into her shoulder, sobbing.
Kenny rubbed the nail marks on his arm, and then looked at the other boys. “Come on, guys. That’s enough lessons for the day.” He said. “Let’s go get a Coke. Come on, Sam. Stop being such a baby. You’re not in trouble.”
Sam sat up, nodding at Kenny, unconvinced. “Okay…”
“I’ll tell you what I wished for, Miss Hunt.” His solemn eyes glistened with tears. “I wish… I wish I could save you…”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
The surviving Enfield was cramped riding two-up, but they didn’t have to worry about gear since most of it had been obliterated by the missile. The impact of the Hellfire had knocked the bike over and snapped the clutch lever, forcing Quinn to shift by feel alone. It was something he often did on the track, but the rough terrain made it touchy.
But for Ronnie’s pants, the armored Rev’it riding suits had been blown to bits. The warmth of Ronnie’s body pressed close behind him, unencumbered by heavy clothing, made it doubly difficult to concentrate on the narrow confines of the bumpy path.
He’d just warned her for the fifth time to stop breathing in his ear if she didn’t want him to drive off the mountain when the Kyrgyz encampment appeared in the valley ahead.