Betrayed
The passenger door opened and a man climbed out, one hand raised to shade his eyes from the glare of the sun. He was of medium height, heavy build, with beefy shoulders. He wore crumpled chinos and a short-sleeved bush shirt. The moment he stepped from the Land Rover the man locked eyes with Bolan, staring at him with a hard gaze. His eyes were shadowed under thick brows, deep set in a lined, unshaved brown face, and he made no attempt to hide his aggressive manner.
“You guys are off the beaten track,” he said, which was more of an accusation than a query.
Bolan ignored him. That seemed to annoy the man even more.
“You hear me?”
“They can probably hear you in Pakistan,” Bolan said. He hadn’t missed the man’s reference to Bolan not being on his own.
You guys.
Whoever he was, the newcomer was sharp. Or he knew more than was apparent.
“You want something or are you passing through?” Bolan asked.
“Could be we’re both looking for the same thing.”
“You think so?”
“How many Afghans are there in these hills who go by the name of Sharif Mahoud?” the newcomer queried.
“You’re the one with all the answers,” Bolan said. “I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”
“The hell you don’t.” The man turned and waved to the Land Rover’s driver to join him.
When the guy stepped into view, Bolan saw he was carrying a professional video camera. He hoisted it on his shoulder and trained it on the soldier.
“Hey,” Bolan called. “You carry life insurance?”
The cameraman frowned, then said, “What’s that mean?”
“It means turn that thing away from me or you’ll find out if your policy pays off.”
“Anja, don’t listen to him. We can film whatever we want.”
“It isn’t you he has that gun pointing at.”
“Don’t be a chicken-shit.” The guy turned back to Bolan. “You know who I am?”
“Why don’t you tell me.”
“Kris Shehan.”
Bolan’s face didn’t flicker with recognition.
“Look at that,” he said. “You didn’t surprise me. Should I have heard of you?” he asked.
“I’m starting not to like you, pal,” Shehan stated.
“One, I don’t give a damn about that. Two, I’m not your pal. And I think it’s time you backed off.”
Bolan turned to stare at the cameraman, who had turned his lens back in Bolan’s direction. Shehan’s voice interrupted him.
“I’m getting tired of you playing the hard guy. Why don’t you move your ass out of my way? My assignment is to meet up with Mahoud and get his story. What are you going to do? Shoot me?”
“The thought had occurred to me.”
“Go ahead. Anja will get it all on tape. Hell, I could make you famous.” Shehan was smiling now, enjoying himself. “I could sell you all over the Middle East. Maybe even get it picked up by CBS or Fox News. You know how the great American public likes its violence.”
Bolan blocked Shehan’s way.
“You leave it right there,” he said. “Take your cameraman and turn around. Get clear of this village and stay out of my sight.”
Shehan glanced at his cameraman, a knowing grin crossing his face. When he faced Bolan again that smile had gone.
“You know who I am? Who I represent?”
“I know you believe you have the right to push your way into people’s lives. Put them at risk just so you get your thirty seconds on some cheap TV news program.”
“Fuck you, mister. I’ve brought home more important reports than you could imagine. I put my life on the edge to get my stories. You think American networks are the only ones allowed to tell what is happening here? Ha. My news is for the real people of Afghanistan. Sharif Mahoud is a story. I’m going after an exclusive. Who the hell are you to try to stop me?”
This time it was Bolan who gave a weary smile.
“Correction, Shehan. It won’t be try to stop you. I will stop you if you get in my way.”
“Hard man now, huh? Listen, friend, I’ve faced off with real warlords in my time. Some cheap merc isn’t making me back down.”
“Having to keep correcting you is becoming a habit. If I was a merc, I wouldn’t be cheap.”
Bolan shouldered the man aside as he crossed to the cameraman who had been videoing the confrontation.
“Do you have a backup camera?” he asked.
“Yeah. In the Rover. Why?”
“You’re going to need it,” Bolan told him.
He reached out and wrenched the vidcam from the man’s hands. Ignoring Shehan’s yell of protest, Bolan walked to the trail’s edge and hurled the vidcam into space. It spun in a downward spiral to smash on the sun-bleached rocks far below.
“You bastard,” Shehan screamed. “Do you know how much that cost?”
“Rough country out here,” Bolan said. “Stuff gets smashed all the time.”
