Betrayed

by Don Pendleton

  “And they buy and sell lives in order to maintain their anonymity,” Leila said. “Whatever suits their purpose, no matter how much harm it brings.”

  “Yes. Believe it. These people will sacrifice anyone to remain where they are. Leila, there is a great deal at stake here. Power to control not just wealth, but political aims.” Bolan turned to Mahoud. “Without seeing your data I’m guessing there are some surprising names in there.”

  “Yes. Extremely important and influential figures who are not going to be happy if I expose them.”

  “Then you must do it,” Leila said. “If you expose these people to the world they will lose their credibility. Out in the open where is their threat then?”

  “Nice in theory,” Bolan said. “But these people aren’t the kind to walk away and admit defeat. They would fight back.”

  “Surely showing what they really are would strip them of their influence. If they were not afraid of exposure, then why the desperate need to silence Sharif and destroy his information? A victory, no matter how small, is still a victory.”

  Bolan had to smile at her logic.

  “Sharif, Leila should do the talking at the conference. There’s no way to beat her down.”

  “I am beginning to see your viewpoint,” Mahoud said with a tired smile.

  Seconds after Mahoud spoke, the first mortar landed outside the hut.

  The explosion rocked the building, dust sifting from the roof. The dull sound of the blast was accompanied by a burst of autofire.

  Bolan snatched up the M-16, checked he had extra magazines in the vest and cut across to the door.

  “Matt,” Mahoud called. “What can I—”

  “Stay here. With your family.”

  The tone in his voice had the desired effect.

  Smoke was drifting across the area as Bolan exited the hut. He heard the dull thump of another mortar. It had landed close to a parked Hummer, shredding a tire and rocking the heavy combat vehicle, throwing a dark gout of earth into the air.

  Armed figures were moving into view from the north perimeter of the base, some carrying rifles, others wielding RPG launchers. They moved independent of one another, firing at anything that moved.

  The crackle of autofire came from U.S. forces as they picked up the pace of the attack and fought back.

  Another incoming mortar landed in the center of a wedge of stacked equipment boxes. Debris was thrown in all directions.

  The noise of weapons fire rose to a crescendo. Men were shouting. Bolan saw people falling to the ground as he took his position in front of the building, seeing the raiders coming fully into view through the streaks of smoke.

  A Taliban rebel launched himself in Bolan’s direction, his AK-47 spitting on full-auto. Bolan shouldered the M-16, caught the man in his sights and hit him in the chest. The rebel spun, then dropped to the ground. Bolan moved forward, tracking a second figure. The guy had an RPG, fumbling with the controls as he attempted a launch. The M-16 cracked sharply, driving 5.56 mm slugs into the side of his skull. The guy’s head shattered in a blossom of red as he slumped to the sand.

  Around Bolan the compound erupted into a melee of autofire, incoming mortars, the screams and yells of combatants. The crash of exploding RPG rockets. There was little coordination in this maelstrom, simply a clash of opposing fire, each desperate to gain the advantage over the other.

  Off to Bolan’s right flames erupted from a mortar hit, then came the hiss and explosion from a fired RPG missile as it struck home.

  Sound and vision were fragmented.

  Actions carried out on automatic pilot.

  Each man might have been in his own isolated place, in the middle of the firefight, yet alone at the same time. There was no time to separate thought from action. Aim and fire, repeat the moves. Select a target and take it down.

  Bolan took cover behind the immobilized Hummer, his senses assailed by the smell of scorched rubber and paint as he went down on one knee and tracked a fast-moving Taliban fighter. His well-placed shots dropped the man, catching him midstride. The rebel fell in a loose sprawl, skidding along the ground.

  Around Bolan uniformed U.S. combat soldiers had dropped into defensive mode, gathering under the command of their officers. Men like Lieutenant Pearson who deployed his soldiers with a cool professionalism that used them to their best advantage.

  In addition to the force attacking the base head-on, there was a reserve number of enemy launching the mortars. The missiles were starting to range in now; their targets, the main storage areas.

