The Invisible

“Marissa,” he began woodenly, “I have to do something. You won’t understand now, but in time, I—”

“Why did he give you the gun?” she said, cutting him off. Her voice was rising with each word, climbing into hysteria. She was stalling, that much was clear, but she was also desperate for answers, even at this late stage of the game. “Who was that on the phone?”

There was a bright flash of lightning overhead. The thunder followed a split second later, the sound like that of a tire shredding at high speed on the interstate. As the noise ripped over the gray black sky, parts of Kealey’s words were drowned out, but he didn’t notice. They were all platitudes, anyway, and they wouldn’t change a thing. He felt sick for even saying them, but he had to say something, and nothing worthwhile was coming to mind.

“I have to, Marissa. I know you don’t understand, but I can’t get around it. Believe me, I tried. . . .”

“What do you mean, ‘you tried’?” she screamed. “This is my life you’re talking about! Who was on the phone? Who told you to do this?”

“Marissa, I can’t—”

“Who was on the goddamn phone, Ryan?” She was struggling now and crying freely as she tried to pull away from the handle. It wasn’t going to happen; she was secured too well, but she kept trying regardless, fighting for all she was worth.“Who was it, you bastard? Why do they want me dead? What did I do to them?”

“They don’t—” Kealey stopped himself before he could say the rest. Clearly, she hadn’t heard him before. He wasn’t going to kill her, but if she thought he was going to, it might make the next part easier. “Close your eyes, Marissa. Turn around, close your eyes, and face the door. It won’t hurt, I promise.”

“You can’t do this,” she moaned, tears mingling with the rainwater on her face. The fight had drained out of her without warning, leaving behind the empty hope for some kind of last-minute salvation.

“You can’t do this.”

“I have to,” he said, the words catching in his throat. Christ, he thought bitterly,how did it come to this? Goddamn you for making me do this, Machado. Goddamn you. “Now do as I say. Face the door, and close your eyes.”

Her legs gave out, and she dropped to her knees, her face clearing of all expression. Her eyes were wide and vacant as she stared ahead, shaking her head slowly from side to side. Kealey couldn’t help but wonder what she was seeing in that strange moment. Was it her whole life flashing before her eyes? Or was she simply wondering how it had come to this, as he was?

“Marissa,” he said gently, prompting her.

After what seemed like an endless pause, she slowly turned, her knees making a curved groove in the wet gravel that bordered the transformer. Resting her forehead against the steel access door, she began mumbling something under her breath. Moving closer, his footsteps masked by the sound of the storm, Kealey leaned in. As he braced himself to do what Machado had ordered, the gun like a lead weight in his hand, he couldn’t help but overhear what she was saying, and the words caused him to freeze in his tracks. She was praying. Not for redemption, not for absolution, but for her parents’ forgiveness. She was praying that they might understand—that in time, they might forgive her for causing them so much pain.

Hearing this, Kealey stepped back and took a deep, shaky breath. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to kill Javier Machado: to put a gun to his head, pull the trigger, and send him to a hell more real than the one he had created for himself. For a split second, he considered abandoning the whole thing and telling Petain the truth: that her own father was entirely responsible for what she was going through now. That he would rather see her crippled and safe behind a desk than living her own life, risks and all. But then Naomi’s face reappeared in his mind, and he remembered the Spaniard’s grim, resolute tone when he had issued his threat. Kealey knew that the man had deluded himself into thinking that this was the only way to protect his daughter, and that meant he’d do anything to accomplish his goal. As long as Petain was walking, Naomi wasn’t safe, and that was all it took to convince him he had to act. That was what it came down to accomplish his goal. Kealey could see the irony; both he and Machado were intent on doing the wrong thing to keep the people they cared about “safe,”

which was a relative term for both of them. At the same time, he just couldn’t see an alternative.

Petain was still mumbling to herself, her prayers interspersed with deep, gut-wrenching sobs. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Kealey moved forward quickly. He couldn’t think about it anymore; he just wanted it over with. In one fast movement, he pinned her to the door with his left forearm, his right hand moving between her legs. Before she could realize what was happening, he glanced down to get his bearings, jammed the muzzle of the Makarov into the back of her left knee, and prepared himself to pull the trigger. . . . And nothing happened. All he had to do was squeeze, but . . . He was hesitating. Why? he wondered. Why am I waiting? In his peripheral vision, he saw Fahim moving across the gravel, following the footpath to the right. With the dark, shapeless raincoat and the hood pulled over his head, he looked almost unreal, like a ghost drifting through an unmarked graveyard. But he was real, Kealey reminded himself, and he was waiting. Presumably, he was moving to get a better look at what was happening. Petain was still frozen with fear, but that wouldn’t last; Kealey knew he was running out of time. He had to act. Steadying himself, he wedged the gun harder against the back of her knee, willing himself to pull the trigger.

CHAPTER 36

FAISALABAD

Paul Owen and the rest of the 4-man team had been in place for most of the day, having arrived in Faisalabad early that morning. The Bukhari woman in Sharakpur Sharif had failed to pan out. In the twenty-four hours they had spent watching her, she’d left her apartment twice. On both occasions, she’d done nothing more than walk to a local cafe for coffee and baklava. She hadn’t spoken to anyone other than the clerk, and they had been unable to spot any watchers around her building. What clinched it for Owen, though, was not the woman’s movements, but her general demeanor. She was casual, unhurried, and entirely too relaxed to be involved on any level whatsoever. He had dismissed her two minutes after he’d seen her on the street, but they had stayed on her just to be sure. Finally, at ten the previous evening, he’d decided to strike her from the list, and they’d moved on to the vet.

They had been in the city for less than twenty-four hours, but Owen felt sure that their current target was just as innocent as the previous one. The veterinarian had left his home at six that morning, walking the half mile to his office on Circular Road, just south of the river. He had not left the building since, and the two men watching his house—Husain Manik and Mark Walland—had reported nothing unusual. When the storm had hit an hour earlier, his wife had emerged briefly to pull down some clothes from a line in the back garden, but otherwise, nothing was happening.

Owen sighed wearily as he leaned back in his chair. He was sitting in a crowded cafe, next to one of the large windows looking out to the street. Through the rain-streaked glass, he had a clear line of sight to the front of the vet’s office. The office was housed in an unremarkable two-story building constructed of granite and limestone. There was plenty of foot traffic going in and coming out of the building, but there was nothing suspicious in that, and Owen had seen nothing to indicate that the man had countersurveillance in place. He felt reasonably sure that it was business as usual inside the building, which meant they were wasting crucial time pursuing yet another useless lead. He shook his head angrily as he snatched his bottle of Orangina off the table. He’d been in place too long already; it was time to move. Making his way through the clamorous seating area, he stepped outside and hung a right. As he made his way east, weaving his way through the heavy pedestrian traffic, he thought back to the list of Mengal’s possible associates. They had crossed two names off the list, which left two more to go. Owen wasn’t holding out much hope for any of them.

All of the targets had verifiable links to Benazir Mengal, but despite that fact, Owen couldn’t help but feel that they were on the wrong track. The next few days would prove as much, he was sure, but this was one situation in which he’d be glad to be proven wrong. It had been four days since Fitzgerald’s abduction, and he could feel the time sliding away. With each passing day, she became more of a risk to her captors. Eventually, they would figure that out and decide to cut their losses, if they hadn’t done so already. Owen wanted nothing more than to stop that from happening, but he needed somewhere to start—something to work with. Otherwise, he was just as helpless as everyone else.

The unproductive time they’d spent in Pakistan was only part of the reason for his bad mood. Kealey was