“You’ll regret this. I’ll fucking well sue you for every cent you have.”
Bolan shrugged. “Good luck. Remember I’m just a cheap merc. Your own words.”
Shehan’s face flushed with righteous anger. He turned to the cameraman, thrusting a finger as he yelled, “Go and get the other vidcam.” Anja simply stared back at him. “I said, get the other fu…What the hell is wrong with you?”
Bolan sensed the cameraman’s agitation. He turned to check out what the man was looking at and saw armed figures emerging from the rocks beyond the village. The soldier picked up a familiar, rising sound. His gaze rose and he spotted the thin trail, curving and pale against the hard blue sky.
A mortar shell.
“Incoming,” he yelled.
The mortar hit even as he called the warning. The solid thump of the explosion was followed by the geyser of dirt and rock. It mushroomed across the clearing, yards from Shehan’s Land Rover. The force of the blast rocked the vehicle and flying debris took out the side windows.
“Azal,” Bolan called.
“I am here,” the Afghan said. He appeared at Bolan’s side, shaking his head. “They will be Taliban. This is bad.”
“Tell me about it.”
A second and third shell landed. Number three was close enough to lift the Land Rover and flip it onto its side, one rear wheel torn from the axle. Smoke swirled, caught by the hot wind.
With the truck disabled the armed figures Bolan had seen started to move in, opening fire with the AKs they were carrying.
“Get us out of here,” Shehan yelled, lunging at Bolan, his fingers clutching at Bolan’s shirt. “They hit my truck.”
Bolan ignored him.
With the smoke clearing he had just seen the cameraman, flat down on the ground, his back a ragged wound from neck to hips. Bone and flesh had been shredded by the blast from one of the mortar rounds. Little remained of the man’s rear skull and neck.
“Let’s move, Azal,” Bolan said, brushing off Shehan’s hands. “We’re leaving. Shehan, come with us or sit and wait for the people you most likely led here.”
The lead attacker pounded across the path that snaked into the village from the rocky slope above, Kalashnikov crackling. Slugs whined off the stony ground. Bolan leaned around the edge of the hut wall, his MP-5 rising. He led the rushing figure and waited, then triggered a short burst, slamming the guy to the ground in a flurry of dust and bloody spray. Close by, Azal was using his own weapon to good effect, putting down two more of the agile figures as they bounded across the open ground leading into the village.
With three of their number suddenly down, the attack faltered. The armed figures retreated into cover.
“They are eager but not bloody foolish.” Azal grinned at Bolan.
“I doubt they’re ready to quit, either,” the soldier said.
As he spoke he was checking out the area, recalling the lay of the land around the village. He had checked it out even as he had walked in, selecting possible back door escape routes in case of emergencies.
He lifted his head as he heard more incoming, mortars sizzling in from deep cover. The attackers could bide their time, laying down a solid wall of shells that would saturate the area. While the defenders were forced to maintain cover, the attackers could start to close in while maintaining their own safety. The hard thump of explosions, lifting more dirt and rock, created clouds of acrid dust that swirled back and forth across the village. Bolan crouched with his back to the wall, figuring that by the law of averages the hut they were using was going to take a hit.
“Azal, if we sit here too long…”
“I know. We should leave quickly before they regroup and come for us again.”
Then as swiftly as it had started the mortar attack ceased. Someone shouted in the distance. Shadowy figures began to emerge from the dispersing clouds of dust. More of the armed attackers. They came from two directions, opening up with hard autofire that threw streams of 7.62 mm slugs across the area. Bolan could hear the solid thwack as they ripped into the dry earth, the harsher sound as they struck rock, some whining off into the air. The rattle of autofire continued without let up.
“Let’s go,” Bolan snapped at Azal.
The Afghan moved without a word, crossing the hut and exiting through the rear window, dropping out of sight. Bolan followed.
“What about me?” Shehan demanded, his tone losing none of its arrogance.
Bolan paused, throwing a hard look across his shoulder. “Follow or stay. Your choice. I don’t care.” Then he was gone, clearing the frame.
