Crossfire by Joann Ross

plan.
    ‘‘Okay,’’ Zach said. ‘‘If we hang around here, we’re sitting ducks for any reinforcements those dead tangos might’ve called in.’’
    ‘‘Roger that,’’ Quinn said. ‘‘But won’t we be risking Garrett dying of hypothermia if we take him out of the bunker into what’s becoming a freaking blizzard?’’ he asked the medic.
    ‘‘That’s a distinct possibility,’’ Lucas Chaffee allowed. ‘‘But here’s the thing . . . I’ve done my best, conditions being what they are, but I’m not a surgeon.’’
    ‘‘You saying his leg’s gotta go?’’ Quinn asked, even as he dreaded the answer.
    ‘‘I’m saying it’s a possibility,’’ Lucas sounded as grim as Quinn felt. ‘‘An even stronger possibility that if we don’t get him to someone with more medical skills than mine, he might not make it until tonight.’’
    ‘‘Shit.’’ Quinn dragged a hand down the black balaclava covering his face. The needles of ice were stingingthe skin around his eyes. He’d taken his goggles off, since unfortunately whoever had invented them hadn’t thought to add wipers to clear off packed snow.
    He exchanged a look with Zach, who shook his head, revealing his shared frustration with their situation.
    ‘‘Why don’t we just call 911,’’ Quinn suggested. ‘‘Maybe the trauma center will send out an ambulance.’’
    Frustrated, he glared at the CIA guy who’d left the bunker and was trudging through the deep snow toward them. Probably going to whine about conditions.
    From what Quinn had witnessed over the years, spooks were more comfortable hanging around hotel bars and eavesdropping on drunken conversations than they were in actual battlefield conditions. He’d always figured if their asses were on the line more often, they might be more careful about getting their intel right.
    ‘‘The pilot’s in bad shape,’’ the CIA guy announced, insinuating himself into their confab without an invitation.
    ‘‘Now there’s a news flash,’’ Zach, who’d never been all that fond of the intelligence community himself, shot back. ‘‘Any other pertinent information you’ve picked up with your super-duper spook skills?’’
    ‘‘Actually, I do have some information that might prove helpful.’’ The SEAL chief’s sarcasm seemed to roll right off the guy’s back. ‘‘There’s a hospital we may be able to reach in time to keep your friend from dying.’’
    ‘‘Sure,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘And next you’re going to tell us it’s staffed with perky teenage candy stripers who’ll kiss Garrett’s boo-boo and make the hurt go away.’’
    ‘‘There’s no damn hospital in this region,’’ Quinn said.
    He might not have been in charge of this fucked-up mission, but since snipers were always looking for an edge, he’d gone over every square inch of the topo maps. A sniper’s mind was packed with permutations, calculations, scraps of knowledge. Because you just never knew what you were going to need to know.
    Or when you’d need to know it.
    ‘‘There wasn’t until last week,’’ the spook said. ‘‘But the quake caused a lot of injuries and thousands of Afghanis and Pakistanis lost their homes. So various international relief agencies set up a camp—along with a reasonably staffed field medical unit—to treat the refugees.’’
    ‘‘How far?’’ Zach asked.
    He named a small village on the Pakistan side of the border.
    ‘‘Shit. Even under perfect conditions, that’d be four and a half, maybe five hours,’’ Zach said.
    ‘‘Better than the eight plus you’re looking at now, if we sit on our asses waiting for an evac copter,’’ the CIA guy pointed out.
    Quinn and Zach exchanged another look.
    Quinn knew they were both thinking the same thing. If they took the Night Stalker pilot to the refugee camp, by crossing the border they’d be breaking not only their rules of engagement but international law.
    ‘‘Odds are against keeping this