Betrayed Read online

  “Which way?” Rafiq asked.

  “Straight ahead,” Lyons said. “We need to gain distance. Nothing else matters right now.”

  They ran, pushing through anything standing in their way. Foliage and low branches slapped against their bodies, scratching their exposed flesh. Blood mingled with sweat, stinging, smarting. Dry twigs and fallen leaves snapped under their pounding feet.

  Their pursuers were still a good distance behind. They kept coming. They had no choice. If they lost Rafiq, their mission was over. Lyons was another matter. He was expendable, having dealt himself into the kidnap situation. If he was eliminated, it would ease the burden.

  Ahead of Lyons the youth stumbled, went down on one knee, but hauled himself upright again and continued on.

  The ground sloped away, dropping a couple of hundred feet, the trees thinning out, leaving wide stretches of exposed terrain dotted with brush. Far below Lyons saw the gleam of water.

  “Go for it,” Lyons said. “We don’t have a choice.”

  Rafiq hit the slope, with Lyons close behind. Their momentum took them at breakneck speed down the slope, feet slamming into the earth as they tried to control their descent. Lyons heard the crackle of autofire. Slugs tore at the ground around them, kicking up dirt and grass. However this came out, Lyons and Rafiq were committed now. They were in a no-man’s land, unable to turn back, exposed, with no way of knowing what they might find when they hit bottom. The reckless rate of their descent made it hard for any kind of accurate shooting from the opposition. They didn’t want to hit Rafiq, but if a good shot presented itself there would be no hesitation when it came to taking down Lyons.

  Rafiq lost his footing and pitched facedown, his momentum dragging along the slope, arms and legs wind-milling as he tried to regain control. When he did come to a stop, he made no attempt to climb to his feet. He lay motionless.

  Lyons struggled to bring himself to a stop, muscles straining as he fought his downward motion. He dragged himself back to Rafiq, half turned so he could check the upper slope. Three figures, spaced apart, were moving in their direction with measured steps, but still a fair distance away.

  “Rafiq? You still with me?” Lyons demanded.

  He touched the young man’s shoulder.

  Rafiq jerked. “Benning, a day out with you is no fun at all.” He pushed himself up on his arms, groaning.

  “Anything broken?” Lyons said.

  “I’ll tell you when everything stops aching.”

  When Rafiq raised his head, Lyons saw blood streaming from his nose. The left side of his face had been scraped raw from hitting the ground. The Able Team leader hooked his left arm under the youth’s and helped him to his feet.

  “I know,” Rafiq said. “Keep going.”

  He turned and resumed his downward run, limping on his left leg. Lyons swung the H&K into play, laying the muzzle on the distant figures and jacking out a couple of bursts that fell short, but at least warned the oncoming group that the game was far from over. The only consolation as far as Lyons was concerned centered around the fact he had seen only identical SMGs in the cabin. So if his weapon was out of range so were theirs.

  The slope began to flatten out. The gleam of water Lyons has seen earlier lay in front of them. A river. Fast-flowing, the water foaming where it swirled around half-submerged rocks. He had no idea where it went, but as far as he was concerned it might prove a way of getting clear of their pursuers.

  “Can you swim?”

  Rafiq stared at him. “Sure,” he said, the realization dawned. “Are you kidding?”

  “That river will take us downstream pretty fast,” Lyons said, looping the webbing strap of the H&K over his head to sling the weapon across his back.

  “And drown us just as fast,” Rafiq said.

  They were yards from the overhanging bank now.

  “We don’t have much choice.”

  He grabbed Rafiq’s arm, yanking the youth with him, and, still holding him, launched them both off the bank. They dropped six feet into the water, which closed over their heads, the chill shocking them. The current was stronger than even Lyons had imagined and swept them along as their heads broke the surface. Rafiq was feet ahead of Lyons, his black hair plastered flat against his skull, gasping for air, but using his arms to keep himself afloat. Lyons followed suit, spitting out water that splashed its way into his mouth.

  “What now?” Rafiq said, shouting against the noise of the turbulence.