CHAPTER FIVE
As Bolan’s boots hit the dusty ground at the rear of the hut, he picked up Azal’s moving figure. The Afghan was moving fast, weaving his way through the scattered rocks and brush, and heading for the jagged defile snaking away from the village. It was the best way out. Bolan and Azal had picked it during their early recon. He checked the immediate area and saw that it was clear—for the moment at least. Bolan didn’t expect it to remain that way. The autofire was still crackling and now Bolan picked up raised voices. The attackers were getting closer, probably wondering why there was no further resistance.
He took off after Azal.
“Hey…”
Looking back Bolan saw Shehan tumbling through the window. He fell as he hit the ground, luck favoring him as a burst of autofire chewed at the wooden frame, splintering wood and filling the air with splinters. Bolan was tempted to keep moving, leaving the obnoxious journalist behind. Something held him back and he spun on his heel, sending a long burst from the MP-5 in through the shadowed window. He was rewarded by a brief shriek as his bullets found a target.
“Move, Shehan. Get your ass over here and head for that defile up ahead, or so help me I’ll shoot you myself.”
Bolan plucked a grenade from his harness and pulled the pin. He let the lever pop free, held the grenade for a count, then hurled it in the direction of the window. The projectile sailed through the gap. As Shehan passed him, and Bolan followed, the grenade detonated with a solid crash of sound, smoke gushing from the window. The impact of the explosion shifted some of the wall stones.
Hard on Shehan’s heels Bolan sprinted for the defile. As the journalist vanished down the gap leading into the defile, Bolan dropped and rolled, taking up a defensive position, giving the others time to move deeper into the fissure. He exchanged the almost empty MP-5 magazine for a fresh one, slipping the ejected mag into a pouch. He freed a second grenade, took out the pin and waited.
His wait was a short one. Gunners began to move around the side of the hut. Bolan counted at least four of them. They clustered together, uncertain which way to move. They hadn’t yet seen the defile, but Bolan knew they would spot it quickly enough. He wasn’t about to allow them that luxury. He let the lever go, raised himself and threw the grenade hard. It hit the ground only feet from the hesitant group and they began to scatter. The lethal blast from the grenade caught them on the run, the white-hot fragments ripping into flesh and sending the enemy sprawling.
Before they could regroup Bolan slid down into the defile and raced after Azal and Shehan.
They needed to clear the area, to move out of range of the locals. The Taliban would offer little in the way of mercy if they got their hands on him and his companions. Like it or not, Bolan was saddled with Shehan, at least for the moment. Despite his reservations concerning the morals of the man’s business, Bolan couldn’t simply leave him alone in enemy territory. So until he could deliver him into friendly hands he was stuck with the guy. Bolan decided he wasn’t going to allow Shehan an easy ride. If the soldier was going to have to devote some of his energy and skill toward keeping Shehan alive, the man would earn his keep.
As he hit the base of the defile, feeling the rocky sides close around him, Bolan spotted Shehan and Azal directly ahead. He pressed on, closing in, calling for them to keep moving.
He almost missed the sound of an incoming mortar. The shell struck the upper rim of the defile, and though it was yards behind, the explosion threw thick clods of earth and a shower of stone fragments into the ravine. The opposition was not giving in easily. Bolan understood that the cards were all falling into their hands. This was their territory, and they would know it intimately. Every rock and patch of brush. Every place where a man could hide. All Bolan had was his desire to survive and not let himself fall into the hands of the Taliban.
A second mortar blew more debris over them. This time it was closer, the blast rocking them on their feet. Yards ahead Shehan stumbled and fell, shredding his hands on the flinty rocks.
“Christ, my hands!”
“On your feet, mister,” Bolan ordered. “Sooner or later those mortars are going to be ranged in, and whining about your grazed fingers isn’t going to be much help. Now get up and keep moving.”
Shehan dragged himself upright, wiping his bloody hands down his shirt. The look he threw at Bolan was murderous, but it had no effect on the soldier. Bolan understood the situation they were in. They had no time to discuss the finer points of battlefield etiquette. They were in a race for their lives and one slip, one miscalculation, would allow the enemy to close in and end it.
The rattle of small-arms fire echoed the length of the defile. Slugs struck rock, splinters flying. As Bolan followed the natural curve of the land he plucked a grenade from his harness, yanked out the pin and let the lever go. Ignoring the small insistent voice urging him to throw the projectile, he waited, then turned and lobbed the grenade around the curve. The detonation was close, but the sweep of the bend protected Bolan from the blast. He heard a couple of harsh screams as the pursuers were caught, their luck running out.
