Quinn sniffed the air, tasting the familiar metallic scent of a storm. A brooding, guncotton sky hung close enough to touch. It was already spitting snow.
Garcia’s shoulder rubbed against Quinn’s as she lay beside him, peering through the single pair of binoculars that had survived the Hellfire strike.
“If there is an orphanage around here somewhere, the kids must sure hate Americans… I mean, if they believe our soldiers murdered their families…” Her voice was breathy with the cold and altitude.
“I was thinking about that,” Quinn said. “It would be pretty easy to dupe a bunch of terrified kids with a few American military uniforms. Plant a seed of hate strong enough that even living in the U.S. wouldn’t be enough to root it out.” He rolled up on his side. “Remember what the CIA shooters had written on their calendars the day they went on the spree?”
Garcia kept her eyes pressed to the binoculars as she spoke, her voice muffled against her hands. “A Chinese character.”
“Right,” Quinn said. “ Dan. It means gall — as in bitterness. There’s a story from ancient China about a ruler named Goujian. His armies were beaten and he lost his kingdom to a rival. He and his wife were captured. They swore allegiance to the new king, who treated them very well. So he would never forget the humiliation of his great loss, for ten years Goujian slept on a pile of uncomfortable brushwood instead of his soft bed provided by his captor-and tasted bitter gall before every meal.
“Eventually, Goujian conquered the rival king and took back his kingdom. Wo Xin Chang Dan.” Quin emphasized the last word. “ To sleep on brushwood and taste gall. If these kids are being prepared to come to the United States and hurt us, there has to be something bitter in them to keep them on track once they get there.”
“Watching their families slaughtered would do that,” Garcia said. “If one group of terrorists murdered their families posing as Americans, then another group staged a rescue to liberate the kids from the Great Satan…” Still on her belly, she lifted her foot slightly, as a cat might flick just the tip of its tail to drain off excess energy while hunting. “Makes sense.”
Quinn rolled back onto this stomach. “Now we just have to find them.”
“The yurts are right where Ainura said they would be.” Garcia played the binoculars back and forth. “I count a dozen horses, that many yaks… maybe a hundred sheep and goats… No children, though. You think they’re inside the yurts?”
“Not likely-”
“Maldita!” Garcia cursed. “Look at the size of that dog. At first I thought it was a horse.” She passed him the binoculars.
“Nope,” Quinn whispered, scanning the herds. “The horses are smaller. It’s some kind of mastiff. Seems to be hanging apart from the men at the fire. Probably stays with the sheep to guard against predators.”
“And intruding hit men from America,” Garcia said under her breath. “I’ve honestly never seen a dog that big.”
The guard dog presented a problem, but before Quinn could plan around it, he had to figure out where the kids were-if they were anywhere at all.
Convinced there was more to this valley than they were seeing, he began a visual grid search-looking near, then far, and dividing the valley into smaller increments. First he looked with his naked eye, then followed up with the binoculars. Five minutes into the search, he found the door leading into the side of the mountain on the other side of the glacial lake, a hundred yards from the yurts.
Once he pointed out the door, they were able to locate an uneven line of windows and vent holes pocking the mountain face. Low stone walls, nearly invisible at first glance, became clearer with every sweep of the binoculars.
“They’d need food if they stay here all winter,” Garcia said, shaking her head.
“Look at the yurts closest to the horses,” Quinn said. “There’s no smoke coming out of them. What if they’re used to store hay? As long as they keep the animals fed they’ll have a ready food source all winter…”
“So the kids are inside the mountain?”
Quinn nodded, still studying the layout.
“And how do we get inside the mountain?” Garcia rolled half on her side, resting her face against her hand. She was absurdly beautiful in her ratty wool clothes and grime-smeared face. “You got another Hellfire missile we can call in?”
“Nothing quite so sophisticated,” Quinn grunted. He nestled down into the heavy quilted robe-like coat and gazed up at the brooding sky. Spitting crystals had given way to large flakes that floated lazily down to meet him. “It’ll be pitch-black in two hours. This snow will dampen the sound of our approach. We’ll just walk up and let ourselves inside.”
Garcia’s brown eyes widened. “Let ourselves inside? Me and you and Ainura’s beat-up Kalashnikov?”
Quinn grinned. “I’ve seen you fight,” he said. “We won’t even need the rifle.”
He closed his eyes, feeling the soft brush of snowflakes hit his face. If this kept up, they could be stuck in these mountains for a very long time. He pushed the thought from his mind, focusing on the tasks at hand.
Garcia cuddled in next to him, sharing her warmth. “And what about that giant dog?”
Quinn pulled her in tighter. “I’m thinking we’ll have to make a sacrifice,” he said.
The approach to far side of the valley floor took a painstaking three hours of picking through the shadows of a mile and half of rock. They had to cross three mountain streams. Shallow and braided, the crossings were made more difficult by near complete darkness and slippery, ice-slimed rocks.
By the time they made it all the way around, nearly six inches of snow lay on the valley floor. Quinn had explained his plan before they left, going over Garcia’s job twice to make certain she’d have the timing down.
Timing, he knew, would be almost as critical as luck.
He held up his fist as they drew near the yurt farthest from the mountain face. It was one of the ones that he guessed held fodder for the milling herds of animals. The glacial wind hit them full in the face, bringing with it the odor of wet wool and the smoky bite of a cook fire. Though it chilled them to the bone, the wind direction was a blessing and made it less likely the big mastiff would pick up their scent.
“First contact is the trickiest part.” Quinn leaned in close to whisper in Garcia’s ear. “We have to make it happen on our terms.”
“Okay,” Garcia said, teeth chattering. “I’m ready to get out of this cold when you are.”
Crouching, Quinn covered the open fifty yards to the white mound of the nearest yurt in a matter of seconds, sensing, more than hearing, Garcia on his heels. He kept the AK in tight to his side, hand around the pistol grip, ready.
He stopped, straining his ears for sounds of danger, sniffing the wind to make sure it still worked in their favor. Satisfied they were still relatively safe, he handed the rifle to Garcia, then took out his Benchmade folding knife. In darkness thick enough to feel, he began to slice at the thick felt where the yurt was tied to the base of its inner wooden frame. Five minutes of sawing brought him through the thick felt and able to cut enough lashing cords to pry a two-foot gap in the wooden lattice support structure.
The sweet, dusty odor of hay and grain wafted out into the freezing air.
“Bingo,” Quinn said, reaching it to find a small bag of grain he could drag out through the opening. He sat upright, stretching his back from the effort of being stooped for so long. His ribs were still sore from Umar’s crushing bear hug and he was pretty sure at least one was cracked.
He held the grain up to Garcia. The bag was about the size of a pillowcase but only partially full so it was easy to carry.
“You hang on to the rifle,” he said.
“Ten-four.” He could hear her body shaking from cold and tension. They had to get out of this snow one way or another.
Crouching again, they moved toward the grunts and baas of milling sheep bunched together in the darkness. Twenty feet out, the animals heard the shake of the grain bag and moved toward it as if called. The click and thump of hoofs over frozen ground grew louder and their gentle baa s became more excited at the prospect of food to warm them on such a cold night.
It was only a matter of time before the guard dog came to investigate the change in behavior.
