“Would you shut up and listen to me for a minute?” Fargo tried to check the whine in his voice, but the words still came out more plea than order. He swallowed hard. “My source has found out there’s a full-scale search being mounted for someone missing over the Chinese border into Afghanistan. This has Jericho Quinn written all over it. I need you to get your men together.”
Bundy breathed in quickly through his nose at the mention of Quinn’s name. “I wonder what he’s doing over there…” He rubbed his bald head with the flat of his hand, thinking. “You know, LT, this guy sounds like the only one among all the names on our list who would be a challenge to interrogate.”
“We need to get on this right away,” Fargo said, mistaking Bundy’s calm for mutual understanding. “If he’s still alive, I want us there to snatch him.”
“You’re an all-powerful lieutenant colonel in the U.S. Army.” Bundy smirked. It was difficult to tell if he was being condescending or suggesting a plan. “You got some pull, right?”
“Damn right I do,” Fargo heard himself say, though it sounded idiotic even to him.
“Quinn will have to come home to roost sometime. Let’s bump up the locate we put out. We’ll list him HVT.”
Fargo felt hopeful for the first time in weeks. Listing Quinn as a high-value target would put the might of the entire military behind the search. “I could put him on the capture-or-kill list.”
“Don’t you want to talk to him, sir?” Bundy’s black eyes churned, like something at the bottom of a polluted lake. “ I want to talk to him-spend a little time getting inside his head. My advice-just list him HVT. Add a warning annex that no one is to have any communication with him whatsoever, per your directive. ‘Gag immediately on arrest’-national security and all…”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Afghanistan
The hollow chirp of a teakettle dragged Quinn out of a dead sleep layer by painful layer. His body glowed with the painful warmth of someone who’d suffered from extreme cold. A mound of heavy quilts pressed him against a hard hair mattress that smelled of alcohol, dried yogurt, and sweat. The pungent odor of smoke from a yak-dung fire mixed with a greasy smell of spiced meat that pressed against his empty stomach like a fist.
His mouth felt full of chalk. His head pounded from what he knew was severe dehydration. The clatter of metal pots and pans felt like kettledrums played against his ear.
Quinn knew he carried vital information, but he couldn’t get his mind around it. He remembered the labyrinth of mountain caves, the English-speaking boys. They’d mentioned the name of a man who ran the school… a doctor. Dr. Badeeb. That was it. He and Garcia had to get the information back-
Garcia! The memories came flooding back.
He pushed himself up on one arm, shrugging off the quilts. It took a long moment for his eyes to become accustomed to the harsh lantern light inside the yurt. The events washed back over him in a crashing wave. Dizzy, he got to his knees.
Ainura, the Kyrgyz woman, stood beside her propane stove chatting with the female CIA agent they’d rescued. A rack of white yogurt balls dried on a tray above the stove.
“Ronnie,” Quinn croaked, swallowing.
Ainura brought him a chipped cup of butter tea. He slammed it down like a man coming in from the desert. Nodding in thanks, he handed her back the cup.
“The other woman I was with.” His eyes played around the interior of the yurt. “Is she all right?”
Karen Hunt knelt on a pile of felt cushions beside him. Patches of pallid, frostbitten skin covered her swollen nose and cheeks. Her lips were cracked and scabbed.
“She’s alive,” Hunt said, a grave look crossing her battered face. “For now. I’m afraid if we don’t get her out of here soon…” Her voice trailed off in tight-lipped silence.
Quinn crawled to the mound of quilts nearer the stove. The warmest place in the yurt. He gently drew back the top blanket.
The Kyrgyz of the High Pamir were accustomed to treating injuries and illness without the immediate aid of a doctor. Ainura had rolled felt pads and cushions to prop Garcia up on her side. She’d been stripped her down to her long-john bottoms, but the Lycra sports bra was left in place to protect the chest catheter. Thick tresses of black hair matted to Garcia’s gaunt cheeks. Her chest shuddered with each labored breath.
She stirred, moaning softly when Quinn picked up a hand. She was reactive-that was a good sign-but her nail beds were tinged a chalky blue. She was getting some oxygen, but not enough. He pressed an ear to her breastbone and heard what he’d feared he would-a wheezing, high-pitched rattle.
Exertion and cold from the extreme altitude were filling her lungs with fluid. He’d plugged the wound in her back, but a tiny bit of air aspirated from her punctured lung into her chest cavity each time she drew a breath, creating a pressure strong enough to press against her already-struggling heart. The catheter let the air escape, but it couldn’t keep up.
Quinn kept his head against the warmth of her chest, listening for a time, thinking over his options. There were few. When he sat up, Garcia’s eyes flicked open.
Chapped lips parted into a wan smile when she saw him. It vanished as quickly as it appeared. Her eyes shot around the room as if seized by a sudden realization. She opened her mouth to speak but managed little more than a breathy croak.
“Relax,” Quinn said. “We made it out.” He smoothed a tangle of hair away from her forehead, letting the back of his hand trail down the soft skin of her cheek.
She grabbed at his sleeve, pulling him to her lips. Her voice was like the slow release of air from a punctured tire. “Tar… Wesssst Texxxassss bih… bit…” Her eyes rolled back in her head and her hand fell away from his arm.
“You know what she means?” Karen Hunt stood off Quinn’s right shoulder, a hot cup of tea in her hand. “She’s been saying the same thing over and over. Something about Texas.”
He pulled the blanket back up around Garcia’s shoulders. “No idea,” he said. “But we have to get her to a hospital.” He glanced at the felt-covered door of the yurt. “Is it still snowing?”
Hunt shook her head. “Stopped about three hours ago. Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” he said.
“How many of these kids do you think there are in the U.S. already?”
“I don’t know.” Quinn stared at Ronnie as he spoke.
“Seven attacks over the last couple of weeks. That’s if there haven’t been more since we’ve been off the grid. The haphazard stuff feels wrong though. Anyone smart and patient enough to put a school like this one in place is planning something bigger than a few shooting rampages.”
“I agree.” Hunt nodded slowly. “They’re brainwashing those kids young so that no matter how good their experiences are in America, they never forget their hatred. It all adds up. One of the boys-the one they killed for liking me-said Americans killed his mother and sister. If you can make a child believe you somehow rescued them from the evil Americans, it’s not a far cry to pushing them to vengeance.”
“Exactly,” Quinn said. “I’m sure there are some details to get worked out, but I believe that’s the gist of it.”
He pushed to his feet with a long groan. He felt as if he’d been kicked in the head and rubbed down with heavy sandpaper. “My friends will be looking for me. I need to stomp out a distress signal in the snow.”
Hunt took a sip of her tea and grinned. “And just what do you think us CIA types do for three hours while we wait for you to wake up? Already done.”
Quinn collapsed back onto his quilts. He had to get the information back to Palmer about this Dr. Badeeb. The key to what was happening was sure to be with this guy. Quinn took a deep breath, struggling to remain calm. There was nothing to do now but wait and hope that Garcia could hang on.