“You see what you can find out from the other guy while I talk to Hajip,” Quinn said, moving toward the warehouse in a shuffling crouch. He knew Thibodaux well enough to be certain the big Marine would prefer head-on action to all this sneaking around.
“I know you got rid of that exploding blunderbuss,” Thibodaux said as they moved toward the door. “But these guys are famous for their big-ass knives. I don’t guess you’ve got another pistol up your sleeve.”
“This is Kashgar.” Quinn grabbed the door handle, ready to go. “There’ll be plenty of knives for us.”
Hajip had locked the main doors behind him and Jericho had to use the chisel point of his Riot to jimmy the flimsy lock. From the outside the place looked to be as big as a deep three-car garage. Easing from the darkness into the lighted warehouse allowed Quinn to make it fifteen feet from Hajip before he even looked up from his cart. Quinn was surprised to see that the man’s eyes and nose were red from crying.
Thibodaux faded to the right as soon as they came in, cutting off the second Uyghur, a burly young man who was built like a farmhand. Both Thibodaux and Quinn moved quickly, closing the distance while their surprised targets were still busy trying to figure out what was going on. Quinn’s heavy black beard and olive complexion gave him the ambiguous ethnicity that might make him a Central Asian, but the sight of the giant Cajun momentarily stunned the two Uyghur men.
Quinn was nearly on top of Hajip when the Uyghur snatched up the heavy cleaver he used to hack off pieces of matang. Dozens of blades of various shapes and sizes were strewn over several other carts parked alongside Hajip’s. Quinn snatched up a long, but relatively thin blade compared to the cleaver. He didn’t plan on a fencing match. There was too much danger of an errant slash from Hajip connecting with something vital.
Quinn knew from harsh experience that human bodies were little more than flimsy, blood-filled balloons. Movie knife fights featured a lot of clanging metal, thrusts and parries, and sparks for show. Showing a knife as a defensive threat — as Hajip was doing now — was all well and good, but a real-world knife attack was more like an assault with a club — a sharp and pointed club, but still a club. An attack was usually over in a matter of seconds with one party completely overwhelmed.
Mean and intimidating as it was, the cleaver was heavy and its weight and momentum made Hajip’s movements clumsy. Whatever had caused him to cry likely weighed on his mind and slowed him down even more. Quinn feinted left. Hajip took the bait, slashing wildly with the unwieldy matang blade. Quinn stepped offline, parrying the attacking arm out of the way with his right, and then clobbered Hajip in the neck with a quick left hook. Stunned, the Uyghur fell sideways, slamming against the edge of his metal cart on the way to the ground, his right arm snapping with a sickening pop.
“That didn’t take long,” Thibodaux observed, standing over his unconscious opponent. “I guess waving at customers with a big honking knife don’t provide for much combat experience.”
Quinn kicked the blade out of the way and grabbed a roll of plastic wrap from Hajip’s matang cart. Two minutes later both Uyghurs looked like angry cocoons leaning against the back wall. Their arms were secured to their sides, and they were wrapped from chest to ankle in most of the industrial-size roll of plastic.
Awake now, Hajip fired off a furious string in Uyghur. Bloodshot eyes locked on his unconscious friend. Quinn hopped up to sit on the edge of the cart. He didn’t understand the words, but got the gist of them.
“His shoulder is torn up,” Quinn said in Mandarin. “But he’s still alive.”
Hajip glared with the white-hot hatred of a powerless man. A thin trickle of blood ran from his nose. His right eye was a little off-kilter — evidence of the power of Quinn’s left hook. His face was pale, likely from the pain of the broken arm he received during the fall.
“So,” Quinn said, speaking in Mandarin. “Do you know why I’m here?”
The Uyghur stared back but said nothing.
“What’s bothering you, Hajip?” Quinn said, hands resting beside his thighs as his legs dangled off the cart.
“I am tied like a goose,” the Uyghur spat. “That is what’s bothering me.” His Mandarin was fluent, but spoken in short, choppy sentences, as if distasteful to speak.
Quinn gave a slow nod, pondering which way to go with the questioning.
Snot flowed down the Uyghur’s nose. He was unable to rub his eyes, which brimmed with more tears. As interrogations went, someone or something had done half of Quinn’s job for him. Hajip was distraught, too distracted to keep up much of a lie.
“Let me get straight to the yolk of the egg, as they say,” Quinn said.
“That is a good idea,” Hajip said. “If you mean to take my head, so be it. I am prepared to die.”
Quinn shook his head. “I’m not interested in killing you.” he said, “As a matter of fact, I understand you are the man who can help me find the Feng brothers.”
The Uyghur began to thrash at the mention of the name, straining against the plastic wrap and beating the back of his head against the wall. Tendons strained at his neck. His face flushed red behind his wispy beard. Unable to free himself, he finally stopped long enough to glare at Quinn, panting. Spittle hung from his lips. His eyes burned with the rage of a tortured man.
“Ehmet Feng will burn in Hell!” he spat.
This was not the reaction Quinn had expected. He scooted forward to the edge of the cart. “You have seen Feng tonight?”
“Haaaa!” The Uyghur let loose a pitiful, heartbroken cry. “He would be dead if I had.” Hajip threw back his head again, screaming towards the rafters through clenched teeth. “I swear I will put a blade through Ehmet Feng’s black heart.”
“Hey!” Quinn patted the man on his cheek to keep his attention. “Listen to me. You want to get Ehmet Feng, then tell me where I can find him.”
“You must believe me when I tell you,” Hajip said through clenched teeth. “If I knew where that dog was, I would not be here. I would cut his throat, just as he did my brother.”
Quinn slid off the cart. “Why would Feng kill your brother?”
Hajip looked up through grief-stricken eyes. “Ehmet believed my brother betrayed him to the authorities, that he is the reason they were arrested.” Hajip shook his head, tears welling again. “The last scene to reach my brother’s eyes was that of Ehmet Feng murdering his children…”
“When did this happen?” Quinn moved in so he was just inches from the other man’s face. “Who gave you this information?” he whispered.
“Ehmet called my mobile to gloat.” The Uyghur’s head fell to his chest — he was crying in earnest now. “He murdered my brother while I stood on the street, selling confections like an old fool.”
“That was the call you received out on the street a few moments ago?”
Hajip nodded toward the unconscious man beside him. “My cousin and I had a plan to find the dog and avenge my brother, until you showed up.”
Quinn took a deep breath and considered his options. He felt for the poor man. The loss of a brother would be devastating, but a pat on the shoulder was all the solace he could afford. If the Fengs had committed bloody murders in the last hour, they were still in the area.
“Where would you look first?” Quinn said.
“I do not know.” Hajip choked back his sobs. “I was insane with grief when I received the call. I am not sure it’s even possible to find him. He has cousins in Kashgar, but the police will be watching them. He is much too smart to turn to any of them.”