  From the far side of the base an AH-64A Apache attack helicopter rose from its pad and swept into the area, veering in a wide circle away from the firefight where it gained height. Bolan caught a glimpse of the chopper as it swept in from altitude, behind the attacking Taliban. He saw it was heading for the distant mortars.

  The Apache made a recon circuit, turned, then lined up on the targets it had spotted. The white trails bursting from the missile pods preceded the hard slam of the AGM-114 missiles as they exploded. The chopper overflew the target area, dispersing the coiling smoke, rose and came around and opened up with sustained bursts of 30 mm cannon fire, raking the mortar emplacements.

  All this took place away from the main area of fighting. Its success was marked by the abrupt cessation of mortar fire.

  Regardless of the demise of the mortar attacks, the combatants within the base were still engaging. A pair of Hummers, equipped with mounted machine guns, rolled to the front line and opened fire, scattering the rebels.

  Bolan had paused briefly to reload his carbine. As he locked in the fresh magazine, he caught sight of three Taliban rebels converging on the Mahouds’ hut. Their maneuver had the deliberation of men who knew exactly where they were going. Nothing like simply making a spur-of-the-moment diversion.

  He had no doubt the rebels were targeting the hut because they knew who was inside.

  Bolan shut out the noise of battle as he focused on the three rebels and their mission.

  The killing or kidnapping of Sharif Mahoud and his family.

  Bolan pushed to his feet. Moving around the Hummer, he headed for the hut.

  Ahead of him the lead pair had almost reached the door of the hut. The third guy hung back to cover them, his AK-47 ready.

  Bolan angled in his direction, raising the M-16. He put two fast shots into the guy, seeing his slugs punch in through the ribs on his right side. The Taliban rebel stumbled, twisting to seek his attacker as Bolan fired again. His double shot struck the man in the head, snapping it back. The 5.56 mm slugs channeled into his skull, exiting in a burst of pressured blood. As the rebel dropped Bolan raced by him, hard on the heels of the advance pair as they stepped through the door and vanished inside.

  He heard the tail end of a startled yell as he closed on the hut and barreled through without a pause, his weapon rising, and as he cleared the frame he saw the two invaders.

  The closer man began to turn as he heard Bolan’s entry. The Executioner triggered the M-16 and fired off a short burst that ripped into the guy’s body, turning him so that Bolan’s follow-up shots hit their target full-on, chest and throat. The guy stumbled, crashing to the floor.

  Still moving, Bolan targeted the second gunner who had maintained his forward run, swinging his AK-47 at Mahoud, who was shielding Leila and Amina.

  The crackle of shots filled the interior as Bolan and the Taliban rebel fired together. Out of the corner of his eye Bolan saw Mahoud jerk as a 7.62 mm slug struck his left arm, high up. Then Bolan’s own weapon was firing, the hard burst coring in through the back of his adversary’s skull, exiting through his face. A bloody spray fountained across the room as the rebel went down. As Bolan moved past the first man he had taken down he triggered a final burst into him and kicked the dead guy’s weapon aside. There was no need for more with the other attacker. Bolan’s head shots had killed him outright.

  Leila had turned Amina away from the dead Taliban, hiding her face as the gi
rl burst into tears. Raika had roused herself from her bed and was standing near her mother.

  “Raika, look after your sister,” Leila said.

  “You all stay here,” Bolan ordered, then turned back to the door.

  A burst of fire sent 7.62 mm slugs that tore chunks of wood from the doorframe. Bolan dropped to one knee, his M-16 tracking the source of the shots, and picked up on the lone Taliban rebel coming at him at a dead run, firing as he came, his AK-47 on full-auto. The burning spray of shots flew wide. The Executioner shouldered his carbine and hit the guy with a burst to the torso. In the same instant the hard boom of a combat shotgun added its noise as a uniformed soldier ran into view. He hit the rebel with a trio of shots, the destructive impact of the 12-gauge doing maximum damage. The rebel’s left arm was severed at shoulder level and his body torn open, pulped flesh blowing out in bloody geysers before he slithered loosely to the dusty ground, nerves shuddering in response.

