“Chinese bitch!” Ehmet spat, hitting her again. “My brother and I are one. He will have a turn with the iron when I grow tired of your screams. You would like that, wouldn’t you, Yaqub?”
“I… suppose…”
Quinn heard the hiss of steam. “I think it is ready,” Ehmet said.
“You are such a fool,” Jiàn Zŏu said, sounding preoccupied, as if he could not be bothered with something as trivial as torture.
Song’s pitiful scream filled the room. A second cry followed on the shattered peals of the first, trailing off in a series of breathless sobs as she worked through the pain.
Quinn thought of the poor college student, intent on nothing but the study of her violin, pressed into a life she wanted no part of. He peeked over the lip of the tub to find Song tied to a chair ten feet away, just outside the bathroom, facing the door. The stunted form of Ehmet Feng stood behind her. Quinn had known he was not a large man, but was unprepared for how small the Uyghur actually was. He looked like a child, dwarfed by the remnants of a dilapidated kitchenette. A line of sagging cabinets ran along the wall, their doors in various stages of falling off. Quinn noted the loose vinyl tile that would give him little footing when he did decide to move.
Someone stood directly to the Uyghur’s right, beside an old mattress on the scabby shag carpet. Song was tied to a high-back chair, her lips and nose battered and bloody. Strands of matted hair hung down in front of a swollen face. Her purple dress had been pushed up to expose her thighs — where the Uyghur had pressed the hot iron.
Boiling with rage, Quinn bolted upright, twisting in the tub. Song screamed a third time, panting, begging Ehmet to stop. Quinn jammed his wrists backwards, sawing them against the jagged lip of the faucet. He’d hoped to free his hands, but only managed to flay off a layer of skin, just nicking the edge of the tape before Ehmet Feng glanced up from his work and looked directly at him.
Quinn used his chest to clamber over the side of the tub, then launched himself through the bathroom door. Hands still taped behind his back, a single thought pushed him forward — killing Ehmet Feng.
The threshold of the bathroom door blocked all but a sliver of his view so Quinn had no idea if the men who belonged to the other two voices had guns or where the third was even located. He knew he’d find out soon enough. Blood flowed freely from a wound above his right eye, blurring his vision but adding to his rage. It took several drunken steps to get his feet back under him after the cramped quarters of the bathtub, but he’d picked up a full head of steam by the time he plowed into Ehmet Feng.
Stepping deftly around a clumsy swing with the steam iron, Quinn impacted the snarling Uyghur center chest with the point of his shoulder, effectively using the other man’s rib cage as a spring to send him flying backwards. Feng kept a death grip on the iron as he fell and Quinn knew he wouldn’t stay down long.
Quinn spun long enough to get a quick assessment of the other two men. Yaqub Feng stood almost within arm’s reach, mouth hanging open, pistol still shoved down the front of his jeans. Quinn caught a glimpse of movement across the room. Whoever it was, he was too far away to deal with under the present circumstances. His best course of action was to keep moving, making himself a more difficult target in case the man had a gun and more gumption than Yaqub Feng.
Hands still taped behind his back, Quinn bent at the knees, staying as centered as he could with his head spinning from the wound. Bringing his shoulders down in a low crouch, Quinn threw the full weight of his body against Yaqub’s knee, wrenching the joint laterally with a sickening crunch as cartilage and ligaments stretched and tore. Both men fell hard against the thin mattress, with the Uyghur’s demolished knee breaking Quinn’s fall.
Quinn sensed Ehmet before he saw him and rolled to escape a wild swing of the heavy iron. Yaqub fumbled with the pistol, yanking it out of his waistband as if he were scared to touch it. Quinn took advantage of the indecisiveness and sent in a snap kick that launched the gun across the room. He bobbed back, using the injured man as a shield when Ehmet brought the steam iron around with a whoosh.
Step-dragging to keep a kneeling and sobbing Yaqub in front of him, Quinn worked to focus Ehmet’s attention away from the terrified Song, who still sat bound and helpless in the chair.
One eye on Ehmet, Quinn tried to wipe the blood off his face with a shoulder, bringing another wave of nausea. The Uyghur saw the momentary flutter and pressed his attack.
“Kill him, you fool!” Ehmet screamed at the other man across the room. Quinn heard a door slam, bringing some measure of relief that he didn’t have to deal with an extra gunman.
“No!” Song screamed.
Ehmet’s face screwed into a ball of rage. He swung again, clobbering his own brother on the point of the chin. It was a glancing blow, but kept Yaqub reeling, still on his knees. Circling quickly so both men now faced him, Quinn sent a low kick with his right leg flying past Yaqub’s right ear, putting Ehmet on the run. Instead of trying to connect with the smaller Uyghur, Quinn brought his foot around behind Yaqub’s neck in the same motion, striking the Uyghur in the back of the neck just below the skull, driving him into the floor face-first, leaving him motionless on the filthy carpet.
Too dizzy to deliver the follow-up stomp that would have finished the downed Uyghur, Quinn stepped back to regain his footing. Ehmet screamed in rage, rushing him with the iron. Quinn saw the blow coming. He was able to bob out of the direct line, but the point of the iron grabbed the material of his suit jacket and spun him like a drunken dancer. Quinn moved with the blow, corkscrewing to the floor and sweeping the Uyghur’s legs out from under him in the process.
Ehmet cursed and scrambled to get away. He flailed with the iron, but the lack of space on the ground robbed him of a backswing and took the power from his blows. Quinn’s wound made him nearly impervious to the pain and he ignored the slapping iron, pulling the Uyghur down with the crook of his leg. Being on the ground gave Quinn the added benefit of not having to worry about the birds spinning in his head. He could fight through the nausea if he didn’t have to worry about toppling over.
The tape around his wrists felt looser after the hard fall and Quinn struggled to pull free as Ehmet continued to swing the iron. Both men ended up on their backs, with the Uyghur perpendicular to Quinn. Shrimping toward him on feet and shoulders, Quinn chopped viciously at the stunned Uyghur’s throat with his heel. His hands came free of the tape and he was able to trap the flopping steam iron before it struck something vital.
Flexing his fingers to bring the circulation back, Quinn managed to pry the iron from Ehmet’s hand at the same moment Song let loose a shattered scream.
“Stop him!”
Quinn turned to find Yaqub staggering to his knees, his hands wrapped around a wooden chair he intended to use as a weapon.
Quinn swung as he stood, bringing the iron across in a tight arc with all the torque and backup-mass his exhausted hips and shoulders could muster. He connected with Yaqub’s temple with a resounding thunk and sent him back to the floor for good. Quinn continued with his swing to impact Ehmet in the jaw, staggering him but not knocking him out. Instead of chambering for another swing, Quinn caught him again on the backswing, snapping his head around with a loud crack. A nauseous fury filled Quinn’s belly as he dropped to his knees over the fallen Uyghur and struck him again and again with the heavy iron.
“Stop it!” Song panted. “Stop it now. He is getting away!”
Covered in blood and gore, Quinn let the iron fall to the floor and stumbled over to her.
“We must hurry.” She yanked against her bonds, her voice slurred from her swollen jaw. “Jiàn Zŏu. We have to stop him.”