Betrayed Read online

  Beyond the military base the inhospitable Afghanistan landscape glowered beneath an empty sky. There were few clouds. It was hot and dusty, with the ever present dry wind soughing down off the higher hills. Underfoot the ground was hard and stony, with little vegetation other than isolated clumps of brittle grass.

  The Hummer rolled to a stop a few feet away. The uniformed figure stepping out from behind the wheel nodded at Bolan. The guy was young, Bolan’s height. Lean and burned brown from the sun.

  “Mr. Cooper.”

  “I’ll be out of your hair ASAP, Lieutenant Pearson,” Bolan said, reading the man’s uniform name tag.

  He understood the sometimes reluctance of the military to have to nursemaid civilians in their midst. They had enough on their hands, and Mack Bolan had no desire to add to their problems.

  The officer smiled, said, “I don’t suppose you want to be here either.”

  “I can think of more pleasant surroundings.”

  They climbed into the Hummer. Bolan stowed his rucksack and weapons hold-all. Pearson turned the Hummer and headed in the direction of the collection of tents and huts that made up the base. It all looked familiar to Bolan, bringing back memories of his own service time, when he had lived and operated out of such places. It made him aware once more of the privations and the danger the men and women placed themselves in when they became part of the operation. Here, in this foreign environment, thousands of miles from family and country, they daily put themselves in harm’s way, exposing themselves to the ever present threat of violence. There were no guarantees out here. No promises of uneventful tours. Only the reality of sudden and brutal action.

  “I was told to expect you, do whatever was needed to facilitate your mission, and not ask questions. I was told a local would be showing up to meet you. Something about him walking you into hostile territory, so I guess you’re not here to sightsee.”

  “You’ve got that right, LT.”

  Pearson threw him a quick glance, smiling.

  “Now that’s not a civilian speaking. I’d say you’ve served your time.”

  “And then some,” Bolan answered.

  He didn’t expand and Pearson didn’t probe. The soldier might have been surprised if he learned about Bolan’s own private war, waged for many years against enemies who might not have worn regular uniforms but who were certainly combatants. It might have been waged against a different backdrop in some instances, but by any definition it was still war.

  They reached the main camp, Pearson rolling the Hummer to a stop outside one of the smaller huts.

  “Your guy is there,” the soldier said. He waited until Bolan had claimed his gear. “Anything you might need, give me a shout. I was told you might need assistance with an extract?”

  “If I do, I’ll call.”

  “We’ll be around if you need us.”

  “Good to know.”

  Pearson raised a hand, then gunned the Hummer and drove away.

  Bolan pushed his way through the hut’s door and went inside. It was sparsely furnished, functional.

  It was empty except for a single occupant.

  A tall, lean Afghan turned at Bolan’s entrance. He wore a mix of traditional Afghan and Western clothing. A long sheepskin coat covered a colorful shirt, and U.S.-style combat pants were tucked into sturdy leather boots. He wore a lungee, the turban’s long scarf hanging almost to his waist. A broad leather belt circled his hips, supporting a canvas holster that held a modern autopistol. On the opposite hip was a sheathed knife. Leaning against a table was an AK-47. The Afghan eyed the big American while he continued to drink from a tin mug. Finally he lowered the mug. He wore a trimmed dark beard.

  “You are Cooper?” When Bolan nodded, the man said, “I am Rahim Azal. You know why I am here?”

  “Yes.”

  “It is too late to go today. We will leave in the morning. Early.” Azal indicated a steaming pot sitting on a butane gas stove. “Tea?”

  Bolan nodded. “Sure.”

  The tin mug Azal handed Bolan was hot, the strong tea scalding. Bolan tasted it, nodding his approval.

  “I can see why the Afghans are good fighters,” he said. “If you can drink this, you can face anyone.”

  Azal laughed.

  “I think I might like you, Cooper.” He looked Bolan over. “Are you a warrior? Dressing as one does not make it so.”

