“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 surveillance 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 Sia
lkot, 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.
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“So we’re set?” Owen was looking past them to the unconscious form in the front of the Subaru; clearly, he was uneasy with the whole situation, and Kealey couldn’t really blame him.
“Yeah, everything’s fine. Listen, I’ve got to tell you something. . . .”
Kealey briefed the other man quickly on his plan. Pétain was going to hold Fahim until they could verify that Mengal, Saifi, and Fitzgerald were all at the house in Sialkot. Then she would call his subordinates and tell them where to find him before leaving the country herself. When he was done with the short explanation, Owen nodded his agreement.
“We need to move,” Kealey told him. “Let’s get the equipment loaded.”
Owen relayed the instructions to Walland. As the former ranger shouldered two of the holdalls and moved to the second car, Owen stepped away to address Manik and Massi, leaving Kealey and Pétain alone by the back of the Subaru. They stood there in silence for nearly a minute, but neither felt any particular need to speak. The others, engaged as they were in their separate tasks, didn’t seem to notice the strangely intimate moment. For some reason, Kealey had the sudden sense that she had known all along, that on some level, at least, she knew who had been on the other end of that phone. But he couldn’t ask her, and he doubted she would have admitted to it, anyway.
“Good luck,” she said finally, glancing at him quickly. “I hope you find her.”
Kealey nodded and turned to walk to the second car, but as he reached for the handle on the passenger side, her last words seemed to echo in his head, and he suddenly found himself wondering, looking deeper into her parting statement. Who had she really been talking about? Was it Fitzgerald? He wondered if he was just imagining things, if he was reading too far into what she had just said. He could ask, of course, but what was the point? If she had known all along, would it really make a difference? No, he decided after a moment’s thought. It wouldn’t. If Naomi was really gone, the blame would rest with just one person, and it wouldn’t be Marissa Pétain. Even if she knew—or even suspected—
what had really transpired at the substation, she was not at fault. Simply put, she wasn’t responsible, and she could not be held accountable for what her father had done.
He could not help but wonder how much she really knew, but Kealey tried to remind himself that it didn’t really matter. Either way, that particular bill would be paid in full. He had already made that promise to himself, and he fully intended to keep it. Moving to the passenger door of the Toyota, he climbed into the car as Owen—who was now behind the wheel—started the engine. As they pulled away, Kealey looked in the rearview mirror and saw Pétain looking after them. He watched her as the car rolled over the uneven terrain, and for a few seconds, he thought he felt their eyes connect. Then they passed into the trees, and she disappeared from sight.
CHAPTER 38
SIALKOT • SOUTHERN PORTUGAL
The nightmare was as real as anything she’d ever experienced, and seemingly endless, a sickening montage of fire, blood, and death. It had been playing on a continuous reel in her mind, and no matter how hard she tried, she could not force the images from her subconscious. They seemed to dwell there, in the deep, dark recesses of her imaginat
ion; only she knew they were not a creation. Everything she was seeing was real. At least, it had been real. Now, she was no longer sure what was real and what was false. The hours, days, or weeks of horror—she couldn’t be sure how much time had passed—had stripped her of certainty. Of hope. Of her very identity.
She didn’t know if she could trust her own thoughts. Was she still sane? It seemed that she was, at least for brief stretches of time. There were short, fleeting moments that seemed to work, times where she found herself able to focus, or at least conjure a lucid thought. But those moments never lasted more than a couple of minutes. Then her rational thoughts would slip away, just out of reach, and she’d begin the long slide back into the abyss. The tape would start again in her mind, and she’d open her mouth to scream, but all she could hear were the sounds of death and destruction: the screech and the sickening thump as the rocket tore into the car; the crack of the shot as it ripped its way through Lee Patterson’s brain, and the nameless woman’s cries for help, which she’d uttered a moment before the Algerian had fired that final, fatal bullet into her pleading face. She could see it, too—an endless display of what had to be hell, or at least the earthly equivalent.
Brynn Fitzgerald wanted it all to stop, but she knew there was no hope of reprieve. If there were any hope at all, she would have gladly endured the pain she was feeling. As it stood, she just wanted it all to end, even if that meant the end of everything. She didn’t want to die, but it seemed like the only escape. She would give anything to know that she had something to look forward to, that there was even the slightest possibility of returning to the world she had once known. If there was only a light at the end of the tunnel, she felt she could go on for as long as she had to. . . .
And suddenly, there was.
“She’s awake,” Said Qureshi announced, stepping back from the bed.
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