The Invisible (Ryan Kealey)

by Andrew Britton

  But it wasn’t that simple. Machado’s actions were clearly based on an emotional element that Kealey couldn’t fully appreciate. When Pétain had told him about her sister’s gruesome death in Colombia, Kealey had been shocked by the sick nature of the crime, as well as what had come after. But he hadn’t really considered how much that must have affected the people Caroline had left behind, namely, her immediate family. The pain of that event would have been bad in the beginning—Kealey knew that much, because he had once suffered a similar loss—but over time, the initial impact of that tragedy had clearly evolved in Pétain and Machado. In the former, it had fostered a desire for revenge; in the latter, it had fostered something else. Something far more dangerous. A willingness to go to great lengths—any lengths, perhaps, if he was serious about the threat he had made—to protect his only surviving child.

  Kealey had been turning it over in his mind since they’d left the substation three hours earlier. He had used the time to brief Owen over the phone and move his people into position, but he’d still had hours—hard, painful, prolonged hours—to think about what had happened. He was no closer to an answer now than he had been then. He still didn’t know how he could have seen the truth in time. He wasn’t even certain what truth he was supposed to have seen. Was Machado simply acting out of a twisted desire to shield his daughter from harm? Or was he just trying to control her life by any means necessary? Kealey tried to push the distinction aside, as it didn’t really matter either way. What did matter was how he had reacted when it all came unglued, and he still didn’t know if he’d done the right thing. Other than following Machado’s instructions, what else could he have he done? Was there anything else he could have done? Any real alternative? He didn’t think so, but there was no way of knowing, and the uncertainty was slowly but steadily wearing him down.

  “Here,” Fahim said from the front seat. Kealey shifted his attention to the front. He silently rebuked himself for letting his mind wander, but he didn’t really have to worry about their prisoner. Kealey had used the man’s own handcuffs to secure him to the passenger-side door. Pétain was driving, and Kealey was seated behind the Afghan. He had the only gun in the car, and the flimsy seats in the Subaru would not stop a bullet. Kealey had made their prisoner abundantly aware of both these facts, and apart from the occasional groan of pain, he had remained silent throughout the journey. “This is the road you need to take.”

  Pétain looked over her shoulder at Kealey, and he nodded his approval. He suddenly realized that she hadn’t said a word since they’d left the substation, and he wondered what might be going through her mind. Could she have overheard either of his conversations with Machado and Harper? If she had, it would certainly explain her silence.

  She took the exit, and Kealey said, “Slow down.” To Fahim, he said, “Where is it?”

  “Just a few kilometers.” The car went over a bump, and the Afghan let out a guttural moan. Clearly, the pain from his gunshot wound was starting to intensify. “The car should be over this next hill. A white Toyota. It will be parked on the shoulder.”

  “Okay. Pull over here, Marissa.”

  She pulled over without a word. Kealey got out, went to the driver’s-side window, and asked her to get in the back. He gave her the gun, then slid behind the wheel. She climbed in back a moment later. Next, he called Owen, who picked up after a couple of rings.

  “Where are you?” Kealey asked. He already had a good idea; he just wanted the specifics. Shortly after Fahim had arranged for his people to drop off the equipment, Kealey had directed Owen and his people to an overwatch position, from which point they could monitor any unwanted activity around the site. They had moved into position two hours earlier, and the last time they had checked in, everything had looked good.

  “In the tree line south of the car. Two guys dropped it off an hour ago.”

  “How does it look?”

  “As clean as can be expected.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you need to reconsider, Ryan. We don’t know anything about these people, and we have no way to cover you. That car could be loaded with explosives. It could blow the minute you—”

  “They didn’t have time to do that,” Kealey pointed out, knowing full well that the other man was right. Fahim’s people had had plenty of time to set up any kind of ambush they wanted. “And you know as well as I do that we need what’s in that trunk. They want their guy back…I don’t think they’re going to try anything.”

  “Ryan…” Owen was clearly frustrated. “What’s it going to take to convince you that this is a bad idea? There’s got to be better ways of—”

  “We don’t have time, Paul. You know I’m right. Just do it my way, okay?”

  “Fine. It’s your neck. We’ll be watching.”

  “Good. Stay where you are. I’m three minutes out.”

  Kealey ended the call, then looked at the man in the passenger seat. “For your sake, I hope you’re playing this straight.”

  “It will be there,” the Afghan assured him. Kealey looked into his eyes for a moment, searching for some sign of a hidden agenda, but after a second, he gave up and looked away. The man was completely unreadable. Besides, Kealey thought, with a deep sense of bitter regret, it’s not like I know how to read people. Even if he is lying, I’d never be able to see it. Just look at Machado. I sure as hell got that one wrong, didn’t I?

  He started the car and continued down the road. He drove slowly, noting that there was hardly any vehicular traffic. His eyes were scanning every hidden path in the trees, every open field, and every ditch in sight, searching for the smallest sign of a forthcoming ambush. Even as he did so, he knew full well that if it was coming, he would never see it. Turning to Pétain, he saw that she had the gun trained on the back of the Afghan’s seat.

