The Invisible (Ryan Kealey)

by Andrew Britton

  Pulling a small knife from his belt, Mengal unfolded the blade with one hand, then moved behind Fitzgerald. Crouching behind the chair, he began cutting the ropes that bound her. Glancing over her shoulder, he snarled, “Get away from the door, and pull the plug on those lights. You still have the keys to the van?”

  “Yes,” Saifi said. He pulled the plug on the halogen lights, and the barn was plunged into darkness. “I have them.”

  “Good,” Mengal said. Still cutting fast, he felt the last of the rope fall away. Placing both hands under her arms, he pulled Fitzgerald roughly to her feet. He heard her scream through the tape that covered her mouth, then start to fall as her legs gave way. She was still weak, too weak to walk on her own. Pushing the muzzle of his pistol into the base of her spine, he said, “You had better start moving, woman, because I’m warning you, if you pass out now, you will never wake again.”

  He felt her stiffen; then the weight on his arms began to lighten somewhat. Clearly, she was trying to move under her own power, though it still took all of his strength to move her while keeping the gun wedged into her back. He had just reached the door when Qazi’s voice came over the radio. Pushing Fitzgerald against the stone wall, he kept the gun in her back with his right hand and used his left to grab his two-way, which was hooked to his belt. Lifting it to his mouth, he said, “What is it? What’s happening?”

  “I have a target, General.”

  “What about Amir?”

  The second sniper’s voice came over the radio. “Still moving into position.”

  Mengal didn’t reply right away. He knew he should wait until both snipers were in place, but the window for escape was rapidly closing. Looking through the open doors of the barn, he could see the Toyota van on the drive in front of Qureshi’s house. The vehicle was parked directly behind the surgeon’s Mercedes, which was closer to the house. If they could get to the van, they might have a chance. It all depended on whether or not the Americans were approaching from the front as well as the back. That was all that mattered; if they had the house surrounded, then it was all over, anyway.

  The Algerian was standing just inside the doors, a black silhouette against the light leaking in from the back garden. Looking over, Mengal said, “When I give the word, step outside and start firing toward the field. Don’t worry about hitting our men; just keep moving toward the car. Don’t stop for anything.”

  The Algerian murmured his consent, and Mengal lifted the radio to his lips once more. “Qazi, are you there?”

  “I’m here, General.”

  “We’re ready to move. You still have your target?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then take the shot.”

  CHAPTER 44

  SIALKOT

  There were 3 guards left in the field. Kealey had taken down 2 of the original 8, not including the man he’d killed with his knife, and now, as he snapped a fresh magazine into place, he could hear the elevated voices of the surviving men over the falling rain. Although he didn’t understand the language, he could tell they were arguing, probably about whether or not they should return to the house. At that moment there was another burst of automatic fire, and as the sound faded away, Kealey heard panicked voices shouting in Urdu. Fewer voices this time. Raising the rifle to his shoulder, he peered through the scope and saw that whoever had fired had taken down the man to the left, leaving two guards standing between them and the barn.

  “Got him,” Manik said in a tight, excited voice. “Two left.”

  Kealey acknowledged this silently as he found his next target. His finger slipped into the trigger guard, and he let out a long, slow breath, preparing to take the shot. His finger was tightening on the trigger when he heard the supersonic crack of a high-powered rifle, and the two guards dropped into the waist-high grass. Kealey froze, marking their approximate locations in his mind. He didn’t think either man had been hit; they had simply dropped of their own accord, which probably meant that the shot had been intended for somebody else.

  “What the hell was that?” Owen demanded a few seconds later. “Who’s doing the shooting?”

  Kealey was wondering the same thing. Deep inside, he felt a sense of rising unease. The single shot sounded unlike anything he had heard so far in the short battle. The guards they had seen so far were all carrying AK-47s, so it couldn’t be them; besides, they were all accounted for. A cold wave of fear clenched his gut when he hit upon the only other possible explanation: someone else had joined the fight, and if the weapon he was using was any indication, he was not to be taken lightly.

