Betrayed

by Don Pendleton

  He displayed the text message and handed the cell to Sharon. The Israeli read the message through twice before he looked back at Bolan.

  “You recall where that shot was taken?”

  Sharon nodded. “A private house on the edge of the Oberkamph district. I’d been trailing Bouvier and saw him go in and waited around. He came out with a girl and two men. I recognized Homani, but not the second man. Only just got a shot as he climbed into the car. I had never seen Raika Mahoud before that day, so I didn’t know who she was until I met the family. And I didn’t pay that much attention to her the day I took the shot. It was Bouvier and Homani who took my attention.” Sharon shook his head in frustration. “Damn, I must be getting old. Letting something slip by me like that.”

  “Up close and personal can sometimes be too close,” Bolan said. “Your principal was Bouvier. You recognized Homani because he’s a known figure. The others were strangers to you. It would have come when your people processed the shots. Don’t sweat it, Ben.”

  “So what do we do? That house could be a transit point for Homani’s cells. Might be worth a look.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking,” Bolan said. “Let’s make it a night call.”

  “And Raika?”

  “We keep everything about her between ourselves until it proves out, or doesn’t. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Sharon said.

  THE HOUSE WAS on the fringe of the Oberkamph. It wasn’t run-down, but moving toward it. It stood among other buildings in similar condition, the worn facade of houses long past their best, but still able to offer a reasonable environment.

  Bolan and Sharon were in the Israeli’s vehicle, parked in shadow at the end of the street. They had been there for almost twenty minutes, watching the target house. During the time they had been waiting, no one had entered or left the building. Traffic was light on the poorly lit street.

  “What do you think?” Sharon asked. “Time to move?”

  “I think so,” Bolan said. He glanced at his watch. “Almost nine.”

  They were both dressed in a somber black, holstered pistols beneath the zip jackets.

  The men exited the car, stepped across to the sidewalk and approached the house. Bolan touched Sharon’s arm as a light came on in an upstairs room.

  “Someone’s home.”

  The house was set back from the street, behind a low wall with iron railings and a metal gate. The gate was set wide open. Bolan and Sharon slipped through and moved quickly to the front of the house. Little light from the street reached the front of the building, so they were hidden by the shadows.

  They moved around to the side and made their way along the concrete path edging the place. There was a high brick wall separating the house from the neighboring property. The house was larger than either man had assumed from the front. It went a long way back. When they reached the rear they saw a generous though overgrown garden.

  “Door here,” Sharon said.

  Checking the window beside the door, Bolan looked in on a deserted kitchen. An open door on the far side showed light in the passage beyond.

  Bolan tried the door, which was secured. Sharon examined the lock, then produced a slim leather case that held lock picks. He chose a couple and inserted them in the lock. He juggled the slim metal rods, patiently working them against the lock’s interior mechanism until he was rewarded with a soft click. He replaced the probes in the case and put it away. When he opened the door a couple of inches he felt around the frame for any alarm sensors. Found nothing. Even so he opened the door just wide enough for he and Bolan to slip inside. Sharon carried out further checks on the door in case he had missed any other alarm device. He closed the door once he was satisfied, making sure the lock stayed open.

  “I take it you’ve done this before,” Bolan said.

  “Only a few hundred times.”

  There was an electric kettle on the work surface nearby. Bolan put a hand on it and found it warm.

  “Been used recently,” he said.

  Sharon had left his Desert Eagle at his apartment and brought along a .40-caliber Glock 23. He slipped a matte-black AAC Evolution suppressor from inside his jacket and screwed it onto the threaded section of the Glock’s barrel.

  “Let’s do it,” Bolan said.

  They crossed the kitchen, moved into the passage and along to the foot of the stairs.

  “I’ll check the front room,” Bolan said.

  Sharon nodded and started up the stairs, his passage silent.

  The door to the downstairs main room was standing partway open. Bolan nudged it with his foot, the door swinging wide. He leaned in to check the room. Empty. Not even any furniture.

  Bolan retreated, started to turn, then heard the soft creak of a floorboard behind him.

