The Invisible. Andrew Britton
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head and frantically tried to pull his fist apart as he marched her to the front of the vehicle. Once they had reached the driver’s seat, he released her and shoved her hard down the stairs.
Rebeka tumbled through the open doors. As she hit the ground awkwardly, something gave way in her shoulder with an audible pop. Although her head was swimming with confusion and fear, she instantly tried to prop herself up using her right elbow. It was completely instinctive, but it was also a huge mistake; her shoulder instantly screamed with agony, and she screamed in turn, collapsing onto her side. Ten seconds later, the young Pakistani stepped off the bus and walked past her, carrying the broken remains of her camera.
Her fellow passengers were starting to resist, having realized that something was wrong. Shifting her weight to her left elbow, Rebeka managed to sit up and take in the scene, though her vision was still slightly blurred. She watched as Umberto Verga stepped forward and spat a few words in halting Punjabi to one of the guards, who immediately tried to push the hefty climber back into line. Verga barely moved, but his face turned red with indignation. Taking another step forward, he slapped aside the barrel of the Pakistani’s rifle. Rebeka watched in a daze as Verga repeated his question in English, and although he was standing about 30 feet away, he was shouting so loud, she could hear every word.
“What the fuck did you hit her for?” the Sicilian bellowed, spit flying out of his mouth. His heavily bearded face was just a few inches from that of the soldier. “Who do you think you are, you little shit? Do you have any idea what you’re starting here?”
She was vaguely surprised to see Umberto jumping to her defense, especially since he had never muttered more than a few words in her direction. But her surprise quickly turned to horrified disbelief when the Pakistani took two steps back, whipped the AK-47 up to his shoulder, and squeezed the trigger. A number of rounds punched into Verga’s barrel chest. The Sicilian took two uncertain steps back, then spiraled to the ground, shock carved into his weathered face.
For a moment, there was nothing but stunned silence. Then the passengers started to scream, everyone running in different directions. Unfortunately, there was nowhere to go. Nothing but flat plains in every direction, all of which led up to mountainous peaks, and the soldiers had clearly planned for this possibility. They had arranged themselves in a semi-circle around the bus, and they didn’t seem to panic as the passengers scattered. Instead, they fanned out to a greater degree. Strangely enough, nobody fired a shot. Above the panicked screams, a sonorous voice pleaded for calm in cultured English.
Rebeka, still propped up on her left elbow, watched it all unfold in a dreamlike state. Part of her was hoping she was right, that it was just a dream, but she couldn’t deny what had happened to Umberto Verga, and she couldn’t deny what was happening now.
A sudden noise caught her attention, and she realized the bus was pulling away, the rear tires kicking up a spray of crushed gravel. She felt pebbles stinging the right side of her face, then heard a high-pitched whine as the vehicle shifted into second gear. A hoarse voice carried over the cacophony, giving a command in Punjabi. It was the same voice that had called out in English earlier, but it had taken on a different, harder tone. The next thing she heard was the sound of gunfire, immediately followed by splintering glass. There was a loud thump, the sound of a vehicle crashing into a shallow ditch. Then there was nothing, save for a few distant sobs and the steady hum of an idling engine.
Looking around, Rebeka saw that the soldiers had taken on a less threatening posture, their weapons pointed toward the ground, faces fixed in neutral expressions. The leader seemed to be holding court, his rifle slung over his chest, hands raised in a calming gesture. He was speaking in English, but Rebeka couldn’t make out the specific words, her ears still ringing from the earlier blow. Whatever he was saying seemed to be working; her fellow passengers had mostly lapsed into silence and were moving back toward the soldiers cautiously. As Rebeka watched from a distance, Beni Abruzzi stumbled forward and dropped to his knees beside his cousin’s body, his mouth working silently. The other passengers seemed equally glued to the disturbing sight, but nevertheless, they kept moving forward. It was as if they recognized the futility of running, that for the moment, their best option was to comply, to adhere to their captors’ demands.
Captors. The word seemed to lodge in her head for some reason, even though these men were dressed as soldiers. To the north, a rapidly approaching truck was kicking up plumes of dust on the KKH, its windshield sparkling in the pale yellow sun. The armed Pakistanis didn’t seem to notice the vehicle, which gave Rebeka a very bad feeling. After what they had just done, they wouldn’t be looking for extra attention. As her head cleared, the truth started to dawn, piece by piece, like a jigsaw puzzle coming together before her eyes. Only this puzzle was forming a picture she didn’t want to see: the soldiers were expecting the truck.
They didn’t need the bus, because they had the truck. They were going to leave the bus all along, because it served as a message. The bus was proof of what had happened here, and the truck was taking them somewhere else.
They were being kidnapped.
When the truth hit her, Rebeka was overcome by a wave of foreboding. She had read accounts of journalists who’d been caught up in similar situations, but she also knew of the larger number who had not survived to tell their tale. Still, despite the fear that clenched her gut, she didn’t visibly react. Instead, she just stared around, wondering if any of her fellow travelers had figured it out. Part of her wanted to fight this injustice, so she staggered to her feet and hunched over at the waist for a second, trying to stop her head from spinning.
Once she’d pushed down the worst of the nausea, she straightened and turned to look for the leader, the man who’d calmed the other travelers with his gentle command of the English language. Rebeka couldn’t pick him out, but she did see the cargo truck, which had come to a halt 20 meters away. Her fellow travelers were now facedown on the ground, their hands being tied behind their backs. Most were lying passively, but a few were struggling, and two or three weren’t moving at all. Looking closer, she realized that the still figures were bleeding profusely from head wounds. She didn’t think they’d been shot—she hadn’t heard any additional gunfire—but even from a distance, she could recognize how serious their injuries were.
A soldier was moving toward her, boots crunching over the coarse gravel, his rifle slung over his chest. He smiled, produced a strange-looking length of cord, and gestured for her to turn around. She did so slowly, struggling to suppress her fear. Her hands were pulled gently behind her, then bound securely with the plastic restraints. Feeling a tap on her uninjured shoulder, she turned once more. This time, however, the soldier was no longer smiling. Holding his weapon in both hands, he pulled his arms in tight at shoulder height, then whipped the butt of the rifle forward, directly into her face.
Rebeka saw a flash of bright light, then felt a sudden, blinding pain, her head snapping back with the force of the blow.
Her legs gave way, and everything went blessedly, mercifully black.
CHAPTER 1
ORAEFI, ICELAND
The whitewashed hotel at the foot of the Svínafellsjökull Glacier was simple, comfortable, and nearly empty, even though the roads were clear and spring had just given way to the short Arctic summer. In short, it was everything the lone traveler had been looking for when he’d walked into town two days earlier, legs aching from a day’s worth of arduous trekking. It had been nearly three weeks since he’d departed the sprawling capital of Reykjavík, based 200 miles to the west, and he’d spent most of that time crossing the bleak Icelandic wilderness on foot. The Skaftafell Hotel seemed almost luxurious after his previous accommodations, a cramped, foul-smelling hut on the Morsárdalur mountain track. Still, he would have been satisfied with much less.
Southeastern Iceland was only the latest stop on what had become a prolonged expedition to some of the world’s most challenging environments. Ryan Kealey wasn’t exactly starting from scratch, as he’d spent his teens and early twenties hiking and climbing in places ranging from Washington’s Mount Rainier to Ben Nevis in Scotland, but he’d never pushed himself as hard as he had in recent months. He knew where this sudden desire to test himself