  Kealey was about to relay this thought when he caught a sudden movement up by the barn, followed by a prolonged burst of automatic fire aimed in their general direction.

  “Mengal is moving,” Massi reported urgently, his voice crackling over Kealey’s earpiece. “He just came out of the barn, and he’s using Fitzgerald as a shield…It looks like he’s trying to run. Saifi is covering them.”

  “Do you have a shot?” Kealey demanded.

  “No, he’s too close to Fitzgerald. Fuck!”

  “If they get to a car, they’re gone,” Owen said urgently. “We’ve got to get up there.”

  “Yeah, but he wouldn’t run unless he was covered,” Kealey replied. “I think there’s a sniper up there.”

  “What makes you—”

  “You heard the shot, Paul. That was a long gun, so just hold your fire…Is anyone hit?”

  Owen and Walland came on and reported in the negative, as did Massi. He could hear the same nervous tension in each man’s voice, and Kealey knew where it was coming from. The prospect of a sniper lying in wait was enough to inspire fear in any man, even a hardened combat veteran. Husain Manik didn’t respond, even after Kealey tried numerous times to raise him.

  “Where the fuck is he?” Kealey finally demanded. “Can anyone see him?”

  “Negative,” Owen said. Walland and Massi echoed the single word. Then Owen said, “Did anyone see where the shot came from?”

  Again, they all replied in the negative.

  “That’s a Pave Low,” Walland suddenly said. “You hear it?”

  Kealey listened hard, and sure enough, there was the sound he’d been waiting for: the steady, distant thump of approaching helicopters. His relief was short-lived, as Owen came back on a moment later, ready to point out the overlying problem.

  “Kealey, we’ve got to get up there,” he pressed. “They might not come down on the first pass, and if they circle, it gives Mengal a chance to run.”

  “They could come down on the first try,” Walland pointed out quickly, his voice laced with tension. “That house is lit up like a Christmas tree. Even without infrared on the ground, they should be able to spot their landing zones.”

  “Maybe,” Owen allowed, “but we can’t afford to sit here and wait.”

  Kealey thought about that for a few seconds, then made his decision. “I’m going after them. Walland, watch for the two guards in the grass. Did you see where they dropped down?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t think—”

  “If they stand up, take them out. Owen, you watch the ground to the left of the barn. Massi, you’ve got the other side of the house.”

  “Kealey, you can’t—”

  “Just listen,” Kealey snapped, cutting Massi off in mid-sentence. “When I move, watch for a muzzle flash. It’ll probably come from the top of the hill, and when you see it, pull the trigger. Don’t fuck around…It doesn’t have to be a perfect shot. Just squeeze the trigger, and keep firing until you run out of ammo, okay? I want suppressive fire, not a single round in the ten ring.”

  “This is a bad idea,” Walland said. “If there is a sniper up there, you won’t get more than a few feet. You know you can’t—”

  “Let me worry about that. Just watch for the—”

  Kealey stopped talking when he heard the distant but unmistakable sound of an engine turning over. It was hard to tell with the rain and the rumble of tanks in the hills
to the rear, as well as the sound of the incoming helicopters, but he was almost certain the sound was coming from the other side of the house. His muscles tightened involuntarily, and he swore viciously over his lip mic when he realized what was happening. “They’re running…We’ve got to go now.”

  “Wait,” Walland said urgently, “Kealey, you—”

  Kealey didn’t hear the rest; he was already moving. His right foot was already wedged against the same rock he’d used earlier. Launching himself up and forward, he began running hard for the edge of the field, eyes flickering over the wet, waist-high grass in front of him. He hadn’t taken more than a few steps when he felt the air flutter over his right shoulder. The strange sensation was immediately followed by the crack of a high-powered rifle. Massi said something like, “I see him, I see him,” and then Kealey felt the same sensation of another near miss, and Owen screamed, “Got another one. There’s a sniper on the left as well….”

