Andrew Britton - The Invisible

That was when he’d gone after the Algerian. It had been an instinctive reaction, completely unplanned, and with predictable results: the guards had stopped him before he could finish the job. He did remember hitting the man, knocking him to the ground. He’d been about to hit him again when the first guard had arrived on the run. A split second later, he’d felt the blow. The butt of the rifle—at least, that was what he assumed his assailant had used—had struck him in almost exactly the same spot he’d been hit before, when they’d first taken him, and he was feeling the effects. The pain was bad, but not nearly as bad as it had been that morning, when he’d first opened his eyes. Craig didn’t know how long he’d been out, but it had been just after dawn when he had regained consciousness. His makeshift prison didn’t offer much, but it did have a window, unlike the first room in which they had held him. Looking out, he could sense the gathering darkness. His brief attempt at resistance had occurred around nine the previous evening. Based on those two facts, he guessed that he’d been locked up for about twenty hours, maybe a little bit longer. There was nothing to do in the small room, and the time had passed slowly. Although he’d searched the entire space, he’d found nothing that might serve as a weapon. Clearly, they had stripped the room before locking him in. There was a metal-framed bed, on which he was currently sitting; a small nightstand; and a bucket in one corner, which was obviously meant to serve as a crude toilet. Craig had examined the bucket thoroughly. He had wracked his brain, searching for a way to take it apart, but it didn’t seem possible. If there had been a handle, he might have been able to snap it off. It probably wouldn’t have done him much good, but obviously, his captors weren’t taking the risk; they’d thought to remove it beforehand. Later, his thoughts had shifted to the springs in the mattress. If he could find a way to dig one out, that might suffice as a weapon, but the covering was too thick to tear, and he had no way to cut the fabric. It seemed they had left him with nothing; they had even thought to remove the drawers in the nightstand. There was the window, of course, but it faced the rear of the house, and there were two guards stationed outside at all times. If he were to break it, they would know immediately, and one way or another, he would pay for the act. He wasn’t afraid to take them on, but the repeated blows to the head had slowed him down, and he was no longer eager to fight. When he’d first regained consciousness, the pain had been intense, almost unbearable, but that was secondary. When it came to recurrent concussion, Craig knew what to look for, and pain was not his main concern. Neurologic sequelae, a condition resulting from injury to the brain, was the real threat, and it could manifest in any number of ways. Some of the major symptoms were cognitive impairment, seizure, focal deficit, and persistent headaches. Temporary paralysis was also a possibility, but so far, Craig had yet to experience anything worrisome.

Still, he was leery of incurring his captors’ wrath; in that respect, his reckless abandon was gone. He was prepared to resist, but next time he would not act impulsively. Attacking the Algerian had been a mistake; he should have held off until he was sure. At the same time, he knew he didn’t have long. If he were going to move, it had to be soon.

His mind kept returning to what he had seen the previous night. It was clear that Mengal and the Algerian were erecting a film set in the barn, and it didn’t take a great deal of imagination to figure out what it was for. Craig did not think they were preparing to kill Fitzgerald on tape. She was too valuable to them. On the other hand, he was nobody special, and he knew they would not hesitate to take his life. In that respect, he wasn’t alone; once Qureshi had removed Fitzgerald’s chest tube, his life would likely be forfeit as well. He could feel the seconds ticking away, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to think through his fear, which was steadily rising. He kept drifting back to what the Algerian had said the night before, when Craig had first seen the cameras. Doctor, you didn’t think you were brought here for just one rea- son, did you? You’ve performed admirably so far, but your work is far from done. You’re going to be famous, my friend . . . more fa- mous than you ever dreamed possible. The words had merely confirmed what he’d already known. Craig didn’t want it to end that way, with him pleading into the camera as they spouted their rhetoric. Anything was better than that. If they shot him as he tried to run, at least he would die like a man, on his own two feet. At this point, that was all he wanted. There was no escaping his ultimate fate; all he could do was choose how and when it happened, and he intended to do just that.

Getting to his feet, Craig moved to the window. He stared out, not really seeing the lush, fertile landscape, the broad acacia that dominated the back garden, the fields beyond, and the gentle rise of the Kashmiri foothills. It had been overcast all day, and a light rain was still falling, but Craig could feel the night coming on. It would be dark in an hour or so, maybe less.

They’ll come for you tonight.

Involuntarily, his breathing quickened, and his hands balled into fists by his sides. The thought had struck him suddenly, out of nowhere, but he knew it was right. He didn’t know how, but he knew they would come.

And when they did, he would be ready.

As the truck rolled over a deep, unnatural pitch in the road, the vehicle shuddered violently, and Naomi Kharmai shuddered in turn. She wrapped her arms tightly around her calves, closed her eyes, and lowered her head to her knees. She had no idea how long she had been in the dark, dank bed of the cargo truck, but she didn’t think she could handle it for much longer. It had been tolerable when they were on the main roads, if only just, but she could tell that Machado had left the A4 behind, as the ride had become progressively bumpier. It was only adding to her nausea and her headache, which was bad enough to bring real tears to her eyes. The headache had started several hours earlier as a dull throb at the base of her neck, and it hadn’t stopped there. Now, it felt as if a pair of strong fingers was digging into either side of her spine, pinching the tender nerves that resided there.

The nausea was even worse. She’d vomited several times, and she’d tried a half dozen more, but she hadn’t been able to bring anything up. She could feel the sweat all over her body; her arms were slick and coated with grime from the floor, and the perspiration was running over her face and stinging her eyes. Her clothes were completely drenched, and she was still sweating, despite the fact that her mouth was completely dry. She had tried drinking water to quench her unremitting thirst, but it simply refused to stay down. She was starving, but food was out of the question. Her entire body felt as if it had been carefully and methodically worked over; there were no bruises, but the pain could not have been worse if she’d actually suffered a physical beating. It had been thirty-three hours since she had taken her last pills, and she’d been awake for fourteen of them. As a result, the withdrawal symptoms had been hitting her hard and fast. It had been ten times worse than she had expected, and for the past several hours, she had been cursing herself for getting rid of them. What a stupid, spur-of-the-moment move that had been. It wouldn’t solve anything, and it certainly wouldn’t assuage the source of her inner turmoil. In fact, the pills had been the only thing she could really depend on. At that moment, she would have given anything, absolutely anything, for just one more, if only to settle her nerves. But they were gone, and that was that.