  He spun, faster than anyone might anticipate, and faced a pair of hardmen. One had a knife, the other, closer to Bolan, nothing. He lunged forward, hands reaching for the soldier. His move temporarily blocked the knife man. Bolan brought the Beretta up from his side in a powerful sweep. The cold steel slammed across the guy’s exposed jaw, laying the flesh open to the bone. Blood began to wash from the ugly wound and the guy stumbled back into his partner, pushing him against the far wall. Following through, Bolan hit his attacker again, not holding back. The 93-R’s solid weight delivered brutal blows. Bone crunched above the guy’s left ear and he stumbled and dropped to the floor, too stunned to even cry out. Wanting him out of the fight, Bolan slammed a hard boot down across the back of the guy’s neck, driving him facedown on the floor. The man didn’t move again.

  In the seconds from the initial attack, the guy wielding the knife recovered his balance. He launched himself forward, words tumbling in a torrent from his lips, his knife threatening as he closed in on Bolan. The language might have been foreign, but the force and intention behind the words was universal. Bolan stepped back, conscious of the slashing blade in the guy’s hand. He felt the slightest touch of it across the front of his jacket and knew the leather had been cut. Before the guy could reverse his action Bolan struck, catching the knife wrist and forcing it down and away from his body. His hand holding the Beretta knuckled in and slammed the barrel hard across the bearded jaw. The man grunted under the stunning impact, but recovered and launched a hard knee of his own that slammed against Bolan’s ribs.

  Swiveling his body, Bolan twisted the guy’s wrist savagely until the choice was for the man to drop the knife or have his bone snapped. He chose the former, the knife thudding to the floor. Bolan slammed the back of his skull into the face behind him and heard a satisfying crunch. Continuing his aggressive stance he about-faced, circled the guy’s neck with his gun arm and caught hold of his own wrist, closing the grip. He pulled the man in tight, ignoring the rain of blows to his body. He could hear the rasp of the guy’s labored breathing and increased his choke hold. The guy’s frantic struggle used up all his remaining energy. Bolan pushed him against the wall, reducing the man’s ability to fight back. Frantic jerking became slower as a lack of oxygen impaired the man’s resistance. A final tightening of his hold took the guy over the edge. Bolan let the deadweight go.

  He turned to climb the stairs and found Sharon bending over a still figure on the landing. Sharon had a bloody knife in his hand. The guy on the floor had an ear-to-ear deep incision in his throat weeping blood.

  “Problem down there?” the Israeli asked.

  “Not anymore.”

  Sharon returned his knife to its sheath and pulled out his pistol.

  The Israeli indicated the door along the corridor. Both he and Bolan could hear a murmur of voices from the room.

  They placed themselves at the door, one on each side, weapons ready.

  “Be my guest,” Sharon said.

  Bolan hit the door with his booted foot, the powerful blow taking it cleanly off the hinges. The shattered panel flew into the room, followed by Bolan and Sharon.

  Of the four men in the room only one reacted fast enough to g
et off a shot from the handgun he snatched from his belt. The 9 mm slug hit the plaster wall over Sharon’s head. The Israeli returned fire, his suppressed Glock sending a pair of slugs into the shooter’s chest. The guy stumbled backward over an armchair.

  Bolan had moved aside the moment he cleared the doorway, Beretta already tracking in on the startled men clustered around a desk holding a sophisticated computer setup.

  One guy snatched up a matte-black SPAS combat shotgun, swinging the heavy weapon in Bolan’s direction, mouthing a wild rant. The only word Bolan recognized was Allah. There was a wildness in his eyes that told Bolan all he needed to know. He dropped below the level of the weapon a microsecond before it discharged, the solid boom filling the room with sound. The high impact of the blast dug a hole in the plaster wall behind Bolan as he swung the Beretta two-handed, triggering a 3-round burst that hit at an angle, shredding its way into the guy’s chest cavity and ravaging heart and lungs. One of the slugs burst from the left shoulder, ragged and bloody debris from the wound misting the air.

  Sharon turned his Glock at one of the other two men and exchanged shots. The man went down in a gasping heap, clutching his bloody throat where Sharon’s slugs had penetrated.

