Act of Terror (20 page)

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Authors: Marc Cameron

BOOK: Act of Terror
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C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-FIVE
L
ocal hunters said the high valley was inhabited by
Pari
, beautiful female beings with supernatural powers. Dr. Badeeb had played on that fear, calling his school the Pari Children's Home—or simply Pari.
To an untrained eye, the face of the school looked like a pile of flat gray stones at the foot of a sheer rock face. Two similar peaks rose from the edges of a high alpine meadow surrounding the blue waters of a glacial lake. The peaks were covered with snow year-round, not quite tall enough to draw the attention of world-class mountaineers and much too dangerous to provide any negotiable pass for opium smugglers. Massive golden eagles soared unmolested in the rectangle of blue sky. A small herd of female ibex and their kids nibbled scant vegetation in the craggy peaks.
Flanking the hidden valley on three sides, these giant rocks formed the perfect palisade, protecting the high meadow from unwanted intruders. At the base of the largest mountain, almost hidden among the pile of flat stones, was a dusty wooden door framed by heavy timber supports. A closer inspection revealed a tiny, one-foot-square window, similarly framed a few feet past the door. Seven identical windows strung out along the mountain's base toward the apex of the valley.
A cluster of smoke-gray felt yurts dotted the valley floor. The protected Pamir provided excellent grazing grounds during summer months, and even now, well into the fall with a skiff of ice ringing the emerald lake, herds of yaks and scruffy sheep still munched on the frost-nipped pastures.
On the other side of the third window down, CIA paramilitary officer Karen Hunt sat in a clammy room carved into the bowels of the mountain. An oil lamp sputtered in a chipped hollow along the inside rock wall.
She'd thought her spine would snap before the caravan arrived at the valley. Two men, one on each arm, had dragged her on wobbly legs from her yak and into the dark twelve-by-twelve cell. When her eyes became accustomed to the flickering lamp, she'd been startled to find Lieutenant Nelson and Specialist Nguyen already lying on a pile of rags in the uneven corner of the cave-like room.
A plastic bucket sat on the floor under a constant drip from the carved stone roof. The water appeared to be clean, but smelled of sulfur. It was a small bucket for the needs of three people, no bigger than a table pitcher, but the dripping kept it full.
The concussion from the stun grenade, coupled with the rigors of the never-ending yak ride, had left Karen's skin raw and her body past the point of exhaustion. A knot from her beating throbbed behind her right ear. Relieved just to be alive, she collapsed beside a similarly docile Nelson and Nguyen before passing into unconsciousness.
 
 
Karen stirred as a ray of pink light sifted in from the single window to paint the only flat wall of the cell. Her eyes were matted shut and every inch of her body felt as if she'd been dragged over an acre of broken glass. Moaning softly, she realized her head was resting in Lieutenant Nelson's lap. She forced open her eyes to see that he was leaning against the wall, looking down at her. Specialist Nguyen was curled up against her back, keeping them both as warm as possible against the damp stone floor.
“How long have we been here?” Karen blinked. She moved her neck from side to side, awakening the searing pain in the knot above her ear.
“I couldn't say,” Nelson said. His eyes were glazed in the thousand-yard stare of someone lost in thought. “I'm hungry, if that means anything.”
“Is anything broken?” Karen pushed herself gingerly into a sitting position beside Nelson, being as careful as she could not to disturb Nguyen.
“My collarbone is toast,” he said through clenched teeth. “Won't be much use to you in a fight.”
“We'll see ab—”
Karen's answer was cut short by the creak of the metal door. A Tajik guard with close-cropped gray hair stuck his head in and gave the cell a quick once-over. A moment later, three boys—none of them looked over twelve—brought in trays of dates, nuts, and rice along with three red cans of Coca-Cola. They were not the sort of cans with Arabic script that U.S. personnel called Abu Dhabi Cokes—these were American pop cans with English writing.
Karen felt Nelson's body go tense. They both realized the leader of the boys was Kenny, the same child who'd approached the front gate at Camp Bullwhip. The same one who'd so cavalierly thanked them for the chocolate while shrugging of the fact that they would soon lose their heads.
“Hey,” Kenny grunted, a sullen preteen even in the wilds of... wherever they were. “You guys look like crap.” He motioned for the other two boys, both younger and a few inches shorter, to place their trays of food on the ground and back away. For a child, he seemed to have a lot of experience dealing with prisoners.
“Go ahead.” He waved at the piles of apricots and clumped rice. “You should eat when they give you food. One of you will need all your strength by the end of the day.”
Specialist Nguyen rose up on one elbow beside Karen. “Hey,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. “How did you get here?”
Kenny smirked, glancing back at his two companions. “I told you,” he said. “I'm from Milwaukee.”
One of the boys, a freckle-faced kid of eight or so, bobbed his head and shoulders quickly, giggling.
Karen fought the urge to jump up and pound the little kid's face against the rock wall. “Listen, you guys, I don't know where they took you from. But we're Americans too. Kenny, just before we were attacked you said you were from Wisconsin. I'm from Boston. We're all on the same side here.”
“That's where you're wrong,” Kenny snorted. “After what the Americans did, we'll never be on the same side.”
“What do you mean, the Americans?” Nguyen gasped, his voice wobbling like he might cry. “Why are you guys doin' this? We didn't do nothing to you but give you chocolate. Have they brainwashed you or something?”
Nelson held up a hand, shushing him. “Let's just eat something and see where that leads.”
“I'll tell you where it will lead,” Kenny said. “It'll lead to getting your infidel heads sawed off ... but what do I know? You guys eat up.”
The freckled kid's head moved like a bobbing dog statuette and he broke into a maniacal giggle.
SUNDAY
October 1
C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-SIX
Kashgar, China
0530 hours China Standard Time
 
