The Invisible (Ryan Kealey)

by Andrew Britton

  “Good,” Kealey said once they had all checked in. “Maintain your positions. Massi, if he picks up a gun, you know what to do.”

  “Roger that,” the other man said calmly. No one queried the order, and they didn’t have to ask for clarification. Massi was the only one with a clear line of sight, and if Mengal approached Fitzgerald with a weapon in hand, the former USAF combat controller was going to take the shot, regardless of the consequences. It was a weak excuse to initiate engagement, and if it went bad, it would never hold up. Nevertheless, they had all agreed to take the opportunity if it presented itself. None of them were inclined to wait for the assault team, but neither were they willing to blatantly violate their standing orders, especially given the stakes.

  “Where’s the Algerian?” Owen murmured over the net.

  “I have no idea,” Kealey muttered back. He had been wondering the same thing. Saifi had been inside the house for nearly two minutes, but he’d left the barn door hanging wide open, which seemed to indicate he would be returning shortly. He should have been back by now, Kealey thought, but maybe there were more hostages in the house. Maybe Saifi was preparing to bring them out to the barn, or maybe they were already dead…There was no way to tell.

  “So what do we do?” Manik asked.

  “Hold your position,” Kealey repeated. “Just stay where you are. Massi, anything?”

  “Negative. He went back to the north side of the building…I can’t see him.”

  “Okay. Keep your eyes open. Let’s see what’s happening here,” Kealey said.

  Randall Craig was lying awake on the narrow bed, his hands clasped over his stomach. Ever since his abduction, his thoughts had been coming nonstop, so fast he feared his head might explode with the pressure. Over the last few hours, though, things had changed. His mind had been blank, almost as if he had slipped into a meditative state. He was struck by the irony; the end was drawing rapidly near, and yet he was becoming less and less concerned with the thought of escape. Simply put, he was mentally and physically exhausted, almost to the point that he no longer cared. At the same time, sleep was out of the question. He was caught in a strange limbo that was draining his body and mind with each passing minute.

  As a result, he didn’t hear the footsteps in the hall. Nor did he hear the key as it scraped in the brass latch. The first time he was aware of the man’s presence was when the door swung open, revealing a tall, slender figure framed in the doorway.

  Craig immediately swung his feet to the floor, then stood to face the Algerian. The man didn’t move into the room; instead, he merely stared at Craig and smiled.

  “Doctor. It’s good to see you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

  Craig looked at him warily. “I’m fine.”

  “Good. If you don’t mind, the general would like you to step outside. He has something to show you.”

  Somehow, Craig was able to maintain his neutral expression, though his knees nearly gave way when he heard the word outside. It took every ounce of self-control he possessed, but he didn’t reveal what he knew: that this was the end. He had seen them carrying the camera equipment into the barn, and he knew what was coming. Jesus, he thought to himself, they’re actually going to do it. Somehow, he was astonished by the possibility, even though he had known it was coming all along. He was suddenly struck by the same vision he’d seen the day before. He could see himself sitting in front of the camera, bound to a chair, with the obligatory flag tacked up behind. He could see the blade coming down, and he wondered if Fitzgerald would be forced to watch, if she would witness his final moments along with the rest of them.

  He knew what was coming, but somehow, he managed to maintain his composure. Nodding dutifully, he stepped past the Algerian and walked down the hall. He was watching the whole time, taking everything in; with the end so near, his vision seemed unnaturally sharp. There was an armed guard at the end of the hall, and as he passed the open living room, he saw another man concealed in the shadows, standing next to the grand piano. Clearly, they’d thought he was going to run from the room. They’d been prepared to stop him, but as he passed the two men, he saw them relax, their shoulders drooping with the sudden release of tension. In their eyes, Craig was the threat, and the threat had just walked past.

