Andrew Britton - The Invisible

“Ryan, are you there?” It was Owen, his tone controlled but urgent. “Goddamn it. What the fuck just happened? Where’s the hostage . . . ?”

“He’s down,” Kealey rasped. The short, one-sided fight had left him breathless, though the adrenaline was still pumping hard through his veins. He rolled off the dead guard, crawled the short distance to his hiding spot, and felt for his rifle. It was right where he’d left it, in the lowest branches of the juniper. “The hostage is dead, and so is the guard.”

“How the fuck did that happen?” Owen demanded. “Why did you . . .”

Kealey ignored the rest of the question as he planted his right knee in the sodden earth, lifting the rifle to his shoulder. Peering through the scope, he saw that the guards—all eight of them—were fanning out, preparing to enter the field. The figures were blurred for some reason, and Kealey realized he had blood in his eyes. Wiping it away with the back of his hand, he flicked it into the grass, then resumed watching. One of them had a portable radio up by his face; clearly, he was trying to raise the missing guard. There was no sign of Benazir Mengal—Kealey assumed he was still in the barn—but the Algerian was standing behind the cluster of armed men, screaming incessantly after them.

“The guards are coming in,” Massi said, almost as if he could read Kealey’s thoughts. The air force veteran sounded completely calm and in control. “Looks like we’re missing a few.”

“I count eight,” Kealey said. He thought back to the detailed notes that he had acquired from Fahim’s men. “Eight plus Saifi. Mengal’s in the barn . . . That leaves at least two unaccounted for.”

“So what the hell do we do?” Manik demanded. He sounded shaken, which didn’t surprise Kealey at all. While Massi was a hardened combat veteran, Manik was on the other end of the spectrum. He had undergone some kind of paramilitary training—otherwise, Harper wouldn’t have sent him—but he was easily the least experienced man in the group. Kealey was torn. A hostage was dead, and he had killed a guard, which dramatically limited their options. The op was blown regardless, but now he had a decision to make. Should he violate standing orders and go in after Fitzgerald, or should he wait and hope that the guard wasn’t found until the assault team arrived? That didn’t seem likely, as the assaulters were at least . . . He checked his watch and swore under his breath. They were at least eight minutes out. Part of him fantasized that he could already hear the sound of rotors chopping the damp, humid air, but he knew all too well how long eight minutes could seem in a combat situation.

A third option occurred to him: he could put the knife in the hostage’s hand. With any luck, the guards would buy into it, but Kealey dismissed the idea after a few seconds. They would never believe it. For one thing, the dead guard had suffered numerous wellplaced wounds. How would the hostage have been able to inflict those wounds if he was already fatally wounded himself? Besides, how would the hostage have gotten his hands on a knife like the one Kealey had used? Even if the guards bought into it, Mengal would see through the ruse. He would know right away that something wasn’t right, and he would either flee the farmhouse, with Fitzgerald in tow, or kill her on-site, then flee by himself.

And that was what it came down to; if they waited for the assault force, the secretary of state was either dead or gone. In Kealey’s mind, neither option was acceptable. They had to go in after her, and they had to do it before the dead guard was found. Once that happened, they would lose the element of surprise, and their odds of success would drop dramatically. Worse still, one of the Pave Lows was slated to set down in the field behind the house, and it wouldn’t help to have the enemy on top of them before the ramp even came down.

Once again, Aaron Massi seemed to read his mind. “We’ve got to go in,” the former combat controller said, his words cutting over the static. “They’re going to comb this field until they find him, and in the process, they’re bound to stumble over one of us. We’ve got to fire while they’re still grouped in the clear.”

“What about the other two?” Walland demanded. “At least two guards are unaccounted for. And what about Fitzgerald? Mengal is in there with her . . . If we reveal our position, he might kill her before we can get to the barn.”

Good point, Kealey thought, but he said, “Massi’s right . . . We’re going in. These guys are operating without NVGs, so wait until they’re outside the arc of the lights, then hit them while they’re trying to acclimate.” Kealey was thinking about what he’d seen with the hostage, the way the he had lost his bearings once he could no longer see. He wasn’t thinking about the fact that the hostage had died when he could have stopped it from happening; at the moment, that was completely irrelevant. “If we wait until they’re all the way in, they’ll be able to pick out our muzzle flashes. We have to time it right.”

“I’ve got the Algerian,” Owen said.

“No,” Kealey shot back, “we need him alive, Paul. He knows where the rest of the hostages are, so in Saifi’s case, shoot to wound only. Same with the general.”

“And the others?” asked Manik.

“You all have your fields of fire,” Kealey replied calmly. “You know which sector you’re responsible for, so when they come in, you know who to hit. Here’s what we’re going to do. . . .”

He outlined a quick plan, allowing for several contingencies. He had his weapon trained on the enemy force the entire time he was talking, tracking their every move. The guards at the top of the hill were still fanning out, but they had yet to enter the field. When he was done with the short explanation, the other men voiced their understanding and agreement.

“Wait until I give the word,” Kealey reminded them, “and then start taking them down. Remember, guys, we’re only going to get one shot at this, so let’s do it right.”

When Benazir Mengal heard the Algerian screaming, he resisted the urge to run outside and see what was wrong. Instead, he backed farther into the barn, doing his best to stay away from the doors. He saw the hopeful, defiant expression in Fitzgerald’s eyes, but he ignored it and raised the two-way to his mouth. “What the hell is going on?” he hissed. “Balakh, what do you see? What’s happening out there?”

There was a long delay, during which Mengal screamed the question several more times. He heard a long burst of automatic fire, then nothing, then another, shorter burst. He was about to transmit again when one of the guards came on. In a shaky voice, he said, “General, the American doctor knocked down the Algerian. He escaped. He . . . ran into the field, and Balakh went after him. There were shots. . . .”

“I heard them, you idiot!” Mengal screamed. “Where is the doctor?”

“General, I . . . He hasn’t come back. Balakh hasn’t come back, I mean, and we can’t raise him on the radio. I don’t know where the doctor is.”

“Send some men after them,” Mengal shouted. “I want you to comb the entire field until you find them, and I want the doctor alive, you hear me? The man who kills him will answer to me. Is that understood?”

“Yes, I—”

“Where are Amir and Qazi?”

“They’re inside the house, General. They’re guarding the surgeon, as you instructed.”

“Do they have radios?”

There was a brief hesitation, then, “No.”

“Bring them two radios. In fact, give Qazi yours. Tell them to circle around and flank our men, and make sure they go out the front, where it’s dark. Tell them not to fire unless they are fired upon. If anyone is out there, we must be able to hold them off until we can get the woman out of here. Understood?”