scuttle every time he flexed the tendons on his thick neck.
Fargo found it obvious the man didn’t like him. He hardly spoke unless spoken to and carried out orders with open disdain. The lieutenant colonel assumed it was because he hadn’t actually been to interrogation training himself. He’d heard Echoes were a closed society. Still, they had a job to do and he intended to see it was done correctly. Responsibility could not be delegated, he told himself. And capturing Jericho Quinn was his responsibility.
He pushed from his mind the fact that no one would have been looking for Quinn had he not pressed his uncle to have his name added to Congressman Drake’s list.
“He can’t just have vanished,” he said out loud, hoping to start a conversation with Bundy.
The first sergeant turned to look at him in the darkness of the Jeep but said nothing.
“Did you make the lookouts cover all uniformed branches?” Fargo tried to look stern, like an officer inspecting his troops, but he was pretty sure he just looked dyspeptic. Bundy had a way of tilting his head, just so, that made Fargo cringe.
“All of them,” Bundy whispered, sounding like a bald version of Clint Eastwood. “Including the Girl Scouts.”
“Have you…”
Three black sedans screeched down the street to park in front of Thibodaux’s house. Two men in suits jumped from each vehicle. Four of them, armed with long guns, set up a perimeter around the house while two went to the door.
Fargo threw his binoculars to his eyes and watched as a moment later the men led a teenage girl and six pajama-clad boys out into the waiting sedans. He recognized protective custody when he saw it.
Something inside him felt like it broke and drained away. “Thibodaux knows,” Fargo moaned, swallowing a mouthful of bile. “She told him.”
“Of course she did, sir.” Bundy smirked. “What did you think would happen? This is what we want-shake things up, stir the shit. See what they do.”
“Oh,” Fargo heard himself say. “If Gunny Thibodaux gets his hands on us, I know exactly what he’ll do.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
Karen Hunt, tough-minded paramilitary operative, slumped in the chilly stone room that served as her new cell. She’d been dragged away to face death alone, apart from the man who seemed her last friend on earth. Rocking back and forth, eyes clenched tight, she wondered how long she’d stay conscious while the men outside sawed her head off.
She’d seen videos during training-horrible things, images that wouldn’t leave her mind. There was a time when soldiers and spies had been taught how to hold out as long as they could during torture-to keep from spilling vital information-but now, captives were rarely even interrogated. They were merely dragged in front of a cheap video camera and beheaded. She’d heard Specialist Nguyen’s cries for help, down to his last gurgling whimper. These Jihadi bastards were more interested in a slow and agonizing death than an execution.
The guards had taken all her clothing, literally ripped it from her writhing body while they held her down. She’d thought they were going to kill her right then, but the children hadn’t been allowed in the room and she knew they were supposed to witness such things. Fear gave way to anger as she decided they meant to rape her instead. They did neither, simply taking her clothes and leaving her a thin, white cotton robe. She supposed it was to be her death suit, but took some pride in the fact that it had taken five full-grown Tajik men to restrain her.
Ordinarily, Hunt was a woman of supreme self-confidence. “Virtually unflappable,” her raters at Camp Perry had said. But the hopelessness of her situation, the certainty of violent struggle and a slow and painful death, was an acid test she was not sure she could handle. Her jaw felt slack, her stomach knotted until she could hardly sit up straight. The stark plainness in the stone cell spun around her like a gray cloud, formless and sinister.
“I’m not ready,” she whispered to herself. The thought suddenly made her chuckle. Her face twitched in a pained half smile as tears dripped from the end of her broken nose to the stone below. Who was ready to die? Everyone had future plans, dreams, lists left uncompleted… They saw themselves as the star in the little movie playing inside their head.
A jangle of keys outside the heavy timber door jerked her back to reality. She was thirty-three, not nearly old enough to be at the end of her own movie.
Hunt swallowed. They’d left her untied. She still had the skills from her training. Killing a man quickly was not as difficult as it sounded.
The hinges creaked as the door began to swing open, rusty from the constant drip inside the mountain. Hunt resolved to meet them head-on, to make them kill her more quickly than they’d planned. They expected her to be paralyzed with fear.
Kenny poked his head around the door, staying well outside her reach.
“How are you feeling, Karen?” he sneered.
She stared at him, saying nothing.
“I had to tell the teachers, you know.” The boy’s face brightened. “Sam’s gotta pay for being weak.”
Karen looked into Kenny’s twisted face and decided that no matter what happened, she would see him die before they killed her. He was just cocky enough, he’d get too close to taunt her… and then…
“Anyhow”-he shrugged-“it’s not you today.”
“What?” She couldn’t help herself. Relief, even guarded, trumped anger.
“Think about it.” He howled with demonic glee and snatched his head back before slamming the door.
Hunt swayed, falling into a curled, fetal position against the cold, unfeeling floor.
A moment later, Lieutenant Nelson shuffled past the door. She pushed herself up on both hands, straining to hear.
“Hang in there, kiddo,” he said, a catch in the whiskeyed timbre of his low voice. He wasn’t fighting anymore.
A tear pooled on her cheek as she realized his inaction was to buy time for her.
“You’re a good man, Nelson!” she screamed, giving over to sobs as she collapsed back to the floor.
But for the initial muffled growl at being subdued, the lieutenant made no sound. A jubilant cheer rose up from a group of excited children and Hunt knew it was over.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Quinn lay facedown on a gray stone outcropping overlooking a valley with seven felt yurts. A battle-weary Kalashnikov rifle lay on a tuft of frostbitten grass beside him. Ainura was an extremely poor woman and had little to give, but she’d been able to provide homespun wool coats for both Quinn and Garcia-and a beat-up old rifle that looked to be in working order. It was chilly out and though Quinn was appreciative of the weapon, he found himself more grateful for the coat.
Situated in a U-shaped valley, the gray-white mounds were surrounded by snowcapped crags that disappeared into the clouds. A ribbon of smoke curled up from an outdoor cook fire midway between the shelters. Three men stood around the fire while two women in head scarves stooped beside it, presumably cooking their dinner. A thin trickle of smoke escaped from the nearest two yurts. The rest stood lifeless in the chill of the valley floor.
Sweeping aprons of shattered boulders and stones fanned from the mountain bases, giving way to a green pasture, nearly a mile long. Every few minutes another rock tumbled to the valley floor with a series of echoing cracks and thuds, forced away from the mountain by a freezing wedge of water in the cracks and fissures of stone. A hanging glacier, blue as the lapis from the mountains above, fed a large lake at the far side of the green pasture. It was from just such a valley the surrounding Pamir Mountains got their name. Lush and protected Shangri-las in the summer, these valleys, or pamir, were a favorite grazing ground for local herdsmen.