  Too soon, he thought to himself. He had to wait until he was out of the house, and then he would run. He probably wouldn’t get more than 10 feet, but he had to do it; there was no other choice. No one was going to help him. He briefly wondered where Qureshi was, then cursed himself for caring. After all, the surgeon had put him here. By giving his name to Mengal, he had sealed his fate. Were it not for Qureshi, Craig would still be working at the hospital by day, watching old movies by night, and anxiously waiting for the day he could fly back to Seattle, with a few good stories under his belt and another gold star to stick on his resume.

  Fuck you, Said, Craig thought, the anger flaring up to engulf the fear. He was lashing out at the most convenient target for reasons he didn’t understand. Subconsciously, he was building up his nerve for what he was about to do. Fuck you. I hope they do kill you, and I hope you see it coming, you traitorous little bastard….

  He was nearing the end of the hall. Sweat was pouring down his face in fine rivulets. His damp shirt was clinging to his torso, and his feet were mired in invisible mud. The door was just a few feet away, and once he stepped outside, there was no turning back….

  “Who the hell is that?” Walland asked, his voice cutting over the static. Kealey shifted his aim, peered through his scope, and watched as a tall, pale man came out of the house, the Algerian trailing a few steps behind. “Is that a hostage?”

  “Got him,” Owen announced, ignoring the question. “Saifi’s right behind him.”

  “That’s a new face,” Manik reported. “Doesn’t look like he’s armed…”

  Kealey ignored the radio traffic as he studied the unknown subject through his 2.25 power scope. Even with the green tint, it was clear that the man was Caucasian. He looked scared, but the fear was mixed with something else, something that Kealey could not decipher. He studied the man for a few seconds more, trying to figure it out. Then it hit him; the look on his face was fear mixed with utter resolve. It was one of the most dangerous combinations that Kealey knew of, and he had seen it before, most recently with Naomi in Madrid.

  He was still weighing this discovery—and trying to push her face back out of his mind—when Manik asked, “Where are they going?”

  “Back to the barn,” Massi said. “Looks like they’re putting him in with Fitzgerald. I still don’t see a weapon….”

  “Hold your positions,” Kealey said, cupping his hand over his lip mic to limit the sound. He shivered suddenly, a chill running down the length of his spine. He wasn’t sure where that had come from, but he was guessing it had something to do with the scene unfolding before him. The whole thing seemed fake somehow, scripted, as if one or both of the participants were only pretending to play his role.

  Still looking through the scope, he watched as Saifi prodded the hostage forward. Kealey didn’t know why that word was sticking—the man could have been there of his own accord, and they had no proof either way—but it seemed to fit. There was just something about that look on his face, the tension in his shoulders, and the wooden way he was moving toward the barn. In fact, it looked as if his legs might give out at any moment.

  But again, it seemed fake, somehow. Almost as if…

  The hostage was halfway to the barn when he stopped, turned on his heels, and launched a short, wild punch at his captor, catching Saifi high on the right cheek. As Kealey looked on in disbelief, the Algerian stumbled back, then tripped and went down hard. The radio traffic started up instantly, but Kealey heard none of it, his eyes glued to the man standing over Saifi. The hostage stood motionless for a few seconds, staring down at the Algerian like a deer caught in the headlights. He was clearly unsure of his next move, and for a moment, Kealey thought he might try for
Saifi’s gun. But then he turned and started to sprint, running hard for the nearest safe ground.

  Running hard for the dark field in which Kealey and the rest of the team were lying in wait.

  CHAPTER 42

  SIALKOT

  When the screams reached the back of the house, Balakh Shaheed thought—for a fleeting instant of pure, uncomprehending shock—that the general had decided to kill Fitzgerald. The screams were high-pitched, almost feminine, but not quite, and as he listened hard, he realized it was not a woman screaming, but a man. Moreover, he was screaming in Arabic, which ruled out most of the guards. Apart from Mengal, Amari Saifi was the only one in the house who spoke Arabic. Before Shaheed could properly absorb the situation, a dark figure streaked down the back of the hill, running hard away from the house.

