Betrayed Read online

  Mahoud ignored him, pushing the American aside

  His resistance was futile as the group rushed to meet him, beating him to his knees with rifle butts and barrels, the brutal blows driving him down, blood streaking his face.

  Bolan had his own weapon snatched from his hands. He was searched for any other weapons, but all that was found was the GPS unit and Bolan’s cell phone. He watched as they were thrown to the cave floor and crushed under heavy boots.

  “They will not be of use to you any longer, American. You are in the hands of the Taliban now. We will give the orders.”

  Bolan looked him in the eye. “I’ll try to remember that.”

  The Taliban leader laughed. “Be certain, American. You will remember. I promise you.”

  Other titles available in this series:

  Renegade Force

  Retribution

  Initiation

  Cloud of Death

  Termination Point

  Hellfire Strike

  Code of Conflict

  Vengeance

  Executive Action

  Killsport

  Conflagration

  Storm Front

  War Season

  Evil Alliance

  Scorched Earth

  Deception

  Destiny’s Hour

  Power of the Lance

  A Dying Evil

  Deep Treachery

  War Load

  Sworn Enemies

  Dark Truth

  Breakaway

  Blood and Sand

  Caged

  Sleepers

  Strike and Retrieve

  Age of War

  Line of Control

  Breached

  Retaliation

  Pressure Point

  Silent Running

  Stolen Arrows

  Zero Option

  Predator Paradise

  Circle of Deception

  Devil’s Bargain

  False Front

  Lethal Tribute

  Season of Slaughter

  Point of Betrayal

  Ballistic Force

  Renegade

  Survival Reflex

  Path to War

  Blood Dynasty

  Ultimate Stakes

  State of Evil

  Force Lines

  Contagion Option

  Hellfire Code

  War Drums

  Ripple Effect

  Devil’s Playground

  The Killing Rule

  Patriot Play

  Appointment in Baghdad

  Havana Five

  The Judas Project

  Plains of Fire

  Colony of Evil

  Hard Passage

  Interception

  Cold War Reprise

  Mission: Apocalypse

  Altered State

  Killing Game

  Diplomacy Directive

  Don Pendleton’s

  Mack Bolan®

  Betrayed

  Have the courage to say no. Have the courage to face the truth. Do the right thing because it is right. These are the magic keys to living your life with integrity.

  —W. Clement Stone,

  1902–2002

  A person who steps forward to do the right thing must be protected. I’ll stand my ground and offer whatever support I can give, no matter what the consequences.

  —Mack Bolan

  a cognizant original v5 release october 09 2010

  For the peacemakers

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  PROLOGUE

  They tracked Jamal Mehet to Paris, caught up with him when he emerged from a Métro station, followed him until he was alone on a quiet side street, grabbed him and bundled him into the rear of a Citroën delivery truck. Even as the vehicle was pulling away from the curb, a hypo needle was jabbed into Mehet’s neck. It held a liberal dose of a powerful drug that rendered him unconscious. By the time he woke up he was far away from the city, locked in a room that had a mattress on the bare floor and nothing else. When he regained consciousness he was violently ill, emptying what little food his stomach held on to the floorboards. The aftereffects of the drug weren’t pleasant, and he spent most of the day curled up on the mattress, drifting in and out of sleep. When his senses allowed him to focus he tried to work out how long he had been in the room.

  A day?

  Two?

  He couldn’t be sure. His watch was missing, so he had to judge the time of day by the passage of light he could see through the grubby window set in the roof over his head. It had already started to grow dark when he heard a key rattle in the lock and the door was flung open wide, banging against the inner wall with hard force.

  Mehet rolled over so he could see the doorway. He had to blink his eyes to sharpen the image, and that was when he made out two figures stepping into the room. Beyond them he saw a third. Someone stood watch. The three figures separated and he could see them in detail now. The man just outside the door was holding a weapon. The two inside the room he didn’t recognize. They were unknown to him. Both wore expensive, well-cut suits, complete with shirts and ties. He even found himself looking down at their polished shoes.

  When he looked into their faces his first impression was they were business executives. Everything about them spoke of wealth. And they were Westerners with their light-colored, clean-shaved skin and benign expressions.

  One of the pair moved farther into the room, his actions controlled and precise. He stopped at the foot of the bed, his hands crossed in front of him. Mehet noticed the man’s fingernails. Neat and well manicured. Odd details that seemed very important to Mehet at that moment.

