Betrayed

by Don Pendleton

  A few minutes into the journey Bolan said, “Tell me about Jamal Mehet.”

  “Jamal? Why would you ask me about Jamal?”

  “I need to know all I can about people you have been involved with.”

  Mahoud stared out through the windshield. His reflection in the glass showed as a transparent, misty image, and in his mind he was reflecting on his past association with the man he had called friend.

  “We were friends for over nine years. Jamal was as passionate as I was when it came to our beliefs. We walked the mountain passes together. Shared our food over campfires. Fought resistance and prejudice. On more than one occasion we saved each other from death. It was a friendship born out of our times of hardship. When I took up my doctorate and moved to higher positions Jamal was always with me. Adviser. Protector. The only one I could turn to for practical advice when matters became too involved. He had a natural aptitude for seizing the simple solution within a complex problem.”

  “How far did this friendship go in terms of telling him things you wouldn’t reveal to anyone else?”

  Mahoud smiled, glancing across at Bolan. He said, “You are referring to the data?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jamal was the only one, apart from me, who was privy to the entire database. He helped me compile the evidence. When it was complete and copied, the original draft was removed from my laptop. In fact to ensure there would be no chance of anyone recovering it, I removed the hard drive and destroyed it.”

  “And then?”

  “I took the copies personally and placed them in safe-deposit boxes. On my own. Three different banks. I visited each bank, in different parts of Paris, kept nothing on paper about locations or passwords. Those copies are as safe as I could make them. Jamal did not know the location of the banks. This was the only information I did not share with him.”

  “When you moved on, did Jamal stay here in France?”

  “He remained to maintain a watch on certain parties opposed to me. Jamal understood the situation I was in and kept a keen eyes on the Paris situation. The family apartment was broken into and searched. I imagine it was an attempt to locate the data, but whoever did it found nothing of course. They were extremely professional. Nothing was destroyed but when Jamal made one of his frequent visits to check the apartment he discovered the break-in.”

  “Did he report it to the police?”

  “No,” Mahoud said with a resigned shake of his head. “It would not have revealed anything. And Jamal, like myself, had little trust in the authorities.”

  “He told you about the break-in?”

  “He called me on my cell and advised me to be even more careful. Jamal seemed to feel this was a determined effort to get control of the data.”

  “This was just before you were separated from your family?” Bolan queried.

  “A few days actually.”

  Mahoud related a time frame for the incidents.

  “Jamal called you. He was found dead four days later, and you had gone into hiding by then.”

  “Saying it like that suggests…”

  “That your opposition is working hard at trying to stop you making the conference. The fact you still have your data locked away must be forcing their hand.”

  Mahoud fell silent, digesting the cold facts.

  Bolan left him to his thoughts, concentrating on driving. They were still a distance from Paris, staying on narrow back roads. Bolan had their route logged into the SUV’s GPS unit.

  “Call Leila. Tell her to stay alert.”

  Mahoud stared at Bolan.

  “What?”

  “I think we might have trouble. Just call her. Now.”

  Bolan checked the rearview mirror again, confirming his earlier suspicion. The BMW on their tail had suddenly accelerated, closing in fast, coming up hard on their rear.

  Beside him Mahoud was speaking into his cell phone, warning his wife to be vigilant and to let him know if anything untoward happened. As he completed his call he saw Bolan reach under his jacket to check his handgun.

  The chase car powered to within inches of the SUV’s rear bumper, close enough so that Bolan could see the faces of the driver and his front seat passenger. With a further show of raw power the BMW swung out and drew level with the SUV. It held its position before flashing ahead and pulling in front of the SUV.

  “I see guns. They have guns,” Mahoud said as the BMW slid by.

  “Yeah?” Bolan said. “Well, so have I.”

  The BMW held the center of the narrow road, preventing Bolan from passing.

  “Matt?”

  Bolan didn’t reply. His attention was on a second vehicle that had taken up the rear position. Damn. They had him boxed in. Their next maneuver would be to slow him down, stop, so they could move in and take Mahoud.