  “We let it take us.”

  “Where—the Pacific?”

  Lyons saw white water ahead where the river dropped a level over shallow rapids. He felt the current increase and Rafiq was pulled way ahead of him. There was no fighting the current. It simply swept them along, twisting and turning them at its whim. Lyons felt the bump and scrape of smooth rocks as the rapids held them in its grip, bouncing and tumbling them. More than once Lyons felt himself being pulled beneath the surface by conflicting currents, then thrust into air again. The noise was deafening. The spray created a fine mist that obstructed his vision. In the end he stopped resisting and let the flow carry him.

  Eventually the rapids ended and Lyons shook his head to clear the water from his face. He checked out his surroundings, treading water as he did. The water here was calmer, the river almost tranquil. On either side high rock walls rose, topped with greenery. The river banks had given way to rocky stretches.

  Lyons looked around for Rafiq. The young man was nowhere in sight. Lyons cast around, wondering if Rafiq had made it.

  Any doubts were removed when he spotted the teenager, on the far bank, slowly wading out of the water. Lyons swam in that direction, his body starting to ache from the battering it had received coming through the rapids. As he felt the stones beneath his boots he pushed for the bank. Rafiq was sitting on a large flat stone, watching, a grin plastered across his face.

  “That was better than any Disneyland ride,” he said.

  “You want to go back and try it again?”

  “No. It wasn’t that good.”

  Lyons noticed Rafiq was favoring his left arm around his shoulder.

  “You okay?”

  “Kind of banged my arm on a rock.”

  Lyons made him take off his shirt. Rafiq’s upper arm was starting to show a heavy bruise, the flesh reddened and puffy. The big ex-cop gently probed the flesh.

  “Is it broken?”

  Lyons shook his head. “No. I think you’ve sprained the muscles. It’s going to be sore though.”

  Rafiq watched as Lyons squeezed water out of his shirt before he handed it back.

  “Were you in the military?”

  “No. I was a cop before I moved to Justice.”

  “But you know this survival stuff?”

  “Some,” Lyons said. “We get some extreme missions.”

  “Not baby-sitting stupid teenagers who fall for long legs and blue eyes,” Rafiq said.

  “I already told you, Rafiq, that wasn’t your fault. Callie—Kate—is a professional. She’s probably done this kind of thing before.”

  “Well, she had me fooled.”

  They moved away from the river, hiding themselves in the tumbled mass of boulders and shrubbery that edged the water.

  “Right now,” Lyons said, “all we need to concern ourselves with is getting away from Marino and his team. Moving to this side of the river gives us some advantage. It’s going to take them time to pick up where we came out of the water. We have to use that time to move on. Try to find someplace where we can call for help.”

  “I guess.” Rafiq’s expression exposed his anger. “Why can’t they leave my father alone? He’s a good man trying to do right things. Why do they want to kill him?”

  “Rafiq, you understand as well as I do,” Lyons said. “You’re not stupid. Nothing’s as simple as it looks. If your father makes his peace accord work, a lot of individuals will lose face, political and religious power. That’s enough on its own to make Sharif Mahoud a target.
The problem is made worse because there’s more. Multinational companies stand to lose money and influence, and a lot of those companies are in bed with the hard-liners.”

  “Armament dealers? Oil companies? That kind of thing?”

  “And more. Military connections. Alliances between power brokers.”

  “It’s a rotten world we live in.”

  “The sad thing is, it’s the only one we’ve got,” Lyons said. “Your father is doing his bit to try to make some of it better. His enemies are gunning for him because they are scared he might make that difference.”

  “You said the man looking out for my father is good. How good?”

  Lyons smiled. “He’s the best.”

  “As smart as you?”

  “A whole lot smarter,” Lyons said without hesitation.

  He checked the SMG, pulling the magazine and shaking water from it.

  “Will it still work?” Rafiq asked, watching.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you just saying that to make me feel better?”

  “Yes,” Lyons said. “Does it?”

  Rafiq smiled. “What about that Native American, Cujo? He’ll be able to find us.”