  “We know who you are, Jamal Mehet,” the man said. “We know all about your connections to Sharif Mahoud. We know he trusts you more than any man alive. That he trusts you with his life. I’m sure you will realize by now why you are here and what we want.”

  Mehet did realize what this was all about even as the man mouthed the words. He had been taken because of his intimate knowledge of Sharif Mahoud. These men, whoever they were, wanted the knowledge he carried inside his head. He also realized they were Mahoud’s enemies. They wanted to locate Mahoud and not for any good reason.

  If they found his friend, they would most likely kill him.

  A small realization pushed into Mehet’s mind at that moment.

  The man speaking to him had an American accent. Quiet, refined almost, but most definitely American.

  “You have had enough time to think over what I’ve just said, so I’ll tell you what happens next. I’m going to ask you a simple question. I will ask it once, and yo
u will have the opportunity to answer. Give me what I want or I walk out of here and place you in the hands of my associates who are waiting in the cellar below. In the end you will deliver your friend Sharif Mahoud to us. Choose the second option, and you will live longer but the experience will not be pleasant. I believe I have explained everything clearly.” The man paused for a short time. “You know the current whereabouts of Mahoud. I need that location. Will you tell me where he is?”

  Mehet felt his stomach churn. He understood the threat the man had posed, and he knew his refusal to answer would condemn him to pain and suffering. Two things he did not even want to imagine. He would give the man an answer, the only one he could.

  “No,” Mehet said, “I will not.”

  True to his word the man accepted Mehet’s reply. He simply turned away, followed by his companion. They walked out of the room. The guard at the door leaned in and pulled it shut.

  Mehet lay back, staring at the patch of light beyond the skylight. He saw the clouds drifting by, watched the gloom deepen, and knew darkness would soon fall and he would be lost in that darkness.

  No more than ten minutes passed before they came for him, took him from the room and led him to the cellar beneath the house.

  It became Mehet’s final refuge. He spent almost three days in the place, days of terrible suffering as his captors worked on him, using every crude method of torture they could think of. There was little finesse in their actions. They believed in physical brutality of the worst kind. The intention was to inflict severe pain and mutilation to extract the information they needed. Mehet’s pitiful screams echoed through the vaulted bleakness of the cellar, never reaching beyond the thick stone walls.

  On the third day there was little more that could be done to make him suffer. Barely an inch of his body had not been violated, and it was a surprise even to Mehet’s torturers that he was still alive.

  An additional surprise they received was when he spoke for the first time since they had brought him to the cellar. They had to lean close to understand the words that whispered from his bleeding lips, sliding over toothless gums where his teeth had been torn free. He had gestured them to come closer by jerking the raw stumps of severed fingers at them.

  And he had finally told them where they could find Sharif Mahoud, then begged them to put him out of his misery.

  The chief torturer sent one of his men to relay the information upstairs and then put two 9 mm bullets into Mehet’s head.

  TWO NIGHTS LATER a strike force of three men, dressed from head to foot in black, splashed through the waves and came ashore from a small boat onto a beach in Northern Algeria. Behind them lay the Mediterranean Sea. In front the low profile of the isolated villa that was their target.

  Intelligence had told them there were four armed guards patrolling the villa and surrounding terrain. Two more and the subject inside. The black-clad trio understood the patrol parameters that had been passed to them, providing them with the movements of the security team, so they were able to move in quickly. Using Heckler & Koch MP-5s fitted with suppressors, they were well equipped for what lay ahead.

  The first guard was taken down by the lead shooter, his body crumpling under the impact of the suppressed 9 mm slugs. Skirting the perimeter of the villa, the strike team closed on the other guards, making their kills quickly and with a minimum of fuss.

  With four guards down, the team crossed the tiled courtyard, skirted the circular stone fountain and approached the open archway that gave access to the interior of the villa.

  Their information about the two bodyguards inside the villa, protecting Sharif Mahoud, was correct. As the strike team burst into the room, covering the occupants, the pair of guards sprang up from their seats, weapons sliding from holsters. They were too slow and went down in a hail of 9 mm bullets, their bodies torn and bloodied.

  The robed figure seated with his back to the strike team rose slowly to his feet, turning to meet them. As light fell across his face, alarm showed in his eyes.

  “What is going on? Who are you people and what do you want?” He stared down at the bodies on the floor. “This is not what I agreed to. It was only to be an impersonation for a few days.”

  The lead shooter took a long look at the robed figure, shaking his head in frustration.

  “This is not Sharif Mahoud. We have been deceived. Mehet gave us false information.”