  He fixed his attention on the road ahead, looking beyond the lead BMW. Fields ran alongside the road. Straggly hedges bordered the fields, with occasional openings for access.

  Not the best option, but it was the only option.

  Bolan spotted one ahead of the BMW.

  “Reef, hang on tight,” he said.

  The BMW sped past the gap, leaving Bolan with seconds to make his play.

  He touched the brake, causing the tail car to drop back and swerve. The gap came up and Bolan swung the wheel, sending the SUV into a sliding turn. The wheels struck soft earth. The heavy vehicle swayed violently, then righted itself as it sped through the gap and into the open field beyond. It threw up sprays of dirt and grass clumps from its rear wheels. Bolan hung on to the wheel, gunning the SUV across the field for a good thirty feet before he slammed on the brakes, bringing it to a sideways stop.

  Mahoud opened his mouth to speak and found Bolan already halfway out of the SUV.

  “Out,” Bolan called over his shoulder. “Under the vehicle.”

  He reached the rear door and yanked it open, reaching inside to pull his Uzi from the canvas satchel on the floor.

  Mahoud dropped to the ground and wriggled awkwardly beneath the SUV.

  The rear chase car nosed in through the gap, the driver flooring the gas pedal, sending the BMW powering over the field. Someone leaned out of the passenger front window and triggered a burst in Bolan’s direction. The guy’s aim wasn’t helped by the car’s bumpy progress across the field.

  Bolan ignored the bullet hits that fell short. He stood his ground, handling the Uzi with the confidence of familiarity. He triggered a long burst that cored in through the windshield and took out the driver. The BMW swerved off course, starting to slow, and Bolan saw the passenger door swing open. The shooter cleared the vehicle, landing on his knees, and made a last-ditch attempt to bring his weapon into play. Bolan altered his aim, stitching the shooter with half a dozen Parabellum rounds. The target went down in a bleeding heap.

  The roar of the second BMW alerted Bolan. He half turned and spotted the speeding vehicle coming directly at him. He lowered the Uzi’s muzzle and blew out the front tire. The wheel dropped onto its steel rim, the weight of the vehicle sinking it into the ground. The driver attempted to keep control, but the steering had become leaden. The BMW slowed, clearing Bolan’s position by yards. As the car passed him, Bolan dropped to one knee, tracked in with the SMG and emptied the Uzi’s magazine into the rear of the BMW, keeping it low so the slugs penetrated the body panels and punctured the fuel tank. In reality Bolan knew blowing open a fuel tank didn’t guarantee a flame-out. Not unless the gasoline fumes ignited. In this instance luck was on his side. One of the 9 mm slugs caused a spark when it hit metal. Flame showed beneath the BMW. With terrifying speed the fire expanded, reaching back into the tank, and as pressure was created the mass of fuel only had one way out. The tank blew, turning the rear half of the BMW into a ball of flame. The still moving vehicle rolled on a way, the wheels lifting under the force of the blast.

  Bolan tossed the empty Uzi onto the SUV’s rear seat as he moved past, easing out the Beretta, working the fire selector to
single shot.

  A front door was kicked open and a figure threw itself out of the BMW. The guy’s coat was in flames and he was struggling to discard it. Bolan hit him with a single head shot that dumped him facedown. On the opposite side of the car the passenger door swung open and Bolan caught a glimpse of an auto weapon as its owner thrust it across the roof panel. The 93-R spit out two fast shots. The slugs collapsed the guy’s face and blew out the back of his shattered skull. He went down without a sound.

  Bolan turned away and returned to the SUV.

  “Let’s go, Reef,” he said.

  Mahoud eased himself out from beneath the vehicle, using his good hand to brush grass from his clothing. He surveyed the scene of destruction and death, his lips moving in a silent comment. He climbed in beside Bolan. The SUV swung around and Bolan drove back to the road. He turned back the way they had come. When Mahoud realized where they were going, his face was pale with shock.

  “You don’t think they will have gone to the château?”