  Kealey dodged to the right, ran hard for two or three seconds, then dodged back to the left, trying to make himself a harder target. His heart was thumping against his ribs, and he couldn’t breathe. He felt sure that death was imminent, just seconds away. He heard the rattle of automatic fire, then the crack of a bolt-action rifle, but the sounds seemed distant somehow, as if by running, he had removed himself from the ongoing battle, even though he was sprinting toward the enemy. It was a stupid thought, he realized; if one or both of the snipers had him in their sights, they wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger, and they were probably tracking him right now….

  “Got him,” Massi shouted over the earpiece. “I got one….”

  Owen: “Can’t see him…The fucker is down in the grass….”

  Walland said urgently, “Your left, Kealey. Watch your left….”

  Still running hard, Kealey started to bring the rifle to his shoulder, but Walland was faster. Kealey heard a 3-round burst to his rear and got the scope to his eye in time to see a man dropping into the grass, the green-tinted image bouncing crazily against his face. Swinging the rifle back to the right, he saw a second figure rising up, a dark silhouette against the lights in Qureshi’s back garden. Kealey squeezed the trigger without looking through the scope just as the guard depressed the trigger on his AK-47. The man screamed and fell back, firing a half-dozen rounds in the process, but Kealey didn’t break stride.

  He reached the garden a few seconds later and ran at a dead sprint up the hill. When he got to the top, lungs burning, he ran between the barn and the house in time to see a black van moving down the rutted path, the tires struggling to gain traction on the flooded dirt road. Suddenly, the vehicle swerved onto the highest point on the road, the tires caught, and the van lurched forward. He did a quick range calculation and placed the rapidly accelerating vehicle at a distance of 75 meters.

  “They’re running,” Kealey shouted into his lip mic. “They’re running….”

  Lifting the rifle to his shoulder, he aimed for the tires and started to fire, the collapsible stock thumping steadily against his shoulder. He saw the rear tire go on the passenger side. The van swerved sharply, went off the road, and hit a depression in the grass. The vehicle flipped onto its side with a wet thud, the sound of crunching glass dampened by the overgrown grass in the field. Kealey was tempted to fire again—he had a clear view of the passenger-side door, which was facing up to the sky—but he didn’t know where Fitzgerald was in the vehicle, and he could risk hitting her with an errant round. As he moved slowly to the left, his rifle up at his shoulder, his earpiece came to life.

  “Kealey, what’s happening?” Walland demanded. “Where are they?”

  “They are in a van,” he shouted. “But I knocked out the tires. Get up—”

  Kealey dove to the ground as soon as he saw the flash, but he wasn’t fast enough. He never finished the rest of the sentence. He felt an impact in his left side, but he couldn’t look: he was too busy rolling right to avoid the rounds kicking up the ground around him. Where the hell was it coming from? The question was right there, like someone was shouting it repeatedly inside his head, but then he figured it out, and it all came back in a flash of memory. The back of the van had popped open at the same time he had been distracted by Walland’s radio call, and at least one person had tumbled out of the cargo area. Or had it been two…? And if so, which two had it been?

  Kealey was still trying to decide when something large and dark swept over the house, accompanied by the unmistakable roar of twin General Electric T700 turboshafts operating at full capacity. Still lying prone, he tilted his head up to the dark, rainy sky and watched as the big helicopter came in to land. The Pave Low dropped with surprising speed toward the large, open field in front of the house, but before it could touch down, Kealey was back on his feet, his attention riveted on the scene unfolding before him. For the moment, he was lost to the sound of the Apaches providing cover overhead, the guttural roar of the Pave Low landing 200 feet to his left, the radio traffic coming over his earpiece, and the stinging pain in his side. He was entirely focused on the struggling pair 50 yards in front of him.

  The rifle came up of its own accord, but before he could fire, his target spotted him, and with one swift move, he had his hostage wrapped up in his left arm. In his right, he was holding a gun, and he had it against Brynn Fitzgerald’s head before Kealey could squeeze off a shot he was comfortable with. The captor—along with his hostage—was less than 10 feet from the open rear doors of the disabled van.