  The impersonator realizing his position was untenable turned back and forth in desperation. Now he understood, and in understanding he panicked. He turned his back on the strike team, wailing in terror as he ran for the door on the far side of the room.

  Three SMGs fired simultaneously, riddling his body with 9 mm slugs. Cloth was shredded, flesh punctured and bloody gouts erupted from his back. When a number of the slugs tore his spinal column apart, the man dropped to the tiled floor. He sprawled across the smooth tiles, blood starting to seep from beneath him in rich red fingers.

  The head shooter took out a sat phone and punched in a number. He waited until pickup.

  “We were tricked,” he said simply. “Mahoud is not here. Only a look-alike decoy. While we have been searching for him, he has probably moved on to a new location. By God, if that jackal Mehet could be brought back to life I would kill him all over again.”

  The American voice on the other end of the call maintained a calmness that was all the more chilling due to the circumstances.

  “Leave the villa. Return to the landing zone and get back to the ship. We will rendezvous as soon as possible and review. I don’t care where he has gone. We will keep looking until we find Mahoud, take the information he possesses, and then we will kill him. Him and his whole damn family.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  The motor yacht Crescent Moon coasted sedately along the Corsican coastline, heading north toward Monaco. It was a half-day out, plowing gracefully through the Mediterranean Sea. Outwardly it looked like one of the many expensive pleasure crafts cruising the blue waters. Inside, however, the talk was far from casual.

  The three men sitting around the large table in the ship’s main cabin had more on their minds than the current trends in Monaco.

  “We need to make a decision,” Daniel Hartman said. “Rolling ideas back and forth is all very well, but it doesn’t advance us one little bit.”

  His cultured tones, never raised above conversational level, drew everyone’s eyes toward him. His importance in the group was enough to command its undivided attention. He had a policy of seldom repeating himself. And when he gave an ultimatum he never, ever, went back on it.

  Hartman had been the man who had allowed Jamal Mehet his one chance to answer the question concerning Sharif Mahoud. The man’s refusal had condemned him to the torturers waiting in the cellars and ultimately his death. His false information had drawn the three-man strike team to the villa on the Algerian coast. When Hartman had learned Mahoud hadn’t been at the villa his calm exterior showed nothing of how he felt inside. He had simply called the strike team back and the team leader to this gathering to decide on their next move.

  The quiet American looked around the table. His exceptional patience was often mistaken for indifference. It made him appear cold and distant even to those who knew him. Almost passive. Yet behind the facade was a sharp, incisive mind capable of intellectual keenness and an ability to make unpleasant decisions without a moment’s hesitation.

  The leader of the strike team, Ali Asadi, said, “Whatever else we decide, I think it is time to put the California operation into action. Everything is in place. At least that would give us something to fall back on.”

  Hartman nodded in agreement.

  “I agree.” He turned to the man on his left. “Make the call, Roger. Tell Marino to go. Once they have the Mahoud boy secure, Marino can advise us.”

  Roger Dane stood and crossed to a sat phone. He picked up the receiver and tapped in a number, waiting as the connection was made.

  “Marino, this is Dane. You�
�re on. Do it and advise us on completion.”

  “Good,” Hartman said as Dane resumed his seat. “Let’s continue. We have to accept that even if we succeed and get our hands on Mahoud’s son there’s no guarantee it will bring Mahoud himself into the open, or even force him to do what we ask. So we still need to follow this through ourselves. One thing is in our favor. Mahoud must have heard by now that Mehet has disappeared, that we took his bait and went for his decoy. No matter how dedicated the man is, losing someone like Mehet must unnerve him. He wouldn’t have expected that to happen. Having his decoy killed will also make him realize he can’t hide from us forever. Those two elements are likely to force him into doing something that might leave a trace. So we double our efforts. Increase the bounty and make sure that every informant available to us is fully aware that Sharif Mahoud is the most important name on their lists.”

  “He must be found. And eliminated,” Asadi said, unable to keep his emotion under control. “The man is a traitor to everything he ever believed in. He defiles the very air he breathes, and his words are blasphemy each time he speaks.”

  “That may well be so, Ali,” Hartman said, “but we can’t ignore the fact that he is held in great respect by many men of influence throughout your region and beyond. Sharif Mahoud is a force to be reckoned with. No doubt because of his popularity he has many followers willing to hide him and throw off anyone looking for him. Why do you think we’ve had so much difficulty locating the man?”

  Asadi’s face darkened as he listened to the American. The knuckles of his clenched fists cracked under the tension.