  “They knew enough to track us,” Bolan said. “They know where the house is.”

  He pulled out his cell phone and speed dialed the number that would connect him with the blacksuit crew chief.

  “Heads up, Morgan,” he said, “we just had hard contact with the opposition. On our way back. You might be having visitors.”

  “Will we get there on time?” Mahoud asked.

  “I hope so,” Bolan said.

  BOLAN SWUNG the SUV in through the stone pillars marking the entrance to the château grounds.

  Beside him Mahoud was desperately tapping in the number of Leila’s cell phone and getting no response.

  “Why will she not answer? What has happened?”

  Bolan didn’t answer. His mind was on the total situation. He turned the SUV off the driveway and into the closest stand of trees and undergrowth, burying the vehicle in deep. He stepped out, reaching into the rear for the Uzi, reloading it from the bag on the floor. He pushed a couple of extra mags into the deep pocket of his leather jacket. He reloaded the Beretta, head snapping up as he heard one of the SUV doors open.

  “No,” he said as Mahoud appeared at his side.

  “I want to go with you.”

  “Reef, think straight. You have one arm working. Right now you’d be a liability. I’ve got enough to think about. Leila, Raika and Amina.”

  Bolan turned away, breaking into a hard run in the direction of the house. It was fortunate that the original designer had planted trees along each side of the curving drive and they hadn’t been chopped down. They provided ample cover.

  As the château came into sight, Bolan saw a dark panel truck parked on the circular drive in front of the building. He also saw a figure sprawled on the ground and recognized one of the blacksuits.

  Movement ahead of Bolan offered him a brief glimpse of an armed man wearing some kind of dark blue uniform complete with peaked cap. The Executioner stepped behind a tree and flattened against the trunk. He slung the Uzi and unleathered the Beretta, closing on the sentry.

  Bolan moved until he was in range, two-fisted the 93-R and put a pair of 9 mm slugs into the back of the sentry’s skull. The guy pitched forward, facedown on the drive.

  One man down.

  How many inside the house?

  Only one way to find out.

  Bolan went for the gaping front doors.

  As he went up the three stone steps, he heard a woman’s voice raised in protest.

  He shouldered the doors wide and ran into the wide hall, saw an armed figure halfway up the main staircase. The crashing of the main doors caused him to pause, turning, mouth open. He got no chance to speak. Bolan thrust out the Beretta and triggered it twice. The slugs punched into the guy’s chest. He looked down at his body, flattening a hand over the holes, shock etched across his features. Bolan was still moving forward, the Beretta on line, and he fired again. The single shot snapped the target’s head back as the Parabellum round drilled in above his left eye and into his skull. He fell back across the stairs, then slid down as his body weight took over.

  Bolan stepped by him, holstering the Beretta and bringing the Uzi into play. The shots had attracted attention. A third guy appeared from the corridor adjacent to the head of the stairs, brandishing an autopistol. Bolan raked the exposed body with a burst from the Uzi that spun the guy, his body writhing from the impact.

  The Executioner continued to the top of the stairs, peering around the angle of the wall. Again he heard a woman protesting. This time he recognized Leila’s strong tones. A man replied. Bolan heard the sound of a slap, then he heard the shriller tones coming from Amina.

  “Get away from her.”

  It was the defiant tone of the young girl’s voice that drew Bolan into action. He moved quickly along the corridor, in the direction of Leila’s room. Movement at the far end of the corridor caught Bolan’s eye. He recognized two of the blacksuit crew. He signaled in the direction of Leila’s room and they nodded in acknowledgment.

  The door was half open.

  A man’s voice reached him. He was speaking in a language Bolan didn’t understand, but the threat was implicit in his tone.

  The room’s door was pulled open and Leila appeared in the frame, her eyes wide with fright. Amina clung to her mother’s side.

  An armed figure was hunched close to Leila. The pistol he carried was pressed against the side of her neck.

  Bolan flattened against the wall to reduce his profile. He lowered the Uzi in his left hand and drew the Beretta again.

