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 down 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.”