Moving on, Bolan caught the flicker of moving figures at the top of the defile, heard the crackle of fire as they angled their weapons into the gap. Slugs pounded the dry earth, kicking up dusty gouts. Bolan flattened against the wall, turning his weapon up at the gunners. He triggered a burst that dragged dirt from the defile feet below his target, using it as a guide for his second burst. His next shots caught one guy in the lower legs, blowing out gouts of red. The Taliban fighter stumbled to his knees, missed his balance and plunged headfirst into the defile, slamming into the ground only yards from Bolan, his skull shattering on impact. The second shooter shouted something unintelligible, firing even as he uttered the yell. His slugs tore at the defile wall above Bolan’s head, showering him with dirt and stone chips. The soldier returned fire and caught the guy center mass, tossing him back out of sight.
Running hard, Bolan caught up with Azal and Shehan. The Afghan was ushering the journalist into a shadowed gap where the defile merged with the rock face that ended it.
“Quickly,” Azal said. “This will take us to other side of the hills.”
Pausing at the entrance, Bolan asked, “You sure?”
Azal grinned. “I remember from many years ago. We played in here when I was a child. It goes all the way through the hills. Would I be so foolish as to walk into a trap myself?”
“Guess not,” Bolan said.
Azal led the way deeper into the passage. The farther they walked, the less the light penetrated. After a few hundred yards they were stumbling along in near darkness. The air was hot and stale. The walls curved and hollowed out as they progressed along the rough ground. At one point the ceiling overhead swooped down to shoulder height, and they had to hunch forward to avoid cracking their heads on the unyielding rock. Water glistened in the pale light, sliding down the rock face from some unseen source, creating shallow pools they had to walk through.
Bolan took time to backtrack a few yards, listening to the silence behind them. He waited, his ears straining to pick up any sound of their pursuers. He was almost ready to move on when he caught the merest whisper of boot leather sliding over rock. As the sound increased, Bolan judged there had to be at least five, possibly six. They were still following, but staying well back after the last encounter with the grenade. The soldier idly fingered one of the remaining two grenades clipped to his harness, then decided to hold them back. He moved to the opposite side of the defile, back pressed against the rock wall.
Shapes emerged from the rock-strewed backdrop, and Bolan opened fire instantly. Two went down. He kept up his rate of fire, driving the others back. Angling the MP-5’s muzzle, the Executioner raked the angle of the rock wall, hearing the slugs ricochet. He was hoping some of the slugs might bounce off and cause some extra confusion for the enemy. Anything to make them stay back. He emptied the magazine and quickly snapped in a fresh one, then turned and picked up the pace.
The way ahead widened, the rock ceiling rising to a great height; light was starting to penetrate. Bolan picked out Azal and Shehan way ahead of him, crossing a wide, smooth table of stone that angled upward. As he hit the table he felt warm sun on him. Glancing up he saw sections of the ceiling were open to the sky. Reaching the peak of the table, Bolan saw the high cavern give way to exposed ground, a massed jumble of massive boulders, water tumbling in a narrow fall from some greater height and splashing onto the bleached stone below where it spilled from a naturally formed rock pan to create a runoff.
“Come quickly,” Azal called, gesturing with his arm.
Bolan saw Shehan close by the Afghan. There was a moment when the journalist seemed to be pulling at his crumpled shirt. Then Shehan suddenly pulled a long-bladed knife from under his shirt. He swung it hard at Azal’s back, stabbing down into the Afghan’s body. Azal gasped, his lean body twisting in agony as Shehan yanked out the glittering steel blade and raised it to strike a second time, plunging it deep into Azal’s flesh.
Bolan had raised the MP-5 by this time, and he hit Shehan with a burst. The slugs clawed at the journalist’s right side, splintering ribs and gouging flesh. The man stumbled, shock etched across his face. He went down on one knee, the knife slipping from his fingers and his head turned toward Bolan. The soldier was moving fast, powering his way across the open rock, and the expression on his face warned Shehan not to expect any leeway. The journalist had showed his hand at the wrong moment. Bolan fired again, this time going for a kill shot, placing his 9 mm slugs into Shehan’s chest. The man fell backward, slamming down hard, the rear of his skull striking the rock. He was still conscious when Bolan’s shadow fell across him. Shehan stared up at him, his eyes blazing with a righteous fervor, spitting blood as he tried to speak.