  Bolan checked the area and saw no more attackers, but armed soldiers were racing past.

  “Soldier, we need a medic in here. Fast,” he told a shotgunner.

  “Yes, sir,” the man said, and turned away.

  Bolan went back inside the hut.

  Leila had covered the dead men with blankets and was tending to her husband, binding his arm with a towel, the cloth already red with blood.

  Raika stood watching, little emotion showing on her face. Amina stood a few feet away, her big eyes still wide with shock, motionless. When she saw Bolan she ran to him.

  “Will Daddy be all right?”

  “We’ll make sure he is.”

  Bolan turned as Lieutenant Pearson stepped inside the hut. Dust-streaked, carrying an M-16, he surveyed the scene.

  “You need help?”

  “Already sent for a medic,” Bolan said.

  “I’ll chase it up.” Pearson turned to leave. “You chose an unfortunate time to visit us, Dr. Mahoud.”

  “In these unsettling days when would be a good time, Lieutenant?”

  “You have me there, Doctor.”

  “What’s the situation?” Bolan asked.

  “Getting that Apache in the air changed the tide. Damn lucky we have it here on base on a short loan for an upcoming operation. Those rebels lost their advantage once the mortars were hit. They’re already pulling back.”

  “Any losses?”

  Pearson nodded, his face expressing his feelings. “Two dead. Five wounded. Three we can handle okay, but two need specialist treatment so we’ll be sending them out with your ride. The carrier has better medical facilities.”

  “The Taliban?”

  “Six dead, not including the ones you handled. Number of wounded. We’ll treat them then try to find out what was behind the attack. Don’t expect much. Those bastards close up if we capture them.” Pearson shrugged. “I’ll let the spooks deal with them.”

  Bolan joined him at the door as a medic team rushed into the hut.

  “Smart move bringing in a team to try for Mahoud in among the main raiding party,” Bolan said.

  “You believe it was deliberate?” Pearson asked.

  Bolan nodded. “They went directly for the hut. This was no coincidence. Those men had information. Mahoud was their target. Two straight in. The third outside to block interference.”

  “You think the information came from inside the base?” Bolan’s lack of a reply implied as much as a vocal affirmation. “Son of a bitch,” Pearson said. He brought his anger under control swiftly. “I’ll post guard around the hut until you leave. And I was the one who said Dr. Mahoud was safe in our hands. On a U.S. base.”

  “Don’t knock yourself out over this, LT. This mission has compromise written all over it. Been screwed from day one. The sooner we have Dr. Mahoud out of Afghanistan, the better.”

  “You think that will be an end to his troubles?”

  “No way, LT. But I might have a better chance to control the situation away from here.”

  Pearson cleared his throat. “You really sure about that?”

  “Right now, LT, I’m not clear on a lot of things. But I intend to change that as soon as I can.”

  Even as Bolan spoke the words his mind was spinning over what he had to qualify his intentions. He had very little, and the greater part was hunch, gut feeling, and his suspicious nature.

  Not a great deal to work with.

  Mack Bolan had lived on the edge before and walked away. It was clear he needed to pull off a similar miracle again.

  THE MILITARY CHOPPER flew them across Afghanistan into Pakistan and eventually out over the Arabian Sea where they had a rendezvous with a U.S. Navy aircraft carrier on patrol. The carrier was in international waters and moved farther out to sea once the helicopter touched down. The wounded men from the Afghan base were taken off to the carrier’s hospital. Mahoud spent time there having his wound checked out. The Army medics at the base had done a good job, but it was decided to follow up.

  Bolan, Leila and the girls were also run through the medical system. They cleaned up and got into fresh clothing. After eating they were assigned to cabins so they could rest.

  Bolan had things to do before he relaxed. His status had been relayed to the carrier’s captain, and the Executioner was given access to a secure line and made contact with Stony Man.