  “Drop down,” he told her. “Get as low in the seat as you can, and keep your head below the window. Don’t move that muzzle an inch. When I get out, if you see or hear anything that doesn’t sound right—I mean anything at all—you pull the trigger, okay?”

  She nodded and slunk back down in the seat. Looking over at Fahim, Kealey said, “There’s fourteen rounds left in that gun, and if anything goes wrong, you’re going to catch all of them in the back. Bearing that in mind, are you sure you don’t want me to call your friends and make sure they understand the situation? Because if there’s any confusion, we should clear it up right now.”

  The Afghan shook his head. He was dripping sweat, and his face was twisted with pain. It was really starting to hit him now. “No,” he gasped. “You don’t need to call them. They won’t try anything. I promise you.”

  The Subaru crested a small hill, and there was the car, parked off on the shoulder. Kealey pulled in behind it, then got out. He approached the rear of the waiting car at a fast walk, fully aware that he was completely exposed. His mouth was dry, and his heart was beating hard as he felt behind the left rear tire for the keys. He found them as expected, and he quickly opened the trunk. Despite what he’d just said to Owen, he half expected some kind of explosion, though if there was a bomb in the trunk, he knew he would never see or hear a thing. It would be over before he even registered the flash.

  But there was nothing. The trunk was filled with nothing but a half dozen canvas holdalls. He started unzipping them quickly, checking the contents.

  He found the surveillance photographs first. He looked through them quickly and saw what appeared to be armed men standing outside an English country home. He didn’t know why the house struck him as British in design, but it certainly didn’t resemble any of the predominant architecture in Pakistan, despite the country’s history of British colonialism. He kept flipping through the photographs, but nothing really jumped out at him. The most useful item he found was a hand-drawn map of the surgeon’s house and the surrounding grounds. The map was marked with a series of insertion points, indicating the best angle of approach. Fahim’s men had maintained surve
illance for a number of days without showing out, which could have meant a number of things. Perhaps the vast majority—or at least the primary figures—had fought with the mujahideen in Afghanistan, or perhaps Machado had trained some of them personally all those years ago. Kealey suspected it was a little of both.

  He set the photographs back in the holdall, then began checking the weapons. There were four rifles with accompanying scopes, preloaded magazines, night-vision equipment, and a number of pistols. The weapons, he saw, were high grade: a SIG 550; two HK G36 assault rifles; and a Bofors AK5B, a 7.62mm rifle adapted for use by military snipers. He also found a couple of sturdy combat knives. Moving as fast as he could, Kealey field-stripped one of the G36s. He was intensely aware of how close the road was: the asphalt was just a few feet to his right. A car had yet to pass, but it was just a matter of time. Once he had the weapon apart, he saw that all the necessary components were there. Putting it together, he dry-fired it once and heard a satisfying click.

  Good enough. Kealey shouldered two of the holdalls and brought them back to the Subaru. Opening the trunk, he tossed them in, then went back for the rest. Once all the gear was transferred, he closed the trunk on both cars, then climbed behind the wheel of the Subaru, which was still running.

  “Everything okay?” Pétain asked. Looking back, Kealey saw that she was still slumped down in the backseat. She looked edgy but composed. He shot a quick look at her right hand and saw that the gun was steady. That told him everything he needed to know.

  “Everything’s fine. It’s all there.” He pulled onto the road and kept driving, watching his rearview mirror carefully. He half expected to see people running out of the trees for the Toyota, but he couldn’t spot any movement.

  Ten minutes later, he called Owen. “What’s happening?”

  “A car just pulled up,” the Delta colonel reported. “One guy is getting out…He’s walking to the car. Hang on a second.” Kealey waited for five, and then Owen came back on. “Okay, the car is pulling away. He’s too far behind to catch up to you, and Massi didn’t spot any additional vehicles on the road ahead. Looks like we’re clear.”

  “Good.” Kealey couldn’t help but breathe a quiet sigh of relief. A million things could have gone wrong with the plan he’d hastily devised, but it looked like they had managed to pull it off. The opposition had acted in good faith, which was a rare enough thing. Kealey decided that Fahim was as important to the organization as he’d initially suspected, and that was probably why they hadn’t been ambushed. “I’ll meet you in Sialkot in forty-five minutes.”

  “Got it. What about the equipment?”

  “I’ve got all of it. Looks okay.”

  “Then I guess we’re in business.”

  “Yeah, it looks that way. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  Thirty minutes later, Kealey eased off the gas, then turned the Subaru onto a rutted dirt path. They passed between two immense stone pillars, rolled down a steep incline, and after a couple of minutes, the trees gave way. There was a large, murky pond off to the left, dragonflies drifting lazily over the dappled surface; to the right, there was nothing but a green, open field. Once they were past the pond, he pulled off to the side of the road. Kealey had marked the route carefully; now he called Owen to relay his exact location. After consulting his map, Owen said he could be there in fifteen minutes. Everything was running right on schedule.