  Bolan picked up his hold-all and dropped it on the table. He opened it to show Azal his ordnance. The Afghan peered at the contents of the bag.

  Azal raised his mug. “Defeat to our enemies.”

  THEY WERE on the move at first light. The air was still chilled from the cold night as Bolan and Azal finished their breakfast and readied themselves. The soldier took out his weapons and strapped on the webbing belt that would carry his Beretta 93-R in a hip holster. He had an MP-5 SMG, and a Cold Steel Tanto knife sheathed on his left side. A combat harness held extra magazines for both his weapons and Bolan added a few fragmentation grenades. From his backpack he took a black baseball cap and an olive-drab cotton scarf. The long scarf wound around his neck could be used to wipe away dust and sweat from his face; it could also prevent dust entering his mouth. Azal watched as Bolan put on the scarf, a smile curling his lips as he observed.

  “Now I know you have been here before,” he said. “Once the dust of Afghan has been tasted, no man wants to repeat the experience if he can avoid it.”

  Bolan swung his backpack into place and adjusted the straps. He checked his filled canteen and clipped it to his web belt.

  Lieutenant Pearson drove up in his Hummer. He had been assigned to drive Bolan and Azal for the initial part of their journey, where he would leave them in the foothills. The lieutenant was fully armed, and a second soldier sat in the seat beside him.

  The trip took them a couple of hours, over rugged terrain that offered little relief from the ever present heat and the restless, drifting breeze. Serrated, undulating, the Afghan landscape had little to recommend itself. This was a savage and unwelcoming place, and Bolan knew that there might easily be armed figures waiting behind any one of a dozen boulders, or concealed in shallow ravines. Maybe he was in someone’s sights at that very moment. It was an unsettling thought, one he had experienced many times, so he accepted the fact because there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

  Pearson slowed the Hummer, swinging the vehicle in a half circle at Azal’s instruction. When he came to a full stop the Afghan leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “This is the place. We go on foot from here.”

  Pearson waited until Bolan and the Afghan climbed out.

  “Good luck, Cooper. Don’t forget the ride home when you need it.”

  Bolan nodded. “Thanks for the assist, LT. Take it easy on your way back.”

  The Hummer sped away, leaving Bolan and his guide alone. Dust drifted in the Hummer’s wake. Azal turned to check the way ahead.

  “You enjoy walking, Cooper?”

  “Yeah. Let’s move out.”

  They followed a faint track that led directly into the rugged hills. After a couple of miles even the thin trail vanished. Azal didn’t hesitate. He moved with great agility, ignoring the steep angle of the slopes. Azal glanced back a few times, smiling to himself when he saw the American keeping pace with him.

  It was noon straight up when Azal called a halt. He guided Bolan to a wide overhang of rock that shielded them from the sun. From his pack the Afghan produced a loaf of bread and a wedge of goat’s cheese. He divided the meal, handing half to Bolan. The bread was coarse, the cheese strong. They ate in silence, washing the food down with water from their canteens.

  “There is a small spring ahead,” Azal said. “We can refill the canteens.”

  “You’ve known Mahoud a long time?” Bolan asked.

  Azal nodded. “We were born and raised in the same village. We grew up together. Both our families were as one. Our fathers and grandfathers fought against the Russians
. We both lost people in the war.” Azal shrugged. “As far as I can remember there has always been some kind of fighting going on. But we survived. We were never wealthy but life could be good.”

  “Mahoud wanted more?” Bolan said.

  “Even as a young man he was unhappy with the fighting, though there were times he had to use a gun to defend what was his. The tribal squabbling saddened him. He wanted changes. Everyone told him it could never happen. Sharif refused to accept that. He started to speak at village councils and traveled all over talking to people. He had a way with words. He sat and discussed matters with politicians and religious leaders. People trusted him. He settled local differences. It was good for him, but he was restless for more change and in the end he went away for almost three years. When he returned, he was different. Still passionate about making things better, but he said staying here wouldn’t allow him to do that. He had been accepted to a place of learning in France, where he could understand the ways of higher learning. It was all too complicated for me to understand. Sharif was away for seven years and the next time he came to the village he brought his wife and children with him.”