  “Don’t shoot!” Amari Saifi screamed over the roar of the helicopter. His attention was clearly torn between the helicopter and the lone soldier in front of him, but he knew enough to keep his body mass behind that of his hostage. “If you fire, she dies! Do you hear me? She dies!”

  He continued to scream random orders and threats, but Kealey didn’t hear a single word. In his peripheral vision, he could see Delta troopers streaming out of the gaping hole in the side of the MH-53, but for the moment, he didn’t care what they were doing, even though he knew that a good number of them undoubtedly had their weapons trained on his head.

  “Drop your gun!” The Algerian shouted again. Kealey didn’t respond, and he didn’t move. He was still waiting for his opportunity. Gunfire erupted to the rear of the house, and the soldiers were screaming something at Saifi—at both of them, Kealey realized—but still, he refused to shift his aim. Through the AN/PVS-17 scope mounted to his rifle, he had a quarter moon of a target….

  And that wasn’t enough. The thought hit him on a subliminal level; the decision to hold his fire was not a conscious one. It didn’t occur to him that he had been in a similar position twice before, and that it had ended badly both times. He didn’t think about the possibility that he might miss, and he didn’t consider the full extent of what would happen if his round hit the hostage instead of the target. The target was all he could see; for Ryan Kealey, Amari Saifi’s head was just a sliver behind the pale, frightened face of Brynn Fitzgerald. In his mind, she was no longer the acting secretary of state, the most powerful woman in Washington. She wasn’t even an innocent bystander. She was simply something in the way of his target.

  At that moment, one of the Delta troopers fired. Kealey didn’t see where the round went, but he caught the flash from the corner of his left eye, and it had the desired effect. Saifi, distracted by the muzzle flash, turned his head a few inches to the right, and Fitzgerald jerked away from the gun, giving Kealey the fraction of a second he needed to act.

  He squeezed the trigger once, which was all he had time for. The bullet hit Saifi just forward of his left ear and went straight through the intracranial space, removing the top right quarter of his skull as it exited on the other side. A fist-sized mass of bone, tissue, and blood spun out into the wet, waist-high grass, and Saifi dropped like a stone to the water-logged soil, his body disappearing into the grass. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  Fitzgerald was already moving; Kealey watched as she staggered away, her h
ands fluttering in front of her face, which was covered with the remains of her captor. The thing she was doing with her hands was strange, he thought. It was a fleeting notion, but nevertheless, the sight left an indelible impression. It was almost as if she were trying to direct traffic for the first time. He saw her mouth, which had formed a perfect oval of surprise and suspended disbelief, and the wide, uncomprehending look in her eyes. Even in the dark, he could see the blood spattered over the right side of her face….

  As he watched her, some innate instinct told him to drop his weapon—that the soldiers moving in from the left would not be able to tell him from their enemies. He wondered why they had held their fire this long, then realized that some of them might have recognized him, even through the low light of their NVGs. He had worked extensively with the 1st SFOD-D, and it was a small, tight-knit community; the possibility that a few of them had picked him out was not as farfetched as one might believe.

  Still, it would be better to lose the weapon. His body reacted instantly, and his hands sprung open. The rifle fell to the ground, but instead of falling to his knees and raising his hands, he found himself stumbling forward. The pain in his side was still just a dull ache, but he could feel a spreading warmth on his front and back. Ignoring it, he kept moving toward the van, one hand pressed over the small hole in his torso. He still had to find Mengal; the former general was the only one left who knew where the rest of the hostages were, and Kealey hadn’t seen him get out of the van. It didn’t occur to him that he had just dropped his only real means of defending himself. All he could see was the van, and that was his target.

  Suddenly, he was hit hard from the left, and he felt his legs being kicked out from under him. As focused as he was on the incapacitated vehicle, he had been blind and deaf to the soldier’s rapid, near-silent approach. He felt a foot land on his upper back, holding him down, and though he couldn’t see it, he knew the muzzle of a high-powered rifle was aimed directly at his head.