“Y
ou cannot win. Do you understand?” A cloud of vapor enveloped Gabrielle Deuben's face in the pink-orange chill of early morning.
“I know,” Quinn said.
Garcia rubbed her eyes and gave a long, feline yawn. “I've seen you fight,” Garcia said. “I think you can take this guy. He's big, but he's fat.”
Deuben shook her head. “That's not the point. If he wins, Umar loses even more face.”
Garcia's eyes followed a potbellied Uyghur who looked more like a draft horse than a man. She'd been disappointed but not surprised last night when Quinn had slept on the floor, letting her have the bed. Even on the hard floor he appeared to have slept better than her. “And what if he kills you?” she asked.
“I won't let that happen.” Quinn sat with his back to the wall. The eight-foot-high clay block enclosure was normally used to house livestock during the Sunday market. It was five-thirty in the morning and the camels would be arriving in a half an hour.
The fight would be long over by then.
“But remember,” Doctor Deuben whispered. Her eyes, too, followed the Uyghur as she spoke. “You can't throw the match. That would be the worst of all for Umar's reputation.”
“Don't win and try not to lose.” Quinn nodded as if taking a mental note. “That should be easy enough.”
Garcia wanted to scream.
Umar leaned against the same clay wall and did a press-up twenty feet away, stretching calf muscles the size of grapefruit. He wore a pair of dirty canvas pants and scuffed leather boots. A morning chill pinked the hairy skin of his bare back.
Garcia shook her head. The man's neck looked as big around as Quinn's waist. She'd spent no small amount of time wondering what Quinn might look like with his shirt off. Now her stomach was too tied up in knots to enjoy it.
“Shall we begin?” Umar's ancient gray-bearded assistant wheezed around his smoldering cigarette. Two lines of at least a dozen men each squatted stoically along the outer edge of the oblong arena.
Quinn turned to Garcia and smiled. “You think anyone's betting on me?”
Ronnie watched Umar flex his thick chest, bouncing his pecs as he ground a huge fist into an open palm. Quinn peeled off his white T-shirt to reveal at least a dozen puckered white scars on the tight copper flesh across his lower back. She wondered if maybe he'd been shot. His body was fluid and moved easily, seeming as much tendon and bone as muscle. He looked like a well-built ant about to fight a hippo.
Shivering at the sight of him, Ronnie gave Quinn a soft jab in the shoulder.
“Sorry,
mango
, my money's on Umar.”
 
 
Quinn stood, stretching his neck back and forth to either side, hearing the cracks. But for the odor of animal dung and the sound of braying donkeys over the walls, he was taken back to his boxing days at the Air Force Academy. There was something about a pending fight that changed the very nature of the air and made it sweeter to breathe.
Umar the Uyghur had a jowly, egg-shaped face with short-cropped hair that reminded Quinn of Thibodaux's marine high-and-tight. A roll of fat around the man's belly said he didn't get much cardio exercise, but the rippling muscles in his arms and shoulders said there was a good chance he won his fights without even raising his heart rate.
Umar lumbered to the center of the camel pen, slapping his great chest with hands the size of dinner plates. He swayed like a mountain gorilla. Each scuffing step of his heavy boots kicked up a pink cloud of dust in the long rays of morning light.
He turned to Quinn, tilting his big head into the beginnings of a nod. Quinn returned the gesture, hands hanging relaxed at his sides. There would be no referee and no one to explain the rules. There were none.
Umar slapped his chest again, leaving a pink handprint on the undulating flesh. He flicked his fingers, beckoning Quinn out. His twinkling eyes all but disappeared behind a cheeky grin.
“I don't like this,” Ronnie said through clenched teeth. “Here we are at the edge of the world and all the local police are passed out drunk. What if he decides he has to kill you to save face?”
Quinn gave her a wink. “I'm pretty skilled in the not-dying category.”
He took a half step forward—and the giant Uyghur charged like a raging bull elephant.
 