“You won’t succeed. We will still get to Mahoud and he will die.”
Bolan ignored him, knowing the man would bleed out in seconds.
Azal was hunched over on his knees, his head almost touching the rock. As Bolan bent over him, he noted the spreading blood patch extending down the Afghan’s back from the knife wounds. Azal turned his head so he could see Shehan sprawled on the rock only feet away.
“Was it something I said?” he whispered, managing a wisp of a laugh. Then, “Cooper, you need to go. If you stay you will be caught. Then Mahoud will lose his chance.”
“I’m supposed to leave you?”
“You are a good man, Cooper. Be a wise one. I’m not going any farther. Shehan saw to that.” When Azal slowly raised his head, Bolan saw blood dribbling from his mouth. “Whatever else he was, Shehan knew where to place his blade.”
“Azal…”
“Here.” Azal slid his hand inside his long coat and pulled out a slim six-by-four item that he thrust at Bolan. “GPS unit. A backup in case I failed. I believe this is what Shehan wanted from me. Mahoud’s location is keyed in. He is due east from where we are. In the higher country.” Azal’s free hand gripped Bolan. “Get him out, Cooper, and he will do what he has promised. Now pass me my weapon.”
At Azal’s urging Bolan eased the Afghan into a sitting position, his bloody back pressed to the curve of a large boulder. He placed the AK-47 in the man’s hands. Azal gestured at the two grenades on Bolan’s harness, and he handed them to him.
“Now go before those bloody Taliban jackals show their ugly faces. Go now, Cooper. I will cover your back.”
Bolan found himself hesitating, torn between his mission and the fate of the man in front of him.
“What good if we both die here? Mahoud promises at least some measure of success and, however small, it must be allowed its chance.”
Bolan laid his hand on Azal’s shoulder. Nothing more spoken passed between them, but the Afghan’s words made him aware of why he was here and what he had to do. He turned away and cut across to the east and the forbidding, craggy slopes. As he moved he slid the GPS unit into a pocket for safety.
The terrain was harsh and unforgiving. Bolan kept up as fast a pace as he could, slinging the MP-5 to free both hands as he hauled himself over jagged outcroppings and eroded ledges of dusty rock.
He picked up the chatter of autofire coming from behind him. There was a pause, then more rapid fire followed by the sharp blast of a detonating grenade. Azal was making good use of his limited ordnance. The second grenade blew. The Taliban would know who they were facing—a single man, yes, but an Afghan warrior from a long line of warriors who had fought invaders before and had never been truly defeated.
The sound of battle faded. Bolan’s way was becoming steeper, the ground beneath his feet less firm. Afghanistan refused to treat anyone with any kind of favor. Its lofty slopes presented obstacles at every turn, demanding that anyone bold enough to confront it did so at a high cost. Many had tried and failed. This time the inhospitable met the undefeatable. Mack Bolan never gave up, no matter what the odds. Afghanistan was about to find that out.
Something played on his mind: Shehan, a paid mercenary or a believer in the cause?
Bolan could accept either, but it seemed illogical for someone like Shehan to kill Bolan’s guide before he led him to Mahoud. It was a counterproductive move. If the intention was to get to Mahoud, why eliminate Azal now? Bolan saw no sense in the act. Unless Shehan had known about the GPS unit and decided to step up his mission by taking out Azal and gaining possession of the unit himself. Anything was possible. Maybe Bolan had been next on Shehan’s list. If it had been his intention Shehan had shown his hand too quickly. His unexpected action, the savage attack on Azal, the man directing Bolan to Mahoud’s whereabouts, had played out his hand. There didn’t appear to be any kind of logic in his desire to kill the Afghan—unless Shehan had been in the pay of Mahoud’s enemies, working covertly until the moment arrived when he could strike at Azal and remove him, leaving Bolan without his guide, alone in enemy territory with little way of knowing where Mahoud was waiting. It was likely, now that he considered Shehan’s risky move, that the man had panicked because of the Taliban attack. He had been just as surprised as Bolan when they had showed up. Fearing his chance slipping away Shehan had gone for the GPS unit, hoping he could lose Bolan and go after Mahoud himself.