Andrew Britton - The Invisible

“Yes, General.”

“Then go.”

Release the TRANSMIT button, Mengal swore under his breath, closed his eyes, and resisted the urge to hurl the handset across the room. This is all Saifi’s fault, he thought to himself. How could he have let this happen? How could he be so careless? How fucking hard could it be to bring one man from the house to the barn . . . ? Opening his eyes, Mengal inadvertently caught the eye of Brynn Fitzgerald. They had covered her mouth with silver duct tape between takes. It was still in place, so she couldn’t speak. At the same time, her eyes seemed to convey everything she was feeling. It was a strange mixture of hate, satisfaction, and relief. Mengal didn’t understand the source of the second two emotions, but then it hit him. She didn’t speak Urdu, so she didn’t know that her fellow hostage had tried to escape. Apparently—based on the commotion she had heard—she was under the impression that she was about to be rescued. When he realized what was running through her head, he laughed, then watched as the confusion spread to her eyes. Walking over, careful to keep away from the open doors, he crouched so that their faces were nearly level. When she met his gaze, he said, “Ms. Fitzgerald, did you really think they were coming to get you?” He gave another mocking laugh, the sound rising up from deep in his chest. It was partly forced, but at the same time, he was genuinely amused. “If that is the case, I’m afraid you were wrong . . . Nothing so dramatic has happened. You see, your fellow American tried to run. My men are tracking him down right now, and he won’t get far. That is all that you heard. I’m sorry to let you down, but no one is coming to get you. I’m afraid it’s just you and me, Dr. Fitzgerald . . . just you and me. I think you had better get used to that idea.”

He saw the spark of hope in her eyes begin to fade, and he couldn’t restrain another bout of contemptuous laughter. How pathetic, he thought. People with Fitzgerald’s kind of power always seemed so assured on television, so sure of their place in the world, but put them into any sort of danger, and they folded right up on themselves. It wasn’t just American officials, either; he had seen the same thing the previous year, when he and his men had kidnapped a low-level Indian minister. The man had been attending talks in Islamabad, and his security had been all but nonexistent, which allowed them to grab him without firing a shot. They had taken the minister’s eightyear-old son as well, and the boy had proved to be an excellent bargaining chip.

It had not taken much to extort the money they wanted; in fact, they hardly had to cut on the child at all before the man caved in. That event had netted Mengal a decent sum, but it was nothing like the windfall he would reap if his current plan was seen through to fruition. It all came down to the next twenty-four hours. By then, the American president would have the tape in hand, and he would have no choice but to accept their demands. Either that, or he would see how serious they actually were . . .

At that moment, Mengal’s thoughts were cut off abruptly by the sound of screams and automatic weapons firing. He whipped his head toward the sound but saw only the stone wall of the barn. After a moment of stunned disbelief, he raised the radio to his lips and shouted for a situation report, but there was no reply. Swearing loudly, he didn’t register the renewed glimmer of satisfaction in Brynn Fitzgerald’s eyes as he moved to the doors of the barn. He hesitated before looking out. He desperately wanted to see what was happening for himself, but experience and caution got the better of him, and he stayed where he knew he couldn’t be seen.

Holding the radio an inch from his face, he demanded once again to know what was happening. Finally, he heard the voice of one of the men he had just ordered to join the search.

“General, this is Qazi.” The man sounded shaken, but still in control. “There are enemy soldiers in the fields. At least three, maybe four, and they’ve taken down most of the men. Only three are left, not including Amir and myself.”

“What about Shaheed?”

“Shaheed is dead.”

Dead? My old comrade and most trusted lieutenant, gone . . . ? Mengal let that sink in for a moment, and then he dismissed his natural, emotional response. That was one thing he’d always been able to do, and this was not a time to indulge in sentiment. “Where are you?”

“Approaching from the other side of the barn. I can’t see the enemy fighters, but once they fire again . . .”

Mengal nodded to himself, knowing what he meant. The moment the enemy soldiers fired again, they would reveal their positions, which would make them easy targets for the men he had just dispatched. Amir and Qazi were two of his best. Both had served on a sniper-observer team in the Special Services Group for years, and like Balakh Shaheed, both had fought in Kargil in ’99. Combined, they had thirty enemy kills to their credit, twenty of which they had racked up during a two-week reign of terror in the Drass sector of the Kargil Mountains. The snipers carried identical custom Sako TRG-22s. Each .308-caliber rifle was fitted with an ATN night-vision scope, as well as a muzzle brake to reduce the weapon’s powerful recoil. In retrospect, Mengal realized he should have had them in an overwatch position to begin with, but he had been too caught up with Fitzgerald’s agonizingly slow recovery—as well as the preparations being made in the barn—to deal with security around the house. That had been a mistake, he realized, but he didn’t see how the Americans could have tracked him down so easily. And if it was the Americans, why were there so few of them? It just didn’t make sense. . . .

Lifting the radio, he said, “Qazi, tell me when you have acquired a target, but do not fire until I give the order.”

“Yes, General.”

Mengal was about to say something else when Amari Saifi stumbled through the open doors. Mengal raised his weapon in alarm, then stopped when he saw who it was. The Algerian was bleeding from a small hole in his left arm, his right hand clutched over the wound. Despite the obvious injury, he was smiling madly, his face drenched with sweat. The AK-47 was still draped round his neck on a black fabric sling.

“What the hell happened?” Mengal hissed, his eyes fixed on the other man’s crazed face. “How could you let him escape?”

“The Americans are here,” Saifi gasped, ignoring the question. Somehow, he was still smiling, even though he was clearly in a great deal of pain. “We have to leave. If we wait, they will have us surrounded, if they do not already . . . We have to leave now. ”

Mengal stood frozen for a few seconds, but he knew the other man was right. Perhaps Craig’s escape had caught the Americans off guard while they were still moving into position. Perhaps his men had eliminated more of them than he’d initially thought. Either way, Mengal knew he was only seeing the first wave. If the Americans knew that Fitzgerald was in the barn—and he assumed they must—

they would risk as many lives as it took to get her back. They certainly wouldn’t be put off by the resistance they had encountered so far.

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.”