  “Let’s not make it easy for him.”

  Lyons finished with the H&K. He slid the magazine into place and pushed to his feet. They moved off, angling away from the course of the river. They were going to have to climb to reach the higher ground, where at least they would have the timbered slopes to conceal their passage.

  Their initial priority was to locate a telephone or some other means of communication. Lyons knew that wilderness areas were likely to have isolated watch towers, lookouts for fire spotting and also for lost trekkers. The towers were usually equipped with radios, enabling communication with ranger stations. If they were lucky they’d come across a ranger station, but the odds weren’t good. Lyons needed to find a regular trail, even a fire road. If they found one of those and stuck to it, they would eventually reach some kind of refuge.

  He glanced at Rafiq. The younger man was proving to be resilient and capable. At least he wasn’t whining about his situation. If he could maintain that attitude, it would go a long way to keeping him alive.

  It took them almost an hour to climb up from the river to solid terrain. On relatively level ground, on a ridge, they were presented with a seemingly endless panorama of forested wilderness. It spread in all directions, impenetrable timbered slopes that rolled into the distance, slopes and valleys vanishing into the hazy distance.

  “That’s a lot of trees,” Rafiq said. “So which way do we go?”

  “West,” Lyons said. “That way.”

  “Why west?”

  “Sooner or later we’ll reach the ocean,” Lyons said wryly.

  Rafiq shook his head. “And that’s your best shot?”

  “Right now, that’s my best shot. That direction takes us away from Marino and his bunch.”

  “When my father sent me here, he told me it would be the best way to learn about America, to see the country. He’s really getting his money’s worth at the moment.” Rafiq hesitated. “I shouldn’t be joking about Dad. Whatever problems I’ve got, they can’t be anything like the ones he’s having to face.”

  Lyons had been checking behind them, across the wide gorge where the river flowed.

  “I shouldn’t be too sure about that,” he said.

  Rafiq glanced to where Lyons was pointing.

  On the far side of the gorge figures could be seen working their way to the perimeter.

  “I see what you mean.”

  “Let’s move,” Lyons said. “It’s going to be a while before they reach this side and climb up from the river. We need to make some more distance.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The apartment was clean and functional. It overlooked the Seine, though the occupant rarely took advantage of the fact. He wasn’t in Paris for pleasure, his purpose far from that of a sightseer, even though he was looking for someone.

  The man he was seeking was Mohan Bouvier.

  The French-Algerian was a facilitator for one of the Muslim cells active in the Middle East. Bouvier’s reputation was well known. The man was responsible for coordinating terror attacks in India, across the Middle East, France and as far as London, and importantly for the searcher—Israel.

  Ben Sharon, Mossad agent, had been tracking Mohan Bouvier for almost three months, following him across Europe and North Africa, and had eventually located him in Paris. Sharon was closing in. His mission was simple: find and eliminate Bouvier.

  Sharon had no problem with that. The activist was responsible for a considerable number of deaths. He had supplied men, weapons and bombs that had been directed and placed so they could carry out indiscriminate slaughter. Bouvier had pulled the triggers and set off the bombs by proxy. Mossad had targeted him for removal.

  With infinite patience Sharon had worked his way along the shadowy trail left by the facilitator, until the present day where he had located the man’s Paris hideout.

  Now all that was left was the final act.

  Sharon had been monitoring Bouvier’s communications. The man was no electronics expert. He used cell phones and sometime landlines to make his contacts, and it was by monitoring the lines that Sharon had chanced upon some chatter that made him sit up and take notice.

  It was one of those lucky happenstances where surveillance for a particular purpose revealed information on an entirely unrelated matter.

  When Sharon picked up isolated words and phrases he almost bypassed them. Until they registered in his mind, pushing aside the information he had been looking for.

  Cooper.

  Sharif Mahoud.

  The Israeli sat back and replayed the items on his recorder. Bouvier was talking about an American named Cooper and Dr. Sharif Mahoud, and both names were known to Sharon.