  There was nothing to do but wait, so Kealey got out to stretch his legs. Fahim had passed out a short while earlier and was no threat to anyone, even without the handcuffs, which he was still wearing. The hole in his thigh was still leaking, but an improvised pressure bandage—which Pétain had fashioned using strips torn from the Afghan’s raincoat—had done its part to limit the blood loss. Besides, Kealey wasn’t interested in the man’s comfort. All that mattered was keeping him alive long enough to find Fitzgerald and get her out of the country. Kealey was checking the contents of the canvas holdalls more thoroughly when he sensed Pétain by his side. He looked up and saw that she was watching him steadily.

  He waited for her to speak. “What happens now?” she finally asked.

  “I need you to watch him,” Kealey said, gesturing to the unconscious man in the front of the car. “He might have held something back, so we can’t let him go until we can verify that the targets are at this surgeon’s house in Sialkot. You might not be able to let him go until morning. You’ll have to fly out separately regardless.”

  She absorbed this silently. “And if they’re not? In Sialkot, I mean?”

  “Then you’re going to need to convince him to come clean.” He looked into her eyes. On this point, he had to be sure. “It might take a lot of convincing. Can you do that? If you have to, I mean?”

  “Yes, I can.” She said it without hesitation, Kealey noticed. In fact, she didn’t even blink. He felt sure that she would do whatever it took, and that was enough. On that point, at least, he felt he could still trust his instincts. “Will he live that long?” Pétain asked.

  “I hope so. We might need him.”

  Pétain seemed to consider this for a few seconds. “Ryan…”

  Here it comes, he thought. He still didn’t know how he was going to handle this part, though it had certainly crossed his mind over the last couple of hours.

  “I don’t know what happened back there,” Pétain began slowly. “At the substation, I mean, but I want to…well, thank you for what you did.”

  “What?” It took a second for that to sink in, as it was the last thing he expected to hear. He shook his head and looked at her in disbelief. “Marissa, what are you talking about? I almost shot you.”

  “Yes, but you had to, right?” It wasn’t really a question, but she hesitated before going on. “I mean, I don’t know why you had to, but you wouldn’t have even considered it unless you had no other choice. I know that, Ryan. I know about you…Everyone in Operations knows about you.” She blushed a little with this admission, but somehow, it took nothing away from her demeanor, which was completely controlled. “I couldn’t hear what you were saying, but whoever you were talking to…Well, they clearly wanted you to do it, and you didn’t. So thank you.”

  So she still didn’t know, Kealey thought. She looked awkward, but her face was completely open, and that confirmed his initial observation. She didn’t know that her father was responsible for all of it. He could have told her, of course, but now wasn’t the time. Was there ever a time to hear something like that?

  Probably not, he decided after a long moment. Machado’s actions might have seemed reasonable in his own mind, but that was only because the Spaniard’s sense of reason had been twisted, warped by eight years of grief for the loss of his eldest daughter and fear for the one he still had left. His actions would probably seem just as incomprehensible to Pétain as they did to Kealey.

  “I don’t know what it cost you,” Pétain was saying. At this, Kealey felt his stomach clench, but he tried not to react. He still couldn’t think about it. He had yet to come to terms with the decision he’d made at the substation, and he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to.

  “But I’m grateful,” Pétain said. “I really am.”

  He looked at her. There were no tears in her eyes; that was the first thing that struck him. She was completely composed, and that, he had to admit, was an amazing thing. Javier Machado had clearly misjudged his daughter; Kealey had never been more certain of anything. He sensed that she would be able to hold her own on any undercover assignment; she was easily one of the strongest people he’d ever known.

  And that, he suddenly realized, was just another thing that could be traced back to her sister’s death. He had never seen a family so thoroughly destroyed by one incident. He didn’t understand the internal dynamics—he had never been especially close with his own family—but one thing was clear: there was a lot of pain running below the surface with all of them, and that was something he could identify with.

  “What did it cost you
, Ryan?”

  The question was nearly inaudible, but it shook him, and she saw his reaction. Kealey wanted to pretend that he hadn’t heard, but they both knew that he had. He looked into her eyes for a long moment, then looked past her without answering. A car had just emerged from the trees and was coming down the hill. Kealey could see a familiar face behind the wheel.

  “Looks like it’s time to go,” he said.

  She turned to look at the approaching vehicle. “I guess you’re right.” And to Kealey’s relief, she left it at that.

  Walland was the man behind the wheel. He pulled up 10 feet behind the Subaru and shut down the engine. As the 4 men climbed out of the vehicle, Kealey reached into one of the holdalls and pulled out a pistol, a compact Beretta 9mm. He handed it to Pétain, along with two full magazines.

  “What is this for?” she asked. She tapped the butt of the Makarov, which was tucked into the top of her linen pants, as if to remind him that she still had it.

  “Just in case,” he told her.

  She accepted the weapon as the rest of the team approached. Kealey zipped up the holdall he’d taken the Beretta from and got to his feet.

  “Is this all of it?” Owen asked, gesturing to the six holdalls piled at Kealey’s feet.