  Shaheed was the first to react. The second guard was actually closer, but he had been relieving himself in a flower bed when the alarm was raised and was still fumbling with his zipper when the figure ran past. In the dark, it was impossible to tell who was trying to flee, but Shaheed, thinking quickly, decided it had to be Craig, the American doctor. Qureshi was still locked in his surgical suite—Shaheed had seen to that personally—and Mengal was in the barn, watching over the secretary of state.

  It had to be the American.

  Cursing viciously, Shaheed grabbed his weapon, which was slung across his chest, and raised it to his shoulder. The safety was already off, a full 30-round magazine locked into place. The doctor was already outside the arc of the building’s lights; Shaheed did not have a visual, but he fired, anyway, the wooden stock of the AK-47 banging against his shoulder as he squeezed off a dozen rounds. As the echoes faded away, he cursed again and started running down the hill, going after the man who was trying to escape.

  Ryan Kealey winced as the guard’s 7.62mm rounds plowed into the earth, tearing up the waterlogged soil a scant 20 feet in front of him. It took all his self-control not to fire back, but he knew the guard wasn’t aiming at him; he was trying to hit the man who had run down the hill just seconds before. The hostage was about 25 feet from Kealey’s position and closing fast, his outline clear against the lights in Qureshi’s garden. Kealey knew the same lights would impede the guards’ vision, which was why the recon team had approached from the north. He didn’t know if Mengal’s men had access to NVGs and were just too lazy to use them, or if they didn’t have them at all, but either way, they would be coming into the field. That much was already clear, and Kealey knew he had to be ready.

  The hostage was still running hard, but he was moving without direction, and through his scope, Kealey could see that he was waving his arms in front of his body, as though searching for obstacles. Kealey realized that after running through the well-lit garden, he was essentially operating blind in the pitch-black field. His biological night vision wouldn’t fully kick in for about two minutes, which would give the guards plenty of time to circle around and cut him off. Kealey could already see them streaming out of the house. They were congregating around Saifi, who had since climbed to his feet, still screaming his outrage. A quick head count yielded eight guards, not including the man who had fired after the hostage. That one was running into the field, his weapon at the ready.

  The hostage—if that was indeed what he was—had made his play, and it had failed. He was already dead; he just didn’t know it yet. He had been dead from the moment he decided to run; Kealey had never been more certain of anything. Now only one question remained, and that was how many people he was going to take with him in his failed bid for freedom.

  He was now less than 10 feet away, stumbling forward, cursing and breathing hard. Kealey shifted his body carefully to the right, trying to get as far under the juniper as he could. At the same time, he raised his arm, propped his rifle in the thick branches of the low-lying shrub, and felt for his secondary weapon.

  At the abandoned factory outside of Sialkot, Kealey had handed out the weapons. He still didn’t know the overriding aim of Fahim’s organization, but one thing had been clear from the start: the group was extremely well funded, and a sizable portion of their budget had been devoted to arms. And if their primary concern was smuggling, as Machado had indicated, then they had kept the best stuff for themselves. Kealey had selected the SIG 550 with the night-vision scope—mainly because the weapon shared many characteristics with the M4 carbine, which he had trained and fought with extensively—but he had also found a suitable replacement for the knife he’d lost at the substation. It featured a flat-ground, drop-point, 6-inch blade. The steel itself was tapered—thick near the sturdy rubber handle, thinning down the spine to a uniform tip—and coated with matte black paint, which rendered it all but invisible in the dark.

  Now, as the hostage drew near, Kealey tensed and wrapped his right hand round the thick rubber grip, preparing the pull the knife from its sheath. He didn’t intend to harm the hostage, but he couldn’t save him, either, and Fitzgerald’s life took precedence. It wasn’t supposed to, but it did, and Kealey suspected that everyone on the team felt the same way. They had come too far and risked too much to lose her now, and for the most part, their sacrifices had been minimal. At least one other person had given much, much more to save the secretary of state’s life, even if she hadn’t intended to do so.