  The surviving man sprang up from his chair at the computer and launched himself at Bolan as the American stood upright. The move caught Bolan off guard. The guy slammed into the Executioner, wrapping his long, muscular arms around him and shoving him across the room.

  Bolan heard Sharon’s warning yell. He couldn’t understand why the Israeli was shouting.

  What he hadn’t seen were the glass-paned doors behind him leading into a smaller room. His attacker’s full-on charge propelled them in the direction of the doors. They struck with their combined weight, shattering glass and splintering the wood frames. Bolan felt the back of his legs catch the lower section of the doors, felt himself falling, with his screaming attacker clinging to him. Glass and wood debris from the shattered doors followed them down. They hit the floor, wrestling against each other to gain the advantage.

  Bolan forced back the other guy’s head, his free hand wedged under his opponent’s jaw. When he realized he was still holding on to the 93-R, Bolan slammed the solid metal of the pistol against the other guy’s skull. The guy grunted, blood welling from the deep gash, but he still clawed for Bolan’s throat, fingers digging in. Bolan hauled the Beretta around, jamming the muzzle beneath the guy’s jaw and triggering a 3-round burst that blew out through the top of the man’s skull, taking brain, bone and flesh with it. The guy’s lifeless form slumped against him until the soldier rolled it aside.

  Bolan groaned as he staggered to his feet.

  Sharon appeared in the doorway. “Are you okay?”

  “I’ll ache in the morning, but at least I’ll have tomorrow morning,” Bolan replied.

  “If you want some late-night reading, come take a look what I found.” Sharon led Bolan to the desktop computer. “These guys were busy. I think we walked in on their major planning cell.”

  The Mossad agent pointed to items on screen, indicating recognizable words and phrases in among the script: Hamas, the Gaza Strip, Haifa, Sharif Mahoud.

  There were references to a number of Middle East and Afghan locations. Dates. Other political and religious figures from around the regions.

  “These are invited members of the conference,” Sharon said. “This whole document reads like a timetable of upcoming events. Mossad had picked up background details on suspected attacks, but we had little more than that. Electronic chatter, I believe it’s called, coming from various locations. Nothing concrete.” Sharon thrust a hand at the screen. “This all starts to make sense of it.”

  “Ben, make copies. You can send it to your people. I can do the same. There’s stuff that needs translation.”

  Sharon searched through the desk drawers and found a pack holding flash drives. He placed the first one in a USB port and began to download the computer’s data.

  Bolan spotted a cell phone on the desk. He picked it up and checked the call list, both made calls and received. There were repeat numbers, showing that certain ones had been used a number of times. He dropped the phone into his pocket and turned back to look over the rest of the room. A collection of printed images had been tacked to a section of the wall. Up close Bolan saw there were pictures of Mahoud, others of him with his family, images of Rahim Azal, now dead somewhere in Afghanistan, Jamal Mehet, murdered here in France because he was a friend of Mahoud.

  Whatever else Mahoud’s enemies were, they had put a great deal of effort into the attempts to kill him. Their intelligence gathering had been thorough.

  Sharon came to stand beside Bolan. He studied the images.

  “Mahoud has upset a lot of people,” he said, and Bolan nodded. “I purged the computer,” Sharon added. “Here, this is yours.”

  He handed Bolan one of the data sticks.

  They walked out of the house and returned to their parked vehicle. Sharon turned and drove them back in the direction of his apartment.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Corey Mandelson emerged from his Paris apartment building, keying the remote for the Volkswagen Touareg SUV. He opened the driver’s door and slid onto the leather seat, pulling the door shut.

  The click of the passenger door alerted him but he was too slow to do anything about the man who took the passenger seat beside him.

  “Both hands on the wheel,” the man said. He had an American accent.

  “Who the hell—”

  “I talk. You listen.”

  The man gestured with his right hand, held below window level so that only Mandelson could see the pistol resting across his thighs, the muzzle aimed at the CIA section chief.

  “Start the car. Ease into the traffic and drive.”

  “Where to?”

  “Give me a tour of the city. Enjoy it because it could be your last opportunity to view.”

