The Invisible

noise brought Mengal back to reality, and his eyes moved to the opposite side of the large room, where his two-way radio was resting on a rough wooden table. As he walked over to pick it up, he crossed in front of the barn door, which was still hanging open to the rain and the warm night air.

“I’ve got Mengal,” Massi said suddenly. “He’s inside the barn. He just passed the door. I guess he was on the north side of the building . . . I couldn’t see him before.”

“Got it,” Kealey said. “You see a weapon?”

“Negative,” Massi said, “but I can’t see the whole room. He might have it leaning against a wall or something . . . We’d better assume he’s got one close.”

“Roger. Everyone get that?” Kealey asked.

In the order they had decided on earlier, the other members of the team reported in the affirmative, their voices scratching over Kealey’s earpiece.

“Good,” Kealey said once they had all checked in. “Maintain your positions. Massi, if he picks up a gun, you know what to do.”

“Roger that,” the other man said calmly. No one queried the order, and they didn’t have to ask for clarification. Massi was the only one with a clear line of sight, and if Mengal approached Fitzgerald with a weapon in hand, the former USAF combat controller was going to take the shot, regardless of the consequences. It was a weak excuse to initiate engagement, and if it went bad, it would never hold up. Nevertheless, they had all agreed to take the opportunity if it presented itself. None of them were inclined to wait for the assault team, but neither were they willing to blatantly violate their standing orders, especially given the stakes.

“Where’s the Algerian?” Owen murmured over the net.

“I have no idea,” Kealey muttered back. He had been wondering the same thing. Saifi had been inside the house for nearly two minutes, but he’d left the barn door hanging wide open, which seemed to indicate he would be returning shortly. He should have been back by now, Kealey thought, but maybe there were more hostages in the house. Maybe Saifi was preparing to bring them out to the barn, or maybe they were already dead . . . There was no way to tell.

“So what do we do?” Manik asked.

“Hold your position,” Kealey repeated. “Just stay where you are. Massi, anything?”

“Negative. He went back to the north side of the building . . . I can’t see him.”

“Okay. Keep your eyes open. Let’s see what’s happening here,”

Kealey said.

Randall Craig was lying awake on the narrow bed, his hands clasped over his stomach. Ever since his abduction, his thoughts had been coming nonstop, so fast he feared his head might explode with the pressure. Over the last few hours, though, things had changed. His mind had been blank, almost as if he had slipped into a meditative state. He was struck by the irony; the end was drawing rapidly near, and yet he was becoming less and less concerned with the thought of escape. Simply put, he was mentally and physically exhausted, almost to the point that he no longer cared. At the same time, sleep was out of the question. He was caught in a strange limbo that was draining his body and mind with each passing minute. As a result, he didn’t hear the footsteps in the hall. Nor did he hear the key as it scraped in the brass latch. The first time he was aware of the man’s presence was when the door swung open, revealing a tall, slender figure framed in the doorway. Craig immediately swung his feet to the floor, then stood to face the Algerian. The man didn’t move into the room; instead, he merely stared at Craig and smiled.

“Doctor. It’s good to see you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

Craig looked at him warily. “I’m fine.”

“Good. If you don’t mind, the general would like you to step outside. He has something to show you.”

Somehow, Craig was able to maintain his neutral expression, though his knees nearly gave way when he heard the word outside. It took every ounce of self-control he possessed, but he didn’t reveal what he knew: that this was the end. He had seen them carrying the camera equipment into the barn, and he knew what was coming. Jesus, he thought to himself, they’re actually going to do it. Somehow, he was astonished by the possibility, even though he had known it was coming all along. He was suddenly struck by the same vision he’d seen the day before. He could see himself sitting in front of the camera, bound to a chair, with the obligatory flag tacked up behind. He could see the blade coming down, and he wondered if Fitzgerald would be forced to watch, if she would witness his final moments along with the rest of them.

He knew what was coming, but somehow, he managed to maintain his composure. Nodding dutifully, he stepped past the Algerian and walked down the hall. He was watching the whole time, taking everything in; with the end so near, his vision seemed unnaturally sharp. There was an armed guard at the end of the hall, and as he passed the open living room, he saw another man concealed in the shadows, standing next to the grand piano. Clearly, they’d thought he was going to run from the room. They’d been prepared to stop him, but as he passed the two men, he saw them relax, their shoulders drooping with the sudden release of tension. In their eyes, Craig was the threat, and the threat had just walked past.

Too soon, he thought to himself. He had to wait until he was out of the house, and then he would run. He probably wouldn’t get more than 10 feet, but he had to do it; there was no other choice. No one was going to help him. He briefly wondered where Qureshi was, then cursed himself for caring. After all, the surgeon had put him here. By giving his name to Mengal, he had sealed his fate. Were it not for Qureshi, Craig would still be working at the hospital by day, watching old movies by night, and anxiously waiting for the day he could fly back to Seattle, with a few good stories under his belt and another gold star to stick on his resume.

Fuck you, Said, Craig thought, the anger flaring up to engulf the fear. He was lashing out at the most convenient target for reasons he didn’t understand. Subconsciously, he was building up his nerve for what he was about to do.Fuck you. I hope they do kill you, and I hope you see it coming, you traitorous little bastard. . . . He was nearing the end of the hall. Sweat was pouring down his face in fine rivulets. His damp shirt was clinging to his torso, and his feet were mired in invisible mud. The door was just a few feet away, and once he stepped outside, there was no turning back. . . .

“Who the hell is that?” Walland asked, his voice cutting over the static. Kealey shifted his aim, peered through his scope, and watched as a tall, pale man came out of the house, the Algerian trailing a few steps behind. “Is that a hostage?”

“Got him,” Owen announced, ignoring the question. “Saifi’s right behind him.”

“That’s a new face,” Manik reported. “Doesn’t look like he’s armed . . .”

Kealey ignored the radio traffic as he studied the unknown subject through his 2.25 power scope. Even with the green tint, it was clear that the man was Caucasian. He looked scared, but the fear was mixed with something else, something that Kealey could not decipher. He studied the man for a few seconds more, trying to figure it out. Then it hit him; the look on his face was fear mixed with utter resolve. It was one of the most dangerous combinations that Kealey knew of, and he had seen it before, most recently with Naomi in Madrid.

He was still weighing this discovery—and trying to push her face back out of his mind—when Manik asked, “Where are they going?”

“Back to the barn,” Massi said. “Looks like they’re putting him in with Fitzgerald. I still don’t see a weapon. . . .”

“Hold your positions,” Kealey said, cupping his hand over his lip mic to limit the sound. He shivered suddenly, a chill running down the length of his spine. He wasn’t sure where that had come from, but he was guessing it had something to do with the scene unfolding before him. The whole thing seemed fake somehow, scripted, as if one or both of the participants were only pretending to play his role. Still looking through the scope, he watched as Saifi prodded the hostage forward. Kealey didn’t know why that word was sticking—

the man could have been there of his own accord, and they had no proof either way—but it seemed to fit. There was just something about that look on his face, the tension in his shoulders, and the wooden way he was moving toward the barn. In fact, it looked as if his legs might give out at any moment.

But again, it seemed fake, somehow. Almost as if . . . The hostage was halfway to the barn when he stopped, turned on his heels, and launched a short, wild punch at his captor, catching Saifi high on the right cheek. As Kealey looked on in disbelief, the Algerian stumbled back, then tripped and went down hard. The radio traffic started up instantly, but Kealey heard none of it, his eyes glued to the man standing over Saifi. The hostage stood motionless for a few seconds, staring down at the Algerian like a deer caught in the headlights. He was clearly