  He let the recording run on, grasping the gist of the isolated conversation. From what Bouvier was saying, Cooper was already in Paris though his whereabouts weren’t known at the moment.

  Sharon’s current assignment had occupied his attention over the past few weeks, tending to isolate him from other world events. But he knew about Sharif Mahoud and his attempts to broker a peace accord. The conference included Israel, and despite his skepticism over the outcome, Ben Sharon applauded Mahoud’s attempts.

  Anything that might generate peace, no matter how slight, was to be supported. Sharon, a realist, understood the intense resistance to any form of initiative throughout the regions. There were those who would fight peace because it went against their deeply felt religious and political aims. For many, it was personal. For others, it might mean an interruption of their business dealings in weapons and other commodities. Those things, no matter how they might be viewed, were impossible to ignore. Power and wealth were great catalysts. They brought out the worst in many, and curtailing such activities wouldn’t happen if certain parties had their way. Maintaining bloody conflict was their way of continuing a merciless trade.

  If Cooper was involved, it meant resistance to Mahoud’s conference had continued beyond what Sharon had been aware of. The man was courageous and determined. The passion of his enemies would be strong enough to generate strong opposition against the conference, strong enough for attempts to be made to stop him.

  If Bouvier was in the picture, it meant operations were being mounted against Mahoud. That was what the facilitator did. He brought groups together, arranged times and places, put weapons and vehicles into the hands of the ones carrying out the missions.

  Cooper placed himself in harm’s way to prevent those things happening. If he was siding Mahoud, the man had the best there was.

  But did Cooper have any information about Bouvier?

  Sharon didn’t know the answer to that, but he was going to make sure Cooper was armed with whatever the Mossad agent could provide.

  The Israeli checked his contact file and made a sat phone call. The number he had been given mon
ths ago would, through a complicated array of electronic routes, put him in touch with the group Cooper worked through, on a line the Israeli understood to be secure. He recognized the voice he had touched base with before.

  “This is Ben Sharon. Mossad.”

  “Haven’t heard from you in a while,” Hal Brognola said. “I guess this isn’t a social call?”

  “No. I am on assignment in Paris at present, monitoring phone calls involving my target. Two names have come up. Sharif Mahoud and Matt Cooper. My target is a facilitator for terrorist groups. His job is to organize teams who carry out hostile attacks. If he is talking about Cooper and Mahoud, I would guess a strike is being organized. I will try to get more information and pass it on.”

  “Much appreciated,” Brognola said. “I’m sure you know what Mahoud is working on currently?”

  “The upcoming peace accord? Yes. We are hoping something good comes out of the meetings.”

  “Cooper is running interference for Mahoud and his family, trying to keep him safe until the conference. It’s a complicated issue.”

  “If I give you my number, Cooper can make contact himself. It might save time if I can deal directly with him.”

  Sharon recited his number and also a meeting place if Bolan wanted physical contact.

  “I’ll pass it along,” Brognola said. “Thanks again, Ben. Good luck with your mission.”

  “Shalom.”

  HAL BROGNOLA MIGHT NOT have had any idea where Bolan was at the moment, but it didn’t stop him making contact to pass along Ben Sharon’s message and offer to help. Bolan called his Mossad friend within the hour.

  “Thanks for the intel,” Bolan said. “I’m interested in what you had to say.”

  “Is the location satisfactory?”

  “Yeah. In an hour?” Bolan asked.

  “Yes.”

  The call ended. There was no need for either of them to say more.

  IT WAS RAINING when Bolan showed up at the small restaurant on the Left Bank. It was on a side street off the main drag. Cars were parked in ragged array along the street, some partway on the sidewalk. Rain sluiced down off the gutters, splashing across the cobbled street. Stepping out of the taxi, Bolan handed the driver the fare, turning up the collar of his coat as he made his way to the entrance. A bell tinkled above the door as Bolan stepped inside. The smell of aromatic coffee was welcome. The restaurant was quiet at this time of day. It took only seconds for Bolan to spot Sharon sitting in a corner, facing the door. Shaking rain off his coat, Bolan made his way over and sat.