  Mandelson rolled into the busy flow. Like any cosmopolitan city, Paris suffered from too much traffic, especially at this hour in the morning. It seemed every Parisian was going to work.

  The man sitting beside Mandelson was clad in dark, casual clothing. Black pants and sweater. A thin leather jacket. His dark hair framed a strong face that still bore, though fading, the marks of recent violent activity. Mandelson chanced a quick look at the guy. Icy blue eyes stared back at him.

  “Do you realize who I am?” Mandelson said.

  “I know exactly who you are,” Mack Bolan said. “By the way, I like the car. Standard CIA issue? Or does it come with your status as Paris section chief?”

  “If you know so much about me, you’ll realize the trouble you are in.”

  “You have that the wrong way ’round, Mandelson. I’m not the one with the problems.”

  The first flickering of unease stirred in Mandelson’s stomach. His fingers gripped the leather-bound steering wheel a little too tightly, making his knuckles gleam white.

  Bolan held back a smile. He noticed a fine sheen of sweat forming on Mandelson’s forehead.

  “You’ll have to help here,” Bolan said. “Just a couple of details I can’t quite fit into the puzzle. What were you doing visiting Wazir Homani and Mohan Bouvier at a terrorist cell safehouse in the Oberkamph district a few weeks back? Bad slip there, Mandelson, because it was photographed.”

  The man’s profile swam in and out of focus for a few moments before Mandelson made him.

  Cooper.

  The American who had seemingly stormed through Afghanistan and hauled out Sharif Mahoud and his family, and had been doing the same here in Paris.

  There had been two hits on sites that came under Ali Asadi’s jurisdiction.

  First Mohan Bouvier’s place, leaving the facilitator dead.

  Then the strike against the safehouse Cooper had just mentioned. The local cell had been wiped out and valuable data taken.

  Asadi was already climbing the walls over the hits. Mandelson had been catchi
ng all kinds of grief over the incidents from the man. He had even had a call from Homani, expressing his dismay at the events and demanding Mandelson look into them.

  And now the son of a bitch responsible was sitting in Mandelson’s car, pointing a gun at him, and not being coy about what he obviously knew.

  “You realize I have a team of CIA operatives I can call in to rain down on you, Cooper. Just one call and I can make you disappear. Damn you, I work for the U.S. government.”

  “I think I’m right to say you did work for the U.S. government,” Bolan said. “Until you sold out to potential enemies. You obviously made a pretty sharp deal there, Corey. Those offshore bank accounts. And the Swiss ones. Some hefty deposits there. You got shares, too? Maybe some MidEast oil? I wouldn’t go expecting them to pay out next time you log on. They’ve been kind of frozen. I hope you made a cash withdrawal recently. There won’t be any more coming.”

  “The hell you say. You can’t touch my personal accounts. It’s not legal.”

  “Nor is dealing with known terrorists. No need for me to list all your misdemeanors, Corey. You know what you’ve been doing. Unfortunately for you, so do we.”

  “We could make a deal. Work this out,” Mandelson said. “If you understand my background, you’ll know there’s big money to be made. Some of it could be yours.”

  Bolan could almost smell the desperation in Mandelson’s voice. He had realized his situation and was playing his only card.

  “Anything you want, Cooper. Name your price.”

  “Okay, I’ll make a deal, Mandelson. Give me the information I want, and maybe I won’t shoot you right now.”

  Mandelson didn’t know which way to turn. If Cooper was telling the truth and his hideaway funds had been discovered and frozen, then he had nothing to back himself with. The cash incentives deposited in his offshore and Swiss accounts had been his lifeline. His career had stalled and he had known for a long time his advancement wasn’t going to happen. He had upset too many people back at Langley, and though nothing he had done gave them the power to push him out completely, the CIA had its own way of dealing with malcontents. So they had sent him to France, where he had been given charge of the Paris station. The people already there knew their jobs. They had resented Mandelson’s appointment and he became a token figurehead. Langley waited him out, expecting him to put up with the posting until he’d had enough and put in his own papers. Mandelson understood the power playing, so he kept his head down, did his job while looking around for something he could work to his own advantage.