Ronnie reached back out of habit, touching the small 9mm Kahr pistol tucked over her right kidney, inside the waistband of her jeans. Even under the thin cashmere sweater, it was all but invisible. Breeder’s hips or ghetto booty, being built on the athletic side of zaftig made it easier to hide a pistol — or at the very least more unlikely that anyone would notice that particular little bulge when there were so many other bulges to ogle.
Melissa Ryan must have seen her index the pistol and came up to put a hand on her shoulder. Garcia had liked her from the moment they’d met — nearly everyone did. She had a tantalizing smile that drew people to her and seemed to say to men and women alike, “Oh, my darling, if only I was yours and you were mine…”
“Not to worry, dear,” Ryan said, flashing the smile. Garcia caught the jasmine hint of Chanel as she drew alongside. Ryan exuded elegance even in a bunker. “Gettysburg streets are crowded with tourists from all over the world this time of year,” she said. “You should be fine. Just try not to draw any attention to yourself.”
“You women talk like such a thing is even possible,” Hawthorne scoffed, taking advantage of the setup from Ryan. “This sweet little Lipstick and Lead gonna draw attention like a—”
“That is enough, Sam!” Wilma stomped her little foot without looking up from her cross-stitch. “Leave the poor girl alone or you won’t be seeing much of anything, let alone a female hip.”
Hawthorne hung his head. “I’m just saying, let me come with if you want so I can look out for them. Folks are gonna look at her. It’s the damn truth and she knows it.”
“I’ll be fine, Sam,” Ronnie said, driving him to his wife with a lingering kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for your concern.”
Garcia waited for the others to leave the bunker so she could talk to Palmer alone for a second. “Heard anything from Jericho?” she asked.
Palmer popped another cough drop, which he immediately chewed to pieces. “Not since yesterday.” He didn’t go so far as to tell her not to worry. That would have been pointless. He did give her an uncharacteristic smile. “This will all be over soon, Veronica. You’re doing great. I always knew you would.”
“Cut the sentiment, boss.” She grinned. “It scares the shit out of me.”
“Yeah.” Palmer stifled a cough. “You’re right. Get to work.”
Chapter 17
The day was still pink and new when Quinn and Thibodaux arrived at the open field adjacent to the livestock market. The sun wouldn’t clear the eastern horizon for another half hour but the area around the outer edges of the field was already filled with intently focused men and excited horses.
Gabriella Deuben had invited them to spend what was left of the night in the bottom floor of her clinic, but Quinn had been unable to purge his mind of the whirlwind of thoughts. Images of his seven-year-old daughter, Mattie, tormented his mind, chasing away any semblance of sleep. She was stashed away with friends in Russia to keep her safe, and operational security meant that he rarely even got to speak with her. In the end, he lay on the makeshift pallet and tried to rest his body if not his mind, finally drifting off a scant hour before he had to get up. He could get by for weeks on three hours a night, but one left him groggy and slow and wishing he’d just stayed awake. His father, a commercial fisherman in Alaska, was fond of saying that the older he got, the more mortal he felt. The older Quinn got, the more he understood his old man.
Quinn shut the driver’s door to the little micro van and rubbed his hands together against the chill. A rusted set of five-tier bleachers like Quinn remembered from his Little League days listed heavily, looking like it might collapse at any moment under the weight of dozens of spectators who’d crammed themselves on the ancient metal benches. Frenetic dutar music twanged over a crackling loudspeaker. Men who seemed to have no regard for personal space shouted exuberantly whether they were half a field apart or standing nose to nose. Volkswagens, Citreons, and rusted Toyota trucks ringed the expansive dirt field. Many of the vehicles had livestock trailers in tow.
A constant line of traffic flowed in from the city, sending a curtain of dust drifting sideways against the sunrise. More and more cars arrived, each spilling out more spectators. When the rickety bleachers were full, spectators began to line up ten and twelve deep around the field. Grown men and boys stood packed together munching on snacks and chatting with each other. The smell of hot bread and sweet chai worked to chase away the chill in the morning air. A squad of uniformed Chinese soldiers had even come to watch the action from folding chairs set up in an open-backed six-by-six troop truck similar to a US deuce and a half.
Horses groaned and stomped as fierce-looking riders tugged their rigging tight before climbing into their saddles. Some of these men wore padded Soviet-era tanker helmets; most wore hats fashioned from leather and ringed in fur or wool. Thick, quilted clothing was the uniform of the day. All but the youngest few had wild beards. A ragtag bunch, they possessed the intense focus of professional athletes.
“There’s Hajip,” Quinn said, nodding toward the Uyghur, who stood beside a tall dapple-gray horse. His arm hung in a homemade sling of colorful cloth.
“Chair Force,” Thibodaux said, shaking his head, lips turned down in a disgusted frown. “I seem to remember you saying this would be like a rodeo.”
“It is,” Quinn said, nodding to a line of nickering horses.
The big Cajun pointed a flat hand toward a group of men standing over a shaggy black goat. One held the bleating animal’s head by the horns while another man ran a long blade across its throat, slaughtering in the traditional Islamic fashion without stunning it before the cut. The animal struggled as it bled to death, and then the man with the knife hacked off the head. A long-haired child of five or six swooped in and grabbed the head the moment it was free of the animal, carrying it away as if he’d won a prize. A third man squatting at the rear end of the goat slit the animal’s belly and removed the paunch. He took a heavy needle and thread from the lapel of his jacket and began to sew up the carcass before the child with the head had even made it back to his family.
“Warning,” Thibodaux said in a mock announcer’s voice. “Animals will be mutilated during the filming of this movie…” He breathed a heavy sigh. “There’s a hell of a lot of goat killin’ going on in this damn country, I’ll tell you that. I ain’t never been to a rodeo where full-growed men chop off a goat’s head, then fight over the body.”
“Well,” Quinn said as they came up beside Hajip. “Now you can say you have. I told you buzkashi means ‘goat bashing.’ What did you think it would be like?”
“I don’t know,” Thibodaux said. “Maybe a pointy oval ball made of goatskin that you kick, throw, or carry down the field.”
“It’s a rough game,” Quinn said. “But this is a rough country. The big games are played in the winter, so it’s easier on the horses. But according to Hajip, they hold a competition once a month early in the morning like this while it’s still cool enough.”
“Ain’t that just the luck,” Thibodaux muttered.
“As-salamu alaykum,” Hajip said through clenched teeth as the men approached. Eyes still red and brimming with vengeance for the murder of his brother, the Uyghur glared at Quinn as a necessary evil. He pointed to a burly man riding an equally burly bay among the other riders. “That one,” he said. “That is Habibullah.”