Intermittent streams of fire erupted from the barrel of Alvarez’s M16A2. Kealey fired in the same direction, although he couldn’t spot the sniper, whose ghillie suit allowed him to blend easily into the surrounding vegetation.
He cursed the diminished range caused by the shorter barrel of his weapon, which would have been ideal for the close-quarter combat initially anticipated.
He called out to Alvarez: “Loading!”
Rapidly changing out his magazine, Kealey’s eyes never left the ridge where his snipers were positioned. He guessed that the line of earth was 400 meters away, a difficult shot even under the best of circumstances, almost impossible with the standard iron sights. He saw a flash of light followed by the roar of the rifle, and out of the corner of his eye caught the awful sight of Alvarez’s head breaking apart. That first fatal shot was followed by four more. It took all of Kealey’s self-control not to flinch away as he pressed his cheek against the warm metal of his assault rifle. The heat shield encasing the barrel was perfectly balanced in his left hand as he eased back on the trigger, firing until the bolt locked back on an empty magazine.
A few minutes passed without any movement on the ridge.
“Thomas! Watson!” he called out.
There was no answer. A sick feeling clenched his gut as he realized that he was probably the only man alive on the hill. Easing his head slowly around, he could see the lifeless bodies of the other two sergeants in his detachment. His detachment. As the commander, he was responsible for the lives of these men. Was it right that he should be the only one to survive? Suddenly not caring, he got to his feet, a lone figure standing tall on the side of the hill, long shadows cast behind him by the fading sun.
Feeling a sudden impact, Ryan looked down at the small hole in his chest, the sight almost blocking out the terrible sound of the rifle in his ears.
He fell to the ground, for some reason absorbed by the hissing of the radio inches from his outstretched hand.
Presently he was aware of a man standing on top of the ridge, the image blurred by pain. Through the red haze creeping into the edge of his vision, Ryan thought he could make out the lightweight Parker-Hale M85 rifle held loosely in the crook of the man’s right arm. The same weapon that, for the past eight months, had been lovingly attended to and cared for by one man, and one man only. The incredibly still figure of Sergeant First Class Jason March continued to blur as the pain intensified, and Kealey found he could no longer breathe.
He couldn’t breathe . . .
Ryan Kealey awoke without a sound, pieces of information slowly entering into his mind, each a revelation more startling than the one before.
The thin sheets were clinging to his sweat-soaked torso. As the shaking slowly left his body, Ryan was suddenly aware that Katie was whispering quietly in his ear, her arms wrapped around him protectively from behind, silken fingers gliding over the raised scar on his chest.
“Baby, are you okay? God, you were shouting so loud . . .” There was a noticeable tremble to her voice. “Your dreams . . . They’re getting worse.”
He didn’t respond, preferring to think of nothing for as long as possible. He just wanted to take comfort from the proximity of her body. Maybe she understood, as she fell silent while his ragged breathing slowly subsided.
Thoughts swirled around him in the dark, intruding when he could no longer hold them at bay. Jason March had murdered men that were like brothers to him. If the regular army fostered lifelong friendships, the relationships built within the Special Forces community were like family ties, carrying no more or less importance than actual blood relations. Now the man he had hoped was dead had returned from the other side of the world to commit even more vicious crimes.
Kealey thought that he was uniquely equipped to kill March. He felt that he owed it to the men who lost their lives on that hilltop far away from home. Where it would end, he wasn’t sure. Ryan only knew that he would be there to make sure it did.
Chapter 7
WASHINGTON, D.C.
“I’m due at the White House in two hours, John. I can’t go up there empty-handed. What do you think we’re looking at here?”
Jonathan Harper glanced up at Robert Andrews, the recently appointed director of the Central Intelligence Agency. It was a difficult question to answer; the combined efforts of the CIA and the FBI had yielded very little new information in the past week. Phone calls had been made, favors called in. The interagency cooperation that was supposed to have come into effect following 9/11 had never really materialized, despite the recent development of the Terrorist Threat Integration Center located just a few short miles away. Harper had been one of the few to recognize beforehand that this would be the case.
“Well, we still have no claim of responsibility for the attack on Senator Levy, which in and of itself is highly unusual. Iran is denying all involvement, but I don’t think we can take that at face value, especially since they officially announced that they’re starting up their weapons program again. The timing is just too damn convenient.
Besides, they had a better reason than anyone to take out the senator. He was their most vociferous opponent on everything from the acquisition of nuclear material to human-rights violations. One thing we do have is a tentative ID on the man who carried out the attack, and we can link him directly to Al-Qaeda. I sent that up to you earlier.”
Director Andrews nodded slowly, his lips pursed. “I find this a little hard to believe. Why would they trust an American enough to bring him that far into the organization?”
“Maybe they know what happened in Syria.”
Andrews looked up sharply. “You said the ID was verified by this guy Kealey. Where is he?”
“He just got back this morning. He’s looking at cell phone intercepts with Davidson and Kharmai right now.”
“I thought he was retired.”
The deputy director shrugged. “He gave it a shot. I think he knew it wasn’t going to last, though.”
“Keep an eye on him,” Andrews warned. “I read the file, and I know what he did in Bosnia. We’re not trying to generate any publicity here, John.”
“That was never proven, sir.” The director shot him a skeptical look, which immediately made Harper regret the words.
“Just keep him in line, John. I appreciate what he’s done here as much as anybody, but we have our hands full as it is. I don’t need the Senate Oversight Committee jumping into the fray as well, okay?”
Harper nodded and stood to leave, but Andrews waved him back down into the seat.
“One more thing. I hear you have an analyst asking a lot of questions about Kealey. By that, I mean the same analyst you just mentioned.” Harper tried to contain his surprise, but the director noticed his incredulous look and gave a small, reluctant smile. “There is a reason I have this job, John.”
Harper nodded. “Naomi Kharmai. She’s been with us for four years. She had clearance for the personnel file, so I gave it to her just to keep her happy. I told her not to take it any further, but I don’t know if she’ll listen. She’s pretty stubborn.”
The DCI considered his response for a long moment. Finally, he said, “If you think it’s worth keeping her on this, then make sure she stays busy with the relevant stuff. As in, what happened in Syria is not relevant. Those soldiers officially died in a training accident . . . We need to be able to work with the military, and if that piece of misinformation comes out on our end, then they won’t trust us with anything else. And frankly, I wouldn’t blame them,” Andrews added.