Andrew Britton: The Invisible

“I assume you mean Fahim. Isn’t that what you called him the last time we spoke?”

“And Rabbani in Paris. I assume you’re responsible for that as well.” The knowing look on the young man’s face told Machado that he was, and he didn’t feel the need to list the half dozen other business associates of the Afghan smuggler who had died over the past eight weeks. Machado had seen the pattern after the third man, a money launderer in Antwerp, had disappeared without a trace three weeks earlier. He had seen it then, but he had not tried to run, and when Fahim had died in Karachi the week before, he had known it was just a matter of time.

And now his time was up.

“Where is she?” the young man asked. He might have been asking for directions, for all the emotion in his voice. “Where is Naomi? What did you do with her?”

Machado cupped his hands in front of his body, palms up, and opened them slowly. “I told you she would disappear if you disobeyed me, and you did. I’m afraid she’s gone.”

“Her body—”

“There is no body.” Machado shook his head in a barely noticeable manner, as if the younger man should already know what he was being told. “Don’t you see? She never existed to begin with. That’s all there is to it . . . I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

There was no reply. Machado knew he had just seconds to live, and there was one thing he had to know. “Does my daughter know what I did? Does Marissa have any idea?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to her in months.” There was a long, unsettling pause. “Why, Machado? Why did you do it? You had already lost, so what was the point in killing her? I don’t understand it.”

At last, Machado caught a hint of emotion, a slight catch in the younger man’s voice. He thought for a moment, then lifted his arms out by his sides.

“What can I tell you?” he finally said. “Would you really be satisfied with any explanation I have to offer?”

“Probably not.”

“Then why ask?” Machado said. “Just do what you came here to do. Just finish it.”

He closed his eyes, but nothing happened. He waited, but still, there was nothing but the sound of wind sweeping in from the ocean. He opened his eyes in time to see a pair of brief flashes, followed by a sharp pain in the center of his chest. He staggered back, then tumbled into space. He was falling, plunging toward his final resting place, and the last thing he saw before he hit the water was a face in his mind. It was Caroline’s face, the unmistakable image of his long-dead daughter, and as he took his last breath, pulling the black water into his lungs, he saw her open her arms and smile. She was bringing him home.

Kealey stood at the edge of the pier, holding the Beretta against his right thigh, staring down at the churning surface of the ocean. He stood there for several minutes, waiting for the weight on his chest to lift, waiting for the sense of relief that Machado’s death should have brought, but nothing changed. And then he realized that it never would. Naomi was still gone, and there was nothing he could do to bring her back.

There was no point in hurling the gun into the ocean; there was no one around to witness so dramatic a gesture. Instead, he simply dropped it over the side.

Then he turned to walk away.

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