 
Quinn stepped deftly to the side to avoid the oncoming freight train. A thick cloud of dust engulfed the Uyghur as he slid to a stop.
In general, fights with no rules lasted under a minute. Umar was over six and a half feet tall. Quinn knew one solid punch from this man and the fight would be over much quicker than that.
The Uyghur spun, dragging his left leg in an almost imperceptible gimp. His left shoulder sagged as he moved. Just a hair, but Quinn noticed. Big people tended to have big injuries. Sheer mass compounded any sprain, crack, or pull. Within ten seconds, Quinn was able to identify bruised floating ribs on the giant's right side, a strained AC ligament on each knee, acute plantar fasciitis of the left heel, and a badly torn rotator cuff. Collectively, the injuries were debilitating enough Quinn could have scored a decisive victory in a matter of moments. Unfortunately he wouldn't have that luxury. He'd have to drag out the battle—make Umar work for it. And both men would have to endure a considerable amount of pain.
Quinn dodged the direct effects of a crashing right hook, letting it graze his chest. He staggered backward, coughing as if it had been a devastating blow. For a man of his bulk, Umar could turn on a dime. Circling, he brought the screaming right fist around for another try. This time Quinn stepped past and gave him a swift cow-kick low on the left calf, an area sure to be painfully tight from the plantar fasciitis.
Umar turned again, nostrils flaring, panting hard. He gave a little shake of his leg and eyed Quinn through narrow slits. The kick had set his leg on fire; Quinn could see it in his eyes. Feinting with his left, the Uyghur followed with a growling bum rush. The crowd of squatting onlookers cried out in delighted surprise as they parted like the Rea Sea before the oncoming giant.
Quinn stepped aside again, a matador avoiding an enraged bull. He drove his knuckles into Umar's cracked ribs, and then slapped him in the groin as he bowled past so the crowd couldn't see what had just happened. Unable to stop in time, Umar slammed straight into the high block wall.
He pushed back, dazed and blinking. A trickle of blood ran from his nose and cracked lip where he had kissed the rough stone.
From the corner of his eye, Quinn could see the quizzical looks on the local men's faces. They'd clearly expected their champion to wipe the floor with the visiting American.
Umar wasted no time in rejoining the fight. In the blink of an eye he rushed back to the center of the camel pen, now a boiling haze of pink-tinged dust.
Umar kept his left arm tucked tight, clearly protecting the injured rotator cuff. He threw another staggering right, but Quinn stepped under this time, landing a punch of his own in the soapy exposed flesh of the giant's armpit. The same nerves that made the area ticklish made it a perfect target to incapacitate the arm.
Umar's elbow slammed to his side, the entire arm flapping unnaturally as he moved. His round face fell into a slack-jawed stare and he slouched forward as if he might vomit.
Quinn knew he had to let the man win soon, or risk a victory himself.
He sprang sideways, giving the stunned Uyghur a perfect target for a left hook. Quinn took the punch on the chin, counting on the injured shoulder to take out some of the sting.
It did, but not much.
Quinn went down hard, slamming into the mixture of dirt and pulverized camel dung. Umar staggered over, trying to deliver a kick to his exposed ribs. Quinn rolled toward him, closing the distance and riding the leg up to wrench sideways against the torn knee ligaments.
A light of realization flickered in Umar's narrow eyes. His massive arms dangled like broken wings. In that instant, he realized Quinn knew all his weaknesses. He was an accomplished enough fighter to know when he'd been beaten.
Quinn rolled to his feet, rushing headlong into the giant as if he meant to tackle him. He bounced off, landing on his seat. Umar stood still, blinking.
Quinn scrambled up and rushed in again. This time, the Uyghur caught him up in a bear hug. It was all he could do to hang on with one arm partially paralyzed and the other shoulder torn and out of commission.
Hands at his sides, feet dangling, Quinn hoped the big guy had gotten his message.
The crowd of onlookers surrounding the camel pen shot to their feet when they saw Quinn had fallen into what they knew as Umar's crushing grip.
The giant Uyghur looked down and grinned—understanding.
Roaring, he squeezed Quinn tight against his chest and gave him a stiff head-butt to the nose.
Quinn's eyes rolled back as he fought to keep conscious. In the cloud of dust, Umar winked at him.
“Only a tap, my friend,” he whispered. “You have my respect ... and my thanks.”
Quinn slid to the ground, landing flat on the seat of his pants. Blood streamed from his nostrils.
The crowd began to chant their beloved Umar's name.

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