Andrew Britton - The Invisible

He felt her stiffen; then the weight on his arms began to lighten somewhat. Clearly, she was trying to move under her own power, though it still took all of his strength to move her while keeping the gun wedged into her back. He had just reached the door when Qazi’s voice came over the radio. Pushing Fitzgerald against the stone wall, he kept the gun in her back with his right hand and used his left to grab his two-way, which was hooked to his belt. Lifting it to his mouth, he said, “What is it? What’s happening?”

“I have a target, General.”

“What about Amir?”

The second sniper’s voice came over the radio. “Still moving into position.”

Mengal didn’t reply right away. He knew he should wait until both snipers were in place, but the window for escape was rapidly closing. Looking through the open doors of the barn, he could see the Toyota van on the drive in front of Qureshi’s house. The vehicle was parked directly behind the surgeon’s Mercedes, which was closer to the house. If they could get to the van, they might have a chance. It all depended on whether or not the Americans were approaching from the front as well as the back. That was all that mattered; if they had the house surrounded, then it was all over, anyway.

The Algerian was standing just inside the doors, a black silhouette against the light leaking in from the back garden. Looking over, Mengal said, “When I give the word, step outside and start firing toward the field. Don’t worry about hitting our men; just keep moving toward the car. Don’t stop for anything.”

The Algerian murmured his consent, and Mengal lifted the radio to his lips once more. “Qazi, are you there?”

“I’m here, General.”

“We’re ready to move. You still have your target?”

“Yes.”

“Then take the shot.”

SIALKOT

There were 3 guards left in the field. Kealey had taken down 2 of the original 8, not including the man he’d killed with his knife, and now, as he snapped a fresh magazine into place, he could hear the elevated voices of the surviving men over the falling rain. Although he didn’t understand the language, he could tell they were arguing, probably about whether or not they should return to the house. At that moment there was another burst of automatic fire, and as the sound faded away, Kealey heard panicked voices shouting in Urdu. Fewer voices this time. Raising the rifle to his shoulder, he peered through the scope and saw that whoever had fired had taken down the man to the left, leaving two guards standing between them and the barn.

“Got him,” Manik said in a tight, excited voice. “Two left.”

Kealey acknowledged this silently as he found his next target. His finger slipped into the trigger guard, and he let out a long, slow breath, preparing to take the shot. His finger was tightening on the trigger when he heard the supersonic crack of a high-powered rifle, and the two guards dropped into the waist-high grass. Kealey froze, marking their approximate locations in his mind. He didn’t think either man had been hit; they had simply dropped of their own accord, which probably meant that the shot had been intended for somebody else.

“What the hell was that?” Owen demanded a few seconds later.

“Who’s doing the shooting?”

Kealey was wondering the same thing. Deep inside, he felt a sense of rising unease. The single shot sounded unlike anything he had heard so far in the short battle. The guards they had seen so far were all carrying AK-47s, so it couldn’t be them; besides, they were all accounted for. A cold wave of fear clenched his gut when he hit upon the only other possible explanation: someone else had joined the fight, and if the weapon he was using was any indication, he was not to be taken lightly.

Kealey was about to relay this thought when he caught a sudden movement up by the barn, followed by a prolonged burst of automatic fire aimed in their general direction.

“Mengal is moving,” Massi reported urgently, his voice crackling over Kealey’s earpiece. “He just came out of the barn, and he’s using Fitzgerald as a shield . . . It looks like he’s trying to run. Saifi is covering them.”

“Do you have a shot?” Kealey demanded.

“No, he’s too close to Fitzgerald. Fuck! ”

“If they get to a car, they’re gone,” Owen said urgently. “We’ve got to get up there.”

“Yeah, but he wouldn’t run unless he was covered,” Kealey replied. “I think there’s a sniper up there.”

“What makes you—”

“You heard the shot, Paul. That was a long gun, so just hold your fire . . . Is anyone hit?”

Owen and Walland came on and reported in the negative, as did Massi. He could hear the same nervous tension in each man’s voice, and Kealey knew where it was coming from. The prospect of a sniper lying in wait was enough to inspire fear in any man, even a hardened combat veteran. Husain Manik didn’t respond, even after Kealey tried numerous times to raise him.

“Where the fuck is he?” Kealey finally demanded. “Can anyone see him?”

“Negative,” Owen said. Walland and Massi echoed the single word. Then Owen said, “Did anyone see where the shot came from?”

Again, they all replied in the negative.

“That’s a Pave Low,” Walland suddenly said. “You hear it?”

Kealey listened hard, and sure enough, there was the sound he’d been waiting for: the steady, distant thump of approaching helicopters. His relief was short-lived, as Owen came back on a moment later, ready to point out the overlying problem.

“Kealey, we’ve got to get up there,” he pressed. “They might not come down on the first pass, and if they circle, it gives Mengal a chance to run.”

“They could come down on the first try,” Walland pointed out quickly, his voice laced with tension. “That house is lit up like a Christmas tree. Even without infrared on the ground, they should be able to spot their landing zones.”

“Maybe,” Owen allowed, “but we can’t afford to sit here and wait.”

Kealey thought about that for a few seconds, then made his decision. “I’m going after them. Walland, watch for the two guards in the grass. Did you see where they dropped down?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think—”

“If they stand up, take them out. Owen, you watch the ground to the left of the barn. Massi, you’ve got the other side of the house.”

“Kealey, you can’t—”

“Just listen ,” Kealey snapped, cutting Massi off in midsentence.

“When I move, watch for a muzzle flash. It’ll probably come from the top of the hill, and when you see it, pull the trigger. Don’t fuck around . . . It doesn’t have to be a perfect shot. Just squeeze the trigger, and keep firing until you run out of ammo, okay? I want suppressive fire, not a single round in the ten ring.”

“This is a bad idea,” Walland said. “If there is a sniper up there, you won’t get more than a few feet. You know you can’t—”

“Let me worry about that. Just watch for the—”

Kealey stopped talking when he heard the distant but unmistakable sound of an engine turning over. It was hard to tell with the rain and the rumble of tanks in the hills to the rear, as well as the sound of the incoming helicopters, but he was almost certain the sound was coming from the other side of the house. His muscles tightened involuntarily, and he swore viciously over his lip mic when he realized what was happening. “They’re running . . . We’ve got to go now.”

“Wait,” Walland said urgently, “Kealey, you—”

Kealey didn’t hear the rest; he was already moving. His right foot was already wedged against the same rock he’d used earlier. Launching himself up and forward, he began running hard for the edge of the field, eyes flickering over the wet, waist-high grass in front of him. He hadn’t taken more than a few steps when he felt the air flutter over his right shoulder. The strange sensation was immediately followed by the crack of a high-powered rifle. Massi said something like, “I see him, I see him,” and then Kealey felt the same sensation of another near miss, and Owen screamed, “Got another one. There’s a sniper on the left as well. . . .”