  “Was he different then?”

  “Yes, and no,” Azal said. “He was Sharif of the village, but he was also Dr. Sharif Mahoud, a man of the world. A learned man building his reputation as a negotiator. He had written books and articles for magazines. His qualifications allowed him to mix with powerful men and took him around the country and to far places in the Middle East. When he sat in his parents’ house he was one of us again. Everyone was so proud of Sharif. They took to his beautiful wife and their children. But when I watched his face, I knew he would not be staying for long. He had his path to follow and it was not just to be in Afghanistan. When we talked alone, he told me how he needed to travel to other places to do what he could for other oppressed people. To try and bring enemies together and settled differences.

  “From his wife we learned of their other life. An apartment in Paris. Their visits to America and London. The important people they met. His work with government organizations. Sharif has gone far. Has helped many. His friends are all over the world.” Azal raised his hands. “But so are his enemies. He has disturbed many people who are angry at his attempts to make solid peace. For many reasons, Cooper. Money. Power. Religious intolerance. He knows this, but all he does is shrug and say it is something he has to bear.”

  “These enemies are the ones who want him dead?”

  Azal nodded. “Yes. The ones who murdered Jamal Mehet. The same ones who killed the man acting as a decoy. The same ones who tried to disrupt his meetings and forced his wife and children into hiding while Sharif had to seek sanctuary elsewhere.”

  He leaned back, closing his eyes, and rested.

  “We will reach our next place before dark,” he said. “A village I used to know well. It is empty now. You will see what the Taliban is doing to our life.”

  THE VILLAGE had been empty for some time. Azal explained how the Taliban had driven out the occupants, forcing them to clear the village or be wiped out.

  “They wanted to make an example to show how they were in charge. All around here the Taliban has been forcing people to do as they say. Anyone who defies them is either killed or beaten until they are crippled. This is the way the Taliban works. Fear. Violence. Their fighters wage war on women and children, and force the young men to join them, or watch their families be slaughtered. These villagers are poor. They have nothing, no power, so they can be exploited.”

  “So where do they go?”

  Azal shrugged. “Look around, Cooper. Where is there for them to go? Many of them simply vanish into the hills. They hide. Starve. If they are lucky, they make their way to the refugee camps many miles away. Some die on the way there. The Taliban is ripping out the heart of my country because so many refuse to bow to their demands.” The Afghan faced Bolan. “Now ask me why I believe in Sharif Mahoud. Because he is the one man who is prepared to face up to the truths about these people. He is willing stand up to them. Talk with the moderates and face the enemies of Afghanistan. I am simple man, Cooper. Not clever with words, but I would give my life so Sharif Mahoud can speak for me.”

  “For a man who claims he is not clever with words, Rahim, you make your point well.”

  Azal shook his head, smiling briefly.

  “I will make tea. We will rest here overnight.” He turned to indicate the rising wall of the rocky hills behind the village. “Then we have that to climb. And no clever words will make that any easier.”

  “Let’s check out the area. Make sure we have a way to get clear if needed. Too late if we find ourselves boxed in.”

  “Yes. I will show you something I found once before when I was here. It will serve us well.”

  THEY WERE PREPARING to leave a couple of hours after dawn when Bolan picked up the distant sound of a vehicle engine powering its way up the incline leading into the village. The narrow track he and Azal had used bore faint tire impressions, showing past usage by motorized transport. The Afghan was inside one of the empty huts, packing away the gear they had been using.

  “Azal.”

  The Afghan joined him, nodding. “I hear it.”

  “Taliban?”

  “Could be. But the fighters would be less likely to allow themselves be heard in such a way. A vehicle cannot go farther than this place. Your military would only use helicopters if they were coming here.”

  “Wait inside the hut,” Bolan said. “Cover me from there.”

  Azal backed away and stood inside the doorway, hidden in the shadows, while Bolan edged around the corner of the hut.