  “Glad to hear your voice, Striker,” Brognola said. “Can’t give you an update on Ironman. We still can’t make contact.”

  “Let me know when you do.”

  “You have the family safe as promised. What’s your next move?”

  “Mahoud needs to get back to France. His data is secured in Paris. I need you to arrange to get us there. The clock is ticking on this. The conference is due soon, so we need to move on this.”

  “Mahoud wants to return to his Paris home?”

  “No. We discussed this on the flight. I advised a safehouse. Don’t we have somewhere outside Paris?”

  “Château Fontaine. SOG has it on long-term lease. It’s self-contained in its own grounds with its own power supply. How do you want to work this?”

  “Security can be provided by our blacksuits. They can fly over along with the items on my shopping list.”

  “I was waiting for that. I’ll pass you over to Barbara. Tell her what you need. Meantime I’ll requisition flights for you and the Mahoud family. By the time you arrive we should have the house up and running.”

  “I’m still concerned about the repeated security breaches in Afghanistan. There’s something odd about the way the opposition got a line on our moves. Keep Aaron and his team running checks on everyone involved. I need to be ahead of this, or at least running in tandem with the opposition.”

  “Striker, you sound tired. Go get some rest. It’ll be a while until we sort your travel arrangements. Stand down until then.”

  “Let me speak to the lady, then I promise sack time.”

  After listing his needs Bolan went to his cabin. His mind was full of unanswered questions and concerns about what lay ahead. He was also thinking about Carl Lyons. Bolan had full confidence in Ironman, as he was fondly known by the Stony Man team, but that didn’t prevent him worrying about his friend.

  Bolan stretched out on the bunk, staring at the ceiling, convinced he had too much going on to rest. He was wrong. He was asleep within minutes of lying down. His mind might have been active but his body needed to recharge.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  On board the Crescent Moon

  Ali Asadi waited until he was alone, making his way along the deck and climbing to the upper section. From inside his robes he took a powerful satellite phone and tapped in a programmed number. He waited as the connection was made, heard the soft purr as it rang out.

  The man who answered spoke in French, and Asadi replied in the same language.

  “We failed,” Asadi’s contact said.

  “Explain?”

  “The man the U.S. President sent succeeded in his mission. Every attempt to stop Mahoud w
as fought off. A number of our people are dead. Even the helicopter I sent was brought down.”

  “What about the men we inserted into the strike against the U.S. base?” Asadi queried.

  “All killed.”

  “All?”

  “Yes. And Mahoud and his family were airlifted out to a U.S. carrier in the Arabian Sea,” the contact stated.

  The silence that followed was unnerving for Asadi’s contact. He wished Asadi would rant and rave at him. He could at least understand that. It would have been better than the empty silence.

  “These fools here, even Homani, are still agreeing Mahoud should be captured alive,” Asadi said. “They insist this information he claims to have secreted away is too important to be allowed exposure. While I am with them I have to go along with this foolishness. At least while I do that I can use their assets to help me. If I learn of anything that will be useful I will pass it along.”

  “But you wish us to keep after Mahoud?” the contact asked.

  “Of course. This damned man is nothing but a curse. His words, blasphemous as they are, will sway many of the weaker members of the peace talks. These men are already in the pockets of the infidels. We cannot let that happen. Mahoud is no fool. He understands the thoughts that drive these men. His words will turn them aside and along the path he and his fellow traitors wish them to walk. Homani has allowed himself to be persuaded by Hartman that there is too much to be lost if Mahoud exposes his information,” Asadi said.

  “I thought Homani was a true believer.”

  “Each man has his own personal vision of true belief. Homani is taking the easy option. Hartman promises him everything he wants to maintain his struggles. Weapons. Money. He makes many promises. Homani sees this as an easy option, but fails to realize Hartman’s duplicity.”

  “You do not trust him? This American?” the contact asked.

  “He is an American. What is there to trust? They cut your throat while they look into your eyes and smile. Homani is blind to this. He is an old fool who no longer understands the modern world.”