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.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Karen Hunt sat up with a start when the metal door clanged open. The three prisoners huddled close together for warmth as well as moral support. Specialist Tuan “Kevin” Nguyen had just been reminiscing about his parents making him study twice as hard as the white kids in his class.
As always, one of the adult guards peered into the room first before letting in the children. But this time, he followed them in, accompanied by three other men in knee-length shalwar kameez shirts and baggy pants. The men all looked to be in their thirties and forties with close-cropped black hair and dark beards. Two of them had strikingly green eyes.
Three of the men stood back against the wall, hands hanging loosely by their sides. The leader, one of the green-eyed ones, stepped forward.
Kenny stood beside him.
“You,” Kenny said, pointing at Nguyen. “Get up.”
“Why me?” Nguyen asked in a whisper like tearing paper. He didn’t move.
“Why not you?” Kenny smirked.
Nguyen turned to look at Hunt, breathing faster through his nose. “I…”
“Take me,” Nelson said, trying to push himself to a sitting position. He winced from the pain of his broken collarbone.
The kid folded his arms across his Pepsi T-shirt and gave an emphatic shake of his head.
“Nope,” he said. “It’s not your turn. Gotta be hi-”
Karen lunged, missing Kenny’s neck by mere inches. She had no plan but couldn’t let them drag poor Nguyen away without a fight.
One of the guards caught across the back of her neck with a heavy leather sap, driving her to the ground. A shower of lights blasted through her brain. Through the hazy shadows, she could hear the sounds of Kenny laughing and Kevin Nguyen screaming in terror as they dragged him away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Umar held a blood-soaked cloth to his nose and pushed the paperwork across the counter. “Royal Enfield Bullet,” he sniffed. “Only the best motorcycle for you, my friend.”
Quinn signed the rental contract, written by some Chinese lawyer in poorly translated English. He worked his bruised jaw back and forth as he handed back the pen.
Umar tossed the rag on the counter and raised his beefy hand. His injured lip split back open when he grinned, dripping blood on the contract. “Four hundred and ninety-nine cc, four stroke, twenty-seven horsepower- best bike for you. Altitude no problem.”
“Twenty-seven horsepower.” Quinn nodded, thinking about the hundred-twenty-plus of his modified BMW. Still, the Enfield was a sweet little bike. Gaunt and skinny enough to show its ribs, it was a motorcycle that brought back memories of black-and-white newsreels from the war and dispatches that just had to make it through enemy lines. The Indian government had started using the Enfield bikes in 1955 and later bought the tooling equipment from the British in 1957. Little had changed over decades of production, but the new fuel injection would come in handy climbing the sixteen-thousand-foot passes leading into the High Pamir.
Umar knew his motorcycles. It a shame that these two little machines wouldn’t make it back into his stable. Quinn made a mental note to see that new ones were provided as replacements as soon as he got home-if he got home.
