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Commander Mandeep Gola of the Pakistan Air Force.”
    Thibodaux grinned, extending his hand. “I’ll bet you have some juicy stories to share.”
    “Apart from the one of him nearly killing me in front of my parents?” Mandeep gave a deep belly laugh. He steered Quinn and Thibodaux out of earshot of his men. “As a matter of fact, I do know some interesting tales.” His words clicked with heavily punctuated Pakistani English. “But I am afraid we must save the best ones for another time. My superiors report that the escaped brothers have killed a small contingent of military police on the road between Gilgit and Chitral.”
    Quinn nodded, picturing a map of Pakistan in his mind. “The Fengs were thought to have ties with al Qaeda cells operating out of some caves in Waziristan and even more across the border. You think they could be heading for Afghanistan?”
    Mandeep smoothed his great mustache with a thumb and forefinger and sighed. “Many in my government believe just that. Or at least they say they believe so. But reports also say the security at Dera Ismail Khan prison was extremely tight. I have it on good authority that half the guard force had called in ill the night of the escape.” He shrugged. “It took the help of someone with power and connections to ensure their escape in the first place. I see no reason those same powerful and connected entities would not work to deceive everyone regarding their direction of travel.”
    “Even killing their own guys,” Thibodaux muttered, disgusted, but not really surprised. “That’s messed up.”
    “Indeed,” Gola said. “These killers have ties to Kashgar and my gut tells me that is the way they have gone.” He smiled at Quinn. “Do you still trust in your gut, the way you did at the Academy?”
    “I do,” Quinn said. Even as a child growing up in Alaska, he’d learned that no matter what you called it, sixth sense, instinct, or a gut feeling—life offered subtle clues that only the subconscious could read. The Japanese called it haragei —art of the belly—and it was the foolish person that did not listen to it.
    “There is a good chance that they have already crossed the Khunjareb into China,” Mandeep continued. “My government has set up a task force and the foreign ministry is working with Beijing for permission to send investigators into China.”
    “Politicians,” Thibodaux scoffed. “How’s that working out?”
    “As one might expect, I am afraid.” Mandeep smoothed his mustache in thought. “But at my lowly level, I maintain certain connections that help me circumvent such political entanglements. The Feng brothers’ escape has made Pakistan a laughingstock. I wish to see these terrorists captured at once and I do not care who does it.” He nodded toward his Alouette, brightening some. “My men will take custody of your prisoner. I’ve made arrangements to fly you across the border as far as Tashkurgen, where I meet with my counterpart in the PLA Air Force for a periodic lunch. I have taken the liberty of setting up ground transportation for you from there.” Mandeep put a hand on Quinn’s shoulder. “I know how much you like motorcycles, my friend, but was simply too rushed to find anything but a small van for you to use.”
    It made sense that the Fengs would go to a familiar area to roost. And getting as far as Tashkurgen by air would cut their time to Kashgar in half. He hated missing the opportunity to interrogate Khalifa. Quinn suspected Qasim Ranjhani—a terrorist with ties to President Hartman Drake—was behind the Concordia massacre and Khalifa was their first real lead to where he might be hiding.
    The jihadist appeared to read Quinn’s mind and looked up with a sneer from where he sat beside the Alouette’s strut. “I am a man of no consequence,” he mumbled in a voice much higher than Quinn had expected, as if reading from a prepared script. “You and your kind are no more than dogs. Inshallah, we will