  Along the corridor the pair of blacksuits realized his move and one of them called to the gunmen. The guy’s head turned in that direction, ordering them back in stilted English.

  The muzzle of his pistol drifted away from Leila’s neck for a few seconds as the guy concentrated on his inadequate language skills.

  It was the moment Bolan had been waiting for.

  The Beretta was lined up, muzzle steady. He stroked the trigger and the 93-R loosed a slug within a heartbeat. It struck just above the right ear, coring in through tissue and bone and tore through the brain, exiting out the far side in a spurt of bloody gore. The gunman was wrenched sideways by the impact, his face slamming against the door frame as he dropped to the floor in an uncoordinated slump.

  Bolan raced forward, pushing Leila and Amina aside as he went into the room, his Beretta sweeping back and forth. The room was empty except for a staring Raika sitting on the edge of the bed. Her gaze settled on Bolan’s face and once again she returned his look with cold indifference.

  The two security men had moved Leila and Amina from the door.

  “Clear in here,” Bolan said. “One of your guys is down in the drive outside. One still unaccounted for. Go ahead, I’ll manage up here.”

  They moved off immediately.

  Bolan dragged the dead man away from the door, then ushered Leila and Amina back inside.

  “What is going on?” Leila asked, hugging Amina close to her. “I was so sure we would be safe here. How did they find us so quickly, Matt?”

  “Right now I don’t know.”

  “Why did you come back?”

  “We’d only gone a few miles and we were hit by trailing vehicles.”

  “Sharif? Is he..?”

  “He’s fine. Waiting in the car down the drive.”

  “It happened so fast. One minute everything was quiet, then we heard shouting and your men told us to go to our room and stay there,” Leila said.

  “It was scary,” Amina added.

  “So much for your safehouse,” Raika said. “And your wonderful American security men.”

  Bolan faced her. “I saw one of those men on the ground when I came in. If he’s dead, it’s because he was defending you. It will be interesting to see where the bullets are. In his chest, or in his back.”

  “Raika, if you don’t have anything useful to say, stay silent,” Leila snapped. In a lower tone she said, “I apologize for my daughter.”


  “Leila, no need. We’re all under pressure right now.”

  One of the security crew opened the door. Mahoud was with him. He rushed to Leila’s side and embraced her.

  “We found Lewis outside with a couple of bullet wounds in his back. He didn’t make it. Jake is out back. Someone took a knife to his left side. He’s lost blood but he should be okay. I’ve called it in to home base. They’ll organize medical help.” He stood back. “No sign of any other hostiles.” He cleared his throat. “I guess we fouled up.”

  He turned to Leila. “No excuses, Mrs. Mahoud. Happened on my watch, so I’m responsible.”

  “All of you people have been wonderful to us. As you say, one of your team has died, another is hurt. These attackers are determined to try to hurt us. My family is still alive. There is no blame here. The ones who are to blame are the ones who refuse to leave us alone.”

  Bolan laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Go take care of your guys, Morgan. I’ll call home and we’ll figure out what we need to do now.”

  BROGNOLA WAS HAVING a hard time disguising his anger.

  “Where do these guys keep getting their information? Every move we make they seem right up there with us. Damn it, Striker, it’s like we’re in a leaky sieve with intel bursting out the sides.”

  “Is the President up to speed with everything?” Bolan asked.

  “He’s insisting I update him on all decisions.”

  “Maybe he should look at security at his end, Hal.”

  “You realize what you’re saying?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time the White House has been breached,” Bolan reminded the big Fed.

  Brognola sighed, admitting Bolan was right.

  “I’ll get Aaron to run a sneak peek on their security.”

  “We may move, Hal. I figure if this place has been exposed, they might try again. I don’t want to risk any more lives. As soon as I decide and we relocate bring your people back home.”

  “How will we know where you are?” Brognola asked.

  “You won’t until I decide to tell you.”

  “You’re running the show, Striker.”

  “Yeah? Then why does it feel like I’m doing it with someone looking over my shoulder every time I make a move?”