Brute Force by Marc Cameron Page A

you.” Virk chuckled without moving his head while Deuben pulled the last of the sutures tight. He waved his hand over the four unconscious gangsters on the bedroom floor. “But I do not imagine that will prove much of a deterrent for men like you.”
    “Hajip is active in the East Turkistan Islamic Movement,” Deuben said. “To tell you truthfully, I am not certain why the Chinese have not already rounded him up.”
    “Sounds like a good place to start,” Quinn said, shooting a glance at Thibodaux. “The Feng brothers are ETIM as well.”
    “Anyway,” Deuben said. “Hajip will be easy to find. He takes the best spot for his matang cart across the street from the mosque.”
    It was not unheard of for matang dealers to use their large and intimidating knives to up the price of their fruit and nut confections after they’d hacked off a piece for a customer. It was delicious but sticky stuff, prone to pulling out fillings, even if the vendor wasn’t the sort to rest a thumb on the balance scale and then haggle with his blade.
    Virk groaned and let his head fall back in relief as Deuben finished with her needle. She stood and peeled off her blood-smeared latex gloves and tossed them in the garbage bin.
    His full beard had cushioned many of the blows from his attacker, but precise sutures crossed much of the flesh of his cheeks like tiny sections of black train track.
    “So you are finished torturing me then,” the Sikh said.
    “I am indeed.” Deuben collapsed back on the bed, sitting with her hands in her lap. She looked up at Quinn. “Beijing has doubled our number of PLA soldiers, and that does not take into account the already huge presence of People’s Armed Police and the roving packs of sanctioned thugs they use as leg breakers. Nationalist views are high on both sides all over China, but they burn especially bright here in the west. The average Han soldier will see you as Americans—the enemy. Most Uyghur people are hardworking folk who are happy to see a few tourist dollars—but separatists like Hajip are growing in number. To them, you are an infidel, less than human.” She looked over the top of a prominent, though not unattractive nose. “Many of the people you meet tonight would be all too happy to see you dead.”
    “She is right, you know,” Virk said, pulling aside his beard to study his wounded face in a hand mirror. He dabbed at the sutures with the tip of his finger, earning another scolding from Deuben.
    “The Uyghurs are armed with religious zeal,” he continued, “not to mention all manner of axes and knives. The Chinese soldiers have guns and the weight of law. Placing yourselves in between these two factions will be an extremely dangerous endeavor. It will require a . . . delicate touch.”
    Thibodaux winked his good eye. “That’s us.” He gave a sickly grin, nodding at the blood-soaked piece of gauze that held Grigor The Mongol’s severed ear. “Delicate.”

Chapter 12
    The White House
     
    E veryone stood when President Hartman Drake entered the situation room, but they kept their eyes glued to the door to make certain McKeon followed him in.
    “What have we got?” Drake said, taking his seat at the head of the long table. McKeon sat to his immediate right, rolling his chair away slightly to give the President more space.
    Admiral Ricks of the Joint Chiefs along with Secretary of Defense Andrew Filson sat across the table from McKeon. Forrest Beauchamp, the National Security Advisor, sat on the other side of McKeon from the President. The man spent most of his time writing vision statements and watching the television in his office—and that was just fine with the Vice President. When it came to national security, he didn’t want anyone to have this idiot President’s ear besides him.
    Secretary Filson’s face was flushed red and his tie was pulled to the side of his collar, as if he’d just been trying to hang himself before rushing to the meeting. McKeon never