shot frantically around the room. Her hand came up and brushed his face, pulling him to her.
“West… Tex… Wes…” She swallowed, her windpipe arched unnaturally to one side. Her chest heaved in a futile effort to draw air.
Quinn touched her lips to shush her, then bent to put an ear to her chest. Her heartbeat was barely audible. Even with the seal, she struggled to breathe.
He’d seen it before.
“Okay, kiddo,” he said, trying not to sound as grim as he felt. “You’ve got an air pocket building up in your chest. I have to give it a way out or it’ll kill you.”
She nodded. Glistening eyes stared up at the stone ceiling.
“We still good back there?” Quinn asked over his shoulder. He popped the top on the red plastic case containing the fourteen-gauge needle. Anything he did for Garcia would be short-lived if they were overrun by guards.
“We’re good for now,” Hunt said. “But they’re working themselves up for an assault. We should move as soon as you get her stabilized.”
Ronnie’s eyes fluttered. A trickle of foamy pink blood dripped from blue lips.
“Stay with me, Veronica.” Quinn held the three-inch needle between his teeth while he wrestled her sports bra over her breasts and under her armpits. He drew a mental line from her right nipple up to her collarbone. Staying outside that line to be sure he cleared her heart, he inserted the needle between the second and third rib.
It went against human nature to stab a friend-especially a wounded one-but an instant after he felt the tiny pop that indicated the needle had pierced the chest wall, he heard a hiss of escaping air. Ronnie drew a deep breath as if she’d just broken the surface from a long underwater dive. She smiled softly as the color returned to her face. Her head lolled to one side, exhausted.
Quinn withdrew the needle, leaving the plastic catheter in place to let air escape. He pulled her sports bra back down, praying the tight but breathable Lycra would hold the catheter in place long enough to get her out of the mountains.
Quinn hauled the unconscious Garcia over his shoulder, then looked up at Hunt.
“Ready?” he asked.
“One minute.” She turned to a tall boy wearing a wool sweater and heavy sweatpants. “Gary, throw me your clothes.”
The boy glanced sheepishly at Kenny’s bloody face and stripped off his clothes. He threw them to her, sneering. “Bitch!” he spat.
Hunt snapped her fingers. “Shoes and socks too, kid.” She slipped the boy’s green army sweater over her white robe, tucking the flowing end into the sweats before putting on the shoes. She picked up two AKs, slinging one, and stood at the door.
“Now I’m ready,” she said.
“CIA?” Quinn said. “You’re the one who left the blood chit.”
“That’s me,” Hunt said. She turned to stare at the remaining boys.
“Where is Sam?” she spat.
They stared back with the maddeningly blank faces that only preteen boys can muster.
She threw the rifle to her shoulder, aiming in.
“We don’t know,” Gary stammered, hands folded across the crotch of his dingy shorts. “Kenny told the teachers he was starting to like you and they took him away.”
“We haven’t seen him since,” Kenny said, through swollen lips.
Hunt stood, aiming the rifle, chewing on her top lip. “These boys stood by and cheered while my friends were murdered. They’re screwed up for life. I should shoot them all right now…”
“Knock yourself out,” Quinn said. “But whatever you’re going to do, do it quickly. We gotta get out of here.”
He was pretty sure she wouldn’t shoot unless the kids attacked. As a CIA para, she’d been extremely well trained. From his experience, well-trained people didn’t talk much about killing. When it needed to be done, they simply did it without wasting a lot of breath.
Hunt kept the boys covered as she backed toward him, taking up a position beside the door. “I sure as hell hope they follow us.”
They made it down the hall as far as the T intersection where the side shaft and the main corridor connected. To their left, a row of metal barrels lined the dark tunnel that led deeper into the mountain.
“You think that’s fuel oil?” Hunt whispered, nodding toward the barrels.
Quinn shrugged. “Could be. They’re getting power from somewhere. Probably generators venting to the outside to diffuse any heat signature.”
He stopped to readjust Ronnie’s weight over his shoulder. She was facedown, buttocks in the air. His left arm wrapped around the crook of her knees. The posture pressed against her lungs and wasn’t optimal for her injuries, but it was the only way he could move with her quickly and shoot. He not only had to carry her, but he had to check her constantly to make sure she was still breathing.
Another volley of gunfire rattled down the tunnel, zinging off the rock walls with yellow sparks.
“They’re in the room on the left between us and the door,” he said.
“I’m going deaf from all the racket,” Hunt said. “But I think I hear footsteps.”
She did a low quick peek, stooping to thrust her head around the corner for a split second before pulling it back again.
“I count three. They’re inching along the wall trying to work up the courage to rush us.
“Think you can bounce a couple of rounds at them?”
“On it.” Hunt set her jaw and nodded.
She held the Kalashnikov parallel to her chest, with the barrel angled slightly toward her. Thrusting it quickly around the corner, she fired three controlled bursts.
High-velocity bullets shot at such an angle tended to bounce away a few inches and travel in a relatively straight path down a flat surface. A muffled cry came from around the corner, along with the unmistakable clatter of a gun hitting the stone floor.
Seizing the moment, Quinn and Hunt rounded the corner, each finishing off a downed guard. Hunt paused long enough to grab a hand grenade from the belt of one guard as they ran past.
Heavy footfalls echoed up the corridor from the way they’d come. There were cries of protest from the boys, followed by a prolonged volley of gunfire.
“Can’t say I’m sorry to hear that,” Hunt sighed. She looked over her shoulder at the last few pops.
“Must have had orders to silence them if the place was compromised,” Quinn said. Garcia was still draped over his shoulder, her arms trailing down his back. He reached to feel her pulse, inside her pant leg and above her ankle. It was weak, but palpable.
A screaming wind yanked the door from Quinn’s hand as he pushed it open. He turned to Hunt.
“Ready?”
She pulled the pin on the grenade and held it in her hand. “Ready.”
Quinn felt Ronnie stir at the fresh slap of cold air. “Stay with me, kid.” He patted her tenderly on the butt, took a deep breath, and stepped into the darkness.
“We have a saying here in the Stans.” Hunt tossed the grenade into the door behind them as they trotted away. “Caves are graves.”
Quinn charged into the black storm, cutting left toward where he hoped the yurts and horses were waiting. Behind him, the mountain roared. Fire belched from the door. Tiny, slit-like windows glowed like rows of red eyes in the night.
Men poured from the yurts nearest the mountain. They scanned the blackness with feeble beams of battery- powered lights.
Quinn ran on, depending on surprise and night to help his escape.