  The vehicle turned out to be a battered 4WD Land Rover. Bolan couldn’t have guessed how old it was. Despite the outward appearance, the mechanics of the vehicle seemed to be in good shape. It rocked into view over the final rise in the trail and came to a stop near the edge of the steep drop-off. The beat of the engine faded.

  The passenger door opened and a man climbed out, one hand raised to shade his eyes from the glare of the sun. He was of medium height, heavy build, with beefy shoulders. He wore crumpled chinos and a short-sleeved bush shirt. The moment he stepped from the Land Rover the man locked eyes with Bolan, staring at him with a hard gaze. His eyes were shadowed under thick brows, deep set in a lined, unshaved brown face, and he made no attempt to hide his aggressive manner.

  “You guys are off the beaten track,” he said, which was more of an accusation than a query.

  Bolan ignored him. That seemed to annoy the man even more.

  “You hear me?”

  “They can probably hear you in Pakistan,” Bolan said. He hadn’t missed the man’s reference to Bolan not being on his own.

  You guys.

  Whoever he was, the newcomer was sharp. Or he knew more than was apparent.

  “You want something or are you passing through?” Bolan asked.

  “Could be we’re both looking for the same thing.”

  “You think so?”

  “How many Afghans are there in these hills who go by the name of Sharif Mahoud?” the newcomer queried.

  “You’re the one with all the answers,” Bolan said. “I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”

  “The hell you don’t.” The man turned and waved to the Land Rover’s driver to join him.

  When the guy stepped into view, Bolan saw he was carrying a professional video camera. He hoisted it on his shoulder and trained it on the soldier.

  “Hey,” Bolan called. “You carry life insurance?”

  The cameraman frowned, then said, “What’s that mean?”

  “It means turn that thing away from me or you’ll find out if your policy pays off.”

  “Anja, don’t listen to him. We can film whatever we want.”

  “It isn’t you he has that gun pointing at.”

  “Don’t be a chicken-shit.” The guy turned back to Bolan. “You know who I am?”

  “Why don’t you tell me.�
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  “Kris Shehan.”

  Bolan’s face didn’t flicker with recognition.

  “Look at that,” he said. “You didn’t surprise me. Should I have heard of you?” he asked.

  “I’m starting not to like you, pal,” Shehan stated.

  “One, I don’t give a damn about that. Two, I’m not your pal. And I think it’s time you backed off.”

  Bolan turned to stare at the cameraman, who had turned his lens back in Bolan’s direction. Shehan’s voice interrupted him.

  “I’m getting tired of you playing the hard guy. Why don’t you move your ass out of my way? My assignment is to meet up with Mahoud and get his story. What are you going to do? Shoot me?”

  “The thought had occurred to me.”

  “Go ahead. Anja will get it all on tape. Hell, I could make you famous.” Shehan was smiling now, enjoying himself. “I could sell you all over the Middle East. Maybe even get it picked up by CBS or Fox News. You know how the great American public likes its violence.”

  Bolan blocked Shehan’s way.

  “You leave it right there,” he said. “Take your cameraman and turn around. Get clear of this village and stay out of my sight.”

  Shehan glanced at his cameraman, a knowing grin crossing his face. When he faced Bolan again that smile had gone.

  “You know who I am? Who I represent?”

  “I know you believe you have the right to push your way into people’s lives. Put them at risk just so you get your thirty seconds on some cheap TV news program.”

  “Fuck you, mister. I’ve brought home more important reports than you could imagine. I put my life on the edge to get my stories. You think American networks are the only ones allowed to tell what is happening here? Ha. My news is for the real people of Afghanistan. Sharif Mahoud is a story. I’m going after an exclusive. Who the hell are you to try to stop me?”

  This time it was Bolan who gave a weary smile.

  “Correction, Shehan. It won’t be try to stop you. I will stop you if you get in my way.”

  “Hard man now, huh? Listen, friend, I’ve faced off with real warlords in my time. Some cheap merc isn’t making me back down.”