  Pushing that troubling thought from his mind, Kealey lay perfectly still, his chin sinking into the damp earth as the hostage stumbled past, completely unaware of his presence. Thankfully, the other members of the team had enough sense not to transmit. That didn’t mean they weren’t watching. Kealey knew all four operatives had their weapons trained in his direction, waiting to see what would happen. One or two of them might be tracking the second guard at the top of the hill, but for the most part, they’d be focused on the immediate threats: the hostage—who had become a threat the minute he decided to run—and the guard coming after him. The hostage was already behind Kealey’s position, moving north, and the guard was approaching fast from the south.

  Kealey could hear the man’s feet slapping the wet soil as he drew near. Without warning, the guard raised his weapon and fired again, the rounds whining 5 feet over Kealey’s head. Five, six rounds total. Kealey heard a grunt to his rear, a pregnant pause, and then a wet, heavy thump as a body fell face-first into the mud.

  The guard had stopped moving; apparently, he had heard his target fall. He began inching forward, and Kealey, lying nearly motionless beneath the juniper, drew his knife and waited, praying the man would pass him by. He could not believe the disastrous turn the mission had taken, but it could still be salvaged. If the guard walked by without incident, then no harm done; they would be able to maintain their positions, and the op could proceed as planned.

  It all came down to what happened next, and the footsteps were coming closer….

  CHAPTER 43

  WASHINGTON, D.C. • SIALKOT

  In the Situation Room beneath the West Wing, there was mass confusion and no small amount of panic. All eyes were fixed on the infrared feed from the 8X positioned in GEO 22,237 miles over Sialkot. The clouds had cleared enough over the past several hours to provide a limited picture, but even with the distortion, the fact that something had gone badly wrong on the ground was abundantly clear.

  “Christ, who the hell is that?” Brenneman demanded over the chaos, not realizing that he was only contributing to the problem. He was pointing directly at the first heat signature, which had just stopped moving after a hard sprint north of the house. “And who is that going after him? What the hell is going on out there?”

  There was no immediate response, not that anyone had heard the question. Harper stared at the satellite phone plugged into the room’s audio system, waiting for Kealey to call and tell them what had just happened, but it stayed silent. He wondered if he would even hear it ringing over the cacophony in the small conference room. On the screen, the heat signature moving away from the house was drawing ever closer to one of the men lying prone in the field.
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  “Jesus, whoever that is, he’s going to trip right over one of them,” Andrews said, his voice laced with undisguised tension. He was standing a mere foot from Harper’s left shoulder. “How far out are the helicopters?”

  Harper opened his mouth to answer, but he was beaten to it by a USAF major, who held up a handset and lifted his voice to get the attention of everyone present. Strangely enough, he found success where the president had not, and once it was quiet enough, he said, “The word is coming in from air traffic control at Bagram. Eagles 1 and 2 report they are still ten minutes out.”

  The room fell silent for a moment; everyone present, even the most junior aides, understood what that meant. In the end, it took an army colonel standing frozen with a phone to her ear, not 3 feet from the grim-faced secretary of defense, to voice what everyone in the room was thinking. “Christ,” she murmured. “They’re not going to get there in time.”

  Harper silently agreed as he stared at the heat signatures moving into the field. He had never felt more impotent. There was nothing he could do but watch as disaster loomed. He could only pray that the separate signatures would not converge, but even as he thought it, he knew that they would. The only question now was how the men on the ground would handle the unexpected change in plan.

  Shaheed was sure he had heard the American go down, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He waited for a moment, listening, but he couldn’t hear anything over the falling rain, the tanks in the distance, and the outraged screams of the Algerian at the top of the hill. Cursing the man’s stupidity—the general should never have brought him into this—Shaheed slapped a fresh magazine into his weapon and began moving forward slowly, each step planned and deliberate. He swept the ground with his eyes, searching for a lump that might represent the doctor’s body. He kept his right hand around the grip of his rifle as he used his left to brush aside the damp, waist-high grass. As his eyes started to acclimate to the dark, he picked up a few things he hadn’t seen before. There was a pine tree approximately 10 meters to his right, and to his left, nearly within reach of his arm, there was a small, low-lying shrub.