of mountain caves, the English-speaking boys. They’d mentioned the name of a man who ran the school… a doctor. Dr. Badeeb. That was it. He and Garcia had to get the information back-
Garcia! The memories came flooding back.
He pushed himself up on one arm, shrugging off the quilts. It took a long moment for his eyes to become accustomed to the harsh lantern light inside the yurt. The events washed back over him in a crashing wave. Dizzy, he got to his knees.
Ainura, the Kyrgyz woman, stood beside her propane stove chatting with the female CIA agent they’d rescued. A rack of white yogurt balls dried on a tray above the stove.
“Ronnie,” Quinn croaked, swallowing.
Ainura brought him a chipped cup of butter tea. He slammed it down like a man coming in from the desert. Nodding in thanks, he handed her back the cup.
“The other woman I was with.” His eyes played around the interior of the yurt. “Is she all right?”
Karen Hunt knelt on a pile of felt cushions beside him. Patches of pallid, frostbitten skin covered her swollen nose and cheeks. Her lips were cracked and scabbed.
“She’s alive,” Hunt said, a grave look crossing her battered face. “For now. I’m afraid if we don’t get her out of here soon…” Her voice trailed off in tight-lipped silence.
Quinn crawled to the mound of quilts nearer the stove. The warmest place in the yurt. He gently drew back the top blanket.
The Kyrgyz of the High Pamir were accustomed to treating injuries and illness without the immediate aid of a doctor. Ainura had rolled felt pads and cushions to prop Garcia up on her side. She’d been stripped her down to her long-john bottoms, but the Lycra sports bra was left in place to protect the chest catheter. Thick tresses of black hair matted to Garcia’s gaunt cheeks. Her chest shuddered with each labored breath.
She stirred, moaning softly when Quinn picked up a hand. She was reactive-that was a good sign-but her nail beds were tinged a chalky blue. She was getting some oxygen, but not enough. He pressed an ear to her breastbone and heard what he’d feared he would-a wheezing, high-pitched rattle.
Exertion and cold from the extreme altitude were filling her lungs with fluid. He’d plugged the wound in her back, but a tiny bit of air aspirated from her punctured lung into her chest cavity each time she drew a breath, creating a pressure strong enough to press against her already-struggling heart. The catheter let the air escape, but it couldn’t keep up.
Quinn kept his head against the warmth of her chest, listening for a time, thinking over his options. There were few. When he sat up, Garcia’s eyes flicked open.
Chapped lips parted into a wan smile when she saw him. It vanished as quickly as it appeared. Her eyes shot around the room as if seized by a sudden realization. She opened her mouth to speak but managed little more than a breathy croak.
“Relax,” Quinn said. “We made it out.” He smoothed a tangle of hair away from her forehead, letting the back of his hand trail down the soft skin of her cheek.
She grabbed at his sleeve, pulling him to her lips. Her voice was like the slow release of air from a punctured tire. “Tar… Wesssst Texxxassss bih… bit…” Her eyes rolled back in her head and her hand fell away from his arm.
“You know what she means?” Karen Hunt stood off Quinn’s right shoulder, a hot cup of tea in her hand. “She’s been saying the same thing over and over. Something about Texas.”
He pulled the blanket back up around Garcia’s shoulders. “No idea,” he said. “But we have to get her to a hospital.” He glanced at the felt-covered door of the yurt. “Is it still snowing?”
Hunt shook her head. “Stopped about three hours ago. Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” he said.
“How many of these kids do you think there are in the U.S. already?”
“I don’t know.” Quinn stared at Ronnie as he spoke.
“Seven attacks over the last couple of weeks. That’s if there haven’t been more since we’ve been off the grid. The haphazard stuff feels wrong though. Anyone smart and patient enough to put a school like this one in place is planning something bigger than a few shooting rampages.”
“I agree.” Hunt nodded slowly. “They’re brainwashing those kids young so that no matter how good their experiences are in America, they never forget their hatred. It all adds up. One of the boys-the one they killed for liking me-said Americans killed his mother and sister. If you can make a child believe you somehow rescued them from the evil Americans, it’s not a far cry to pushing them to vengeance.”
“Exactly,” Quinn said. “I’m sure there are some details to get worked out, but I believe that’s the gist of it.”
He pushed to his feet with a long groan. He felt as if he’d been kicked in the head and rubbed down with heavy sandpaper. “My friends will be looking for me. I need to stomp out a distress signal in the snow.”
Hunt took a sip of her tea and grinned. “And just what do you think us CIA types do for three hours while we wait for you to wake up? Already done.”
Quinn collapsed back onto his quilts. He had to get the information back to Palmer about this Dr. Badeeb. The key to what was happening was sure to be with this guy. Quinn took a deep breath, struggling to remain calm. There was nothing to do now but wait and hope that Garcia could hang on.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Washington
Mujaheed Beg lay flat on his back on a piece of cardboard he’d found in a nearby Dumpster, staring up at the grimy undercarriage of his target vehicle. He much preferred killing people to killing cars.
Somewhere up the quiet street, beyond the CVS pharmacy, a dog barked in the darkness.
Over his years in America, he’d found he truly liked motorcars and cringed when he was forced as a last resort to shoot out a window or plant explosives under a hood. Badeeb had sent him to do a little mischief-make some necessary modifications as insurance. The problem with Congressman Drake would not solve itself.
Holding a penlight between his teeth, he inched his way deeper under the car before reaching up with a small Leatherman multi-tool. As always, it fell to Beg to take care of the doctor’s problems.
Once he was finished, he slid out from under the car and brushed the dust of his jeans. He ran a comb through his thick hair and walked into the darkness singing “Love Me Tender” under his breath.
Marc Cameron
Act of Terror
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Afghanistan
Quinn’s eyes snapped open at the familiar sound. He pushed back his quilts and was outside in an instant to watch the huge Boeing CH-47 Chinook settle into the whirlwind of snow. He raised his arm in front of him to ward off the flying ice and snow crystals from the twin rotors’ hurricane-force winds.
Karen Hunt came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder as a crew chief bailed out the forward starboard door and shuffled his way toward them in the deep drifts. His voice became clearer as the helicopter’s engines wound down to a low, idling whine.
“You Captain Quinn?” he shouted, nearly falling on his face.
Jericho waved, relief washing over him. “I am. My partner’s got a pressure pneumothorax. You got a medic on board?”
“We got a field kit,” the kid said. He was close enough now Quinn could see the tab on the chest of his green
