The Invisible

She wasn’t even an innocent bystander. She was simply something in the way of his target. At that moment, one of the Delta troopers fired. Kealey didn’t see where the round went, but he caught the flash from the corner of his left eye, and it had the desired effect. Saifi, distracted by the muzzle flash, turned his head a few inches to the right, and Fitzgerald jerked away from the gun, giving Kealey the fraction of a second he needed to act.

He squeezed the trigger once, which was all he had time for. The bullet hit Saifi just forward of his left ear and went straight through the intracranial space, removing the top right quarter of his skull as it exited on the other side. A fist-sized mass of bone, tissue, and blood spun out into the wet, waist-high grass, and Saifi dropped like a stone to the waterlogged soil, his body disappearing into the grass. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Fitzgerald was already moving; Kealey watched as she staggered away, her hands fluttering in front of her face, which was covered with the remains of her captor. The thing she was doing with her hands was strange, he thought. It was a fleeting notion, but nevertheless, the sight left an indelible impression. It was almost as if she were trying to direct traffic for the first time. He saw her mouth, which had formed a perfect oval of surprise and suspended disbelief, and the wide, uncomprehending look in her eyes. Even in the dark, he could see the blood spattered over the right side of her face. . . .

As he watched her, some innate instinct told him to drop his weapon—that the soldiers moving in from the left would not be able to tell him from their enemies. He wondered why they had held their fire this long, then realized that some of them might have recognized him, even through the low light of their NVGs. He had worked extensively with the 1st SFOD-D, and it was a small, tight-knit community; the possibility that a few of them had picked him out was not as far-fetched as one might believe.

Still, it would be better to lose the weapon. His body reacted instantly, and his hands sprung open. The rifle fell to the ground, but instead of falling to his knees and raising his hands, he found himself stumbling forward. The pain in his side was still just a dull ache, but he could feel a spreading warmth on his front and back. Ignoring it, he kept moving toward the van, one hand pressed over the small hole in his torso. He still had to find Mengal; the former general was the only one left who knew where the rest of the hostages were, and Kealey hadn’t seen him get out of the van. It didn’t occur to him that he had just dropped his only real means of defending himself. All he could see was the van, and that was his target. Suddenly, he was hit hard from the left, and he felt his legs being kicked out from under him. As focused as he was on the incapacitated vehicle, he had been blind and deaf to the soldier’s rapid, nearsilent approach. He felt a foot land on his upper back, holding him down, and though he couldn’t see it, he knew the muzzle of a highpowered rifle was aimed directly at his head.

“I’ve got him,” a voice called out. Then, to Kealey: “Who are you? Identify yourself.”

Maybe they didn’t recognize me, he thought, and then it hit him; they were under orders to take Mengal and Saifi alive, and they might have mistaken him for one of the two men. “I’m with the Agency,” he managed. It was hard to speak; the foot wedged between his shoulder blades was preventing him from getting the air he needed.

“There are four other guys behind the house. Listen, you—”

“How do I know that? How do I know you’re not with them?”

A fair question, Kealey thought. Thinking quickly, he reeled off the Pentagon’s code name for the operation and a few other salient points that had come straight from the White House. It took about twenty seconds to convince the soldier standing over him that he was who he said he was. At that point, the man reached down and helped him to his feet.

“You’re hit,” he said, once Kealey had turned to face him. The CIA operative glanced down at the hole in his left side, but he waved it away.

“It’s nothing.” Which wasn’t strictly true, but he couldn’t address it just yet; there were still things to be done. First, he checked in with Owen, who told him that the rest of the team was already aboard the MH-53 to the rear of the house. Caught up in his attempt to stop Mengal from escaping, Kealey had forgotten about the second helicopter. “What about Manik?” he asked his former CO.

“He’s dead,” Owen said grimly. “So is the hostage.”

Shit. Kealey supposed he had already known, but now he had confirmation, and nothing made it hit home like hearing the words. Owen started to say something else, but Kealey had already turned his attention to the scene unfolding before him. Four Delta troopers had reached Fitzgerald and were escorting her back to the Pave Lowin front of the house. Escorting wasn’t exactly the right word, Kealey thought absently, as the four men were practically carrying her at a dead sprint back to the waiting helicopter. At the same time, a series of dark shapes were moving toward the incapacitated van, weapons at the ready. Kealey couldn’t see them, but he knew there were other soldiers lying prone between the MH-53 and the house, covering the secretary’s evacuation.

The trooper who’d pushed him to the ground was standing a few feet away, murmuring calm, authoritative orders into his lip mic. Kealey suddenly realized that this man was probably leading one of the elements. He was about to ask a question, but it was gone before he could get it out. In fact, he couldn’t seem to fix on any one thought; it was as if his mind was bleeding out, just like his . . . Kealey glanced down at the gunshot wound on the left side of his abdomen. It didn’t look too bad—just a neat hole surrounded by a large circle of blood—but then he reached around and realized why his vision was starting to blur. The hole in his back was significantly larger than the one in front. The exit wound, he realized, with a sense of sudden fear, had to be at least 6 centimeters in diameter. He briefly wondered how the soldier standing next to him could have missed it; after all, he’d been looking right down at his back a scant forty seconds before. But then he realized that the blood would have been hard to spot on his dark clothing, especially since it was still dark and raining. He had not felt the pain when the man’s foot had been wedged into his upper back. The adrenaline had been pumping too hard for that, but he was definitely feeling it now. The dizzying waves of pain were radiating throughout his abdomen, and they were only getting worse. . . .

As he brought his hand away from the wound, he saw it was dripping with blood. Glancing in his direction, the soldier—who was still on the radio—did a double take and started to turn in Kealey’s direction, his eyes opening wide. He had seen it, too, Kealey realized. It was his last conscious thought. The Delta trooper lunged out to stop him from falling, but Kealey’s legs were already going. The night sky started to fade, replaced by something much deeper and darker, and then the world was gone completely.

He was unconscious before he even hit the ground. He never heard the master sergeant’s urgent call for a medic, and he didn’t see the look of utter despair that crossed the young staff sergeant’s face when he arrived on the run twenty seconds later. The medic had seen this kind of wound before, and he knew the odds. Still, he had to try, and he set to work, frantically pulling items out of his rucksack, wondering if he had even the smallest chance of saving this man’s life.

CHAPTER 45

WASHINGTON, D.C.

It was just after one in the afternoon when Jonathan Harper was shown into the Oval Office by the president’s secretary. It was the first time he’d ever been alone in the room, and he knew that Brenneman probably wouldn’t arrive for another ten minutes. The president was just a few hundred feet away, speaking to the dozens of White House correspondents camped out on the South Lawn. It was a good day for it, Harper had to admit, and in more ways than one. At least, that was the predominant feeling in Washington on this warm Tuesday afternoon. Through the towering colonnade windows positioned behind the president’s desk, Harper could see the sunlight streaming through the trees and the brilliant blue backdrop beyond. But try as he might, he could not appreciate the picturesque view. The previous day’s operation had been labeled a success, in spite of the many mistakes that had marked its execution. Even Harper had to admit that when viewed objectively, it looked like a win on every front. Brynn Fitzgerald had been recovered intact, Amari Saifi

was dead, and Benazir Mengal was in custody. The former Pakistani general had already revealed where the remainder of the hostages were being held—a secluded village in the Karakoram range—and a second rescue operation was already in the works. Best of all, it had all been accomplished with minimal loss of life. But that, Harper thought soberly, was the objective version, and when one looked at the value of the lives that had been lost, the mission didn’t seem like such a great success. However, he had to admit the truth: