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cleanse the earth of infid—”
    Mandeep Gola’s pistol seemed to leap into his hand. He spun and put two rounds into the jihadist’s face, obliterating Quinn’s chances of getting any information.
    The wing commander holstered his pistol with an exhausted groan. “We are already familiar with Abu Khalifa’s ties to the Taliban. He is one of fifteen men responsible for the murder of the children of my friends. Such a man’s absence from the earth is far more beneficial than any questionable intelligence he might have provided.”
    Two of the soldiers picked up the mutilated body and dragged it toward the other chopper. Mandeep shook his head as if to clear it from the killing. The broad smile crept back across his face as he looked at Quinn.
    “Come,” he said, disappearing around the left side of the aircraft to give it a quick once-over before he climbed in. “We should be on our way.”
    Ahead of Quinn on the Alouette’s boarding ladder, Thibodaux stopped to glance back at the second chopper where two of Mandeep Gola’s men zipped the mess that was Abu Khalifa into a body bag. A third Pakistani stood by with his rifle across his chest, staring back across the rocky terrain with a blank face.
    The Cajun turned to Quinn.
    “What do you think the odds are we find these Uyghur bastards without getting ourselves cooked in a Chinese pot?”
    “Well,” Quinn said as they climbed into the helicopter, “the Feng brothers blew up a train before they were arrested, so everyone in the People’s Liberation Army who isn’t aiming missiles at the US will focus their resources on tracking them down. You’re practically AWOL, and I’m being hunted by every police organization known to mankind. Beyond that, we’re members of the United States military sneaking across the border of a country with which we are on the brink of war—out of uniform and with no official documents. That makes us spies in anybody’s book.”
    “So . . .” Thibodaux winked his good eye. “You’re sayin’ we have a chance.”
    “Yep.” Quinn buckled his harness and was pressed back in his seat as Mandeep added power to lift the Alouette off the gravel. He watched the glaciers and rock cliffs blur by the window of the chopper as they headed toward Khunjareb Pass—and wondered if the Chinese would bother to take him into custody, or put a pistol to his head and shoot him on sight. “I’d say our odds are outstanding.”

Chapter 4
    The White House
Washington, DC, 9:45 PM
     
    V ice President Lee McKeon shooed his secretary out of his small West Wing office so he could take the incoming call. Nearing sixty, Natalie Romano had been with him since his days as governor of Oregon. Though she knew nothing of his true background and plans, she was savvy enough not to snoop in affairs that didn’t affect her directly. Had that not been the case, she would have been dead long before and that would have been a shame because good secretaries were difficult to find. She shut the door on her way out.
    The cell in McKeon’s pocket was not connected to the administration and, as such, was less of a problem should one of the many bothersome anti-administration groups that were springing up in Congress want to subpoena records. Even the President did not know about this phone.
    A self-proclaimed Chindian, the former governor of Oregon was actually of Chinese and Pakistani descent, adopted and raised by a couple named McKeon. He was a tall and lanky man, and his resemblance to Abraham Lincoln was not lost on the American public. His political opponents often described him as cadaverous. He found it impossible to fold his long legs under the desk for any length of time and had to push the chair away so he could stretch out as he answered the call.
    “Hello,” he said, dispensing with his official title. Anyone who had this number knew who he really was.
    “Peace be unto you,” the caller said. It was Qasim Ranjhani, McKeon’s distant cousin and