The Invisible

was focused on the west gate, the one Naomi had told them to use. Kealey could see right away that it wouldn’t work; a number of construction workers were standing in their way, and their attention was riveted on what had just happened outside the trailer. A few looked like they wanted to interfere, but not one of them dared to advance. Kealey realized they had seen the whole thing. They had seen him attack, then shoot the officer. Apparently, none of the workers were willing to risk a similar fate. He turned and started to run for the east gate, his feet pounding over the dry, uneven ground. He shouted over his shoulder for Petain to follow, but she was already there, sprinting less than 3 feet to his rear.

“Kealey, what are you doing?” she panted between breaths. “This isn’t the right—”

“You saw them,” he shouted back at her. “This is the only way out.”

“But the police are—”

“I know, but we don’t have a choice. Just keep moving! ”

CHAPTER 19

MADRID

When Naomi regained consciousness, the first thing she heard was the screams. Her entire world was pitch black, but the screams were incredibly sharp and distinct. It was almost as if hundreds of mouths were positioned on either side of her head, all of them howling directly into her ears. She tried to raise her hands to block out the awful sound, but her limbs didn’t seem to be working correctly. One voice in particular was cutting through the cacophony, but she couldn’t place it. She desperately wanted to see or hear something familiar, but everything around her was a meaningless blur.

A blur . . . That was a start, at least. Her eyes were open, and things were starting to come into focus. She was lying flat on her back. The tall shadows above her were moving fast, darting about in her peripheral vision. As she collected herself, the shadows began to take on distinct shapes. Before long they were silhouettes against the afternoon sun, and then they were people. Dozens of people running and screaming, running and screaming, standing and pointing . . . She felt a hand on her arm, then two hands, warm skin touching her own, two fingers probing the right side of her neck. Searching for a pulse, she realized. The voice was taking shape, forming words, asking if she was all right. The rough hands moved behind her, sliding under her armpits, lifting her into a sitting position. She tried to protest, but all that came out was gibberish. Whoever it was clearly had no medical training; otherwise, he wouldn’t have tried to move her at all.

“Easy, now.” The person behind her was clearly American, speaking with a distinct Brooklyn accent. “Just take it easy. You’re going to be fine.”

“What happened?”

“You speak English.” There was relief in the voice. A tourist, Naomi decided. “There was an explosion of some kind. A bomb, maybe. You were knocked out, but you’re going to be fine. Just sit and wait for the ambulance. Don’t move, okay?”

Naomi felt herself nod weakly. What happened? Did she really ask him that? Why had she asked that? She remembered squeezing the trigger, but everything that came after was a complete blank. Despite the confusion that clouded her mind, it was clear that she’d been much too close to the Toyota when she fired at the cylinders. Looking over, she saw, with surprise, that she had been thrown at least 10 feet from the mouth of the alley, perhaps more. She had known it from the start, but the space between the van and the street was just too short. If she hadn’t been using the dumpster as cover, she probably would have been killed instantly. Still, she had done the best she could; the only question now was whether or not her diversion had worked.

Her thoughts shifted to Ryan. She could hear police officers shouting orders around her—she could tell they were officers by the measured authority in their raised voices—and she could hear additional sirens in the distance. The trouble was that she had no idea how long she’d been out. Additional units of the CNP would have responded quickly, along with the paramedics, but how fast? That was the question. Naomi decided she couldn’t have been unconscious for more than a minute or two, which meant that if they were moving quickly, Ryan and Petain should have already cleared the scene. The American tourist had moved on to the next person. Naomi climbed unsteadily to her feet, then tested her limbs and performed a quick visual check of her body, or at least what she could see. Everything seemed to be working, but she knew it was early yet. Sometimes serious wounds didn’t become obvious until the shock had passed, and she was still trying to get her bearings. She took a few uncertain steps as her vision cleared. Looking around, she saw that a number of people were lying in the street. Many were moving around, but others were completely immobile. Some were bleeding profusely.

Suddenly, it hit her that she was responsible for everything she was seeing. A wave of horror and guilt rose up in her chest, choking her as effectively as a pair of strong hands, but she pushed the emotions down as hard as she could, knowing it wouldn’t help her to focus on them now. The dizziness started to clear as she stumbled north, skirting the injured pedestrians in her wake. She tried not to look at their faces. She didn’t want to see, didn’t want to account for what she had done. At least not until she could absorb it properly. Three police cars were positioned close to the intersection, barely 10 meters away from the chain-link fence that marked the eastern edge of the construction site. Shifting her eyes to the left, she watched as the gate swung open and two people stepped into view. Despite the work shirts they were wearing, Naomi instantly recognized Ryan Kealey and Marissa Petain. As she looked on in disbelief, they turned left and started along the pavement, passing within 5 meters of the closest CNP cruiser.

Why did it take them so long? And why did they come out of the wrong gate? The anger welled up as she tracked them along the sidewalk. It didn’t make sense; they should have been moving the second they heard the explosion. She watched as they cleared the cruisers, walking fast toward the intersection, then breathed a sigh of relief. They were going to make it.

Naomi kept moving forward and tried to relax, willing the tension out of her shoulders and back. All she had to do was trail at a safe distance; once they had walked a few blocks, she’d call Ryan and arrange a time and place to link up. Suddenly, she realized she no longer had the .45. She quickly checked her pockets, then her waist. The Glock 9mm was still tucked into the top of her jeans, but the .45 was definitely gone. After a moment’s hesitation, she decided there was nothing she could do about it. She certainly couldn’t go back and search for it, and she knew the Spanish police didn’t have her fingerprints on file. The best thing she could do was keep moving, but as she quickened her pace, she realized that someone was shouting. A few people, in fact. Not behind her, but in front, close to where the police cars were parked.

Her eyes darted to the left, seeking out the source of the commotion. She quickly locked onto a small group of construction workers.

Half of them were trying to get the attention of the one officer who’d stayed with the vehicles, a slight man in his early twenties. He looked incredibly young and uncertain, but he was definitely listening to what they were saying. The other half were pointing down the sidewalk. Their accusing fingers were aimed directly at Kealey and Petain. A split second later, the officer turned and cast a long look after them, his hand dropping down to his gun. . . . Naomi started to run, a warning shout caught in her throat. She was too far away. They wouldn’t hear her, and if they did, they wouldn’t be able to react in time. She felt as if she was moving in slow motion, but she couldn’t break free of the strange sensation. Her hand dipped to her waist, lifting her sweat-soaked T-shirt, finding the grip of the Glock . . .

She wrenched it free and tried to stop, her heels skidding across the pavement. The force of the blast had caused the windows of the second-story apartments to explode outward, raining glass down onto the street. Dimly aware of the crunching sensation beneath her feet, she raised the weapon but didn’t take aim. The police officer’s gun was out now, and he was shouting something at Kealey and Petain. Both had turned to face the officer, and even at a distance, Naomi could see the caught-out-of-position look on Ryan’s face, his hand hovering down by his side. The uncertainty was something she’d never seen before, and for a split second, it gave her pause. But only for a second. Their eyes met a moment later, and she knew what she had to do. Taking a few more deliberate steps forward, she shifted her gaze and locked onto her target. The front sight was perfectly lined up with the rear. Her finger was resting lightly on the trigger . . . All she had to do was squeeze. Kealey had heard the voices, felt Petain’s hand tighten around his arm in warning. He didn’t need to look to know what had happened, and he knew