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Betrayed
Don Pendleton


On the verge of creating a breakthrough peace initiative in the Middle East, Dr. Sharif Mahoud is on the run, hunted by purveyors of terror who see the true threat of a powerful visionary bringing bitter rivals to the bargaining table.Dr. Mahoud is good for peace, and good for the world–which is why the Oval Office directs Mack Bolan to track down the brilliant negotiator hiding deep within the Afghan hills, locate his stranded family, then get them all to safety. But the mission is compromised from the start with hostile forces dogging Bolan's every move. Soon, the true face of the enemy begins to emerge: beyond the violent radicals and extremist thugs, stand the rich and powerful investors and shadow men who understand that warfare is big business–and will do whatever it takes to keep turning a profit on blood and suffering.









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.”




Betrayed

Don Pendleton


Mack Bolan













www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


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


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 you 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.

“Should I begin to suspect that maybe your passion against Sharif Mahoud is not as strong as it should be? Perhaps our collaboration is not such a good idea after all.”

“That is not—”

Hartman raised a hand to silence Dane.

“Please, Ali, you must not take what I said as praise for Mahoud. I’m merely attempting to explain that the man has great standing among his supporters. Not me. Or you. Or the people behind both of us. Our joint aim is to find and eliminate Sharif Mahoud. Be in no doubt as to that. But to help us in our search we have to look at the man as others see him.

“Mahoud has a gift. One we must never overlook. That gift is his ability to communicate. To be able to sit down with men from opposing cultures and religions. To talk with politicians of all persuasions. Even to bring together those who have fought bitterly for many years. Mahoud does this through his communication skills. It’s a rare quality, and it makes our task that much more difficult because we’ll receive very little help overall. Ali, we may not like how the world perceives Mahoud, but we can’t ignore it.”

Asadi digested what Hartman said, not liking what he was implying because it only added to Mahoud’s mystique. He couldn’t deny the effect Mahoud had over many he came into contact with. Secretly he envied the man’s power to sway a crowd with his words. The ease at which he drew people to him and seemed able to calm their fear and suspicion. Asadi might only ever admit to himself that it was that very persuasiveness that generated his distrust of Mahoud. In his eyes it was not normal. As if Mahoud possessed some otherworldly spirituality above that of normal men. That was what created the hostility against him.

That and of course the more mundane fact that Mahoud’s interference in the region’s business might tip the balance of power within certain political-religious factions. Bringing them together might appear a miracle cure for the region’s ills, but many were violently opposed to such maneuvering.

Roger Dane cleared his throat, one hand nervously touching the buff folder he had brought to the meeting.

“There is also the matter of the information Mahoud has in his possession concerning the identification and affiliation of a number of important figures within the various breakaway factions.”

“Thank you, Roger. We can’t ignore that detail,” Hartman said. “Mahoud’s zeal for his righteous crusade well may bring down these notable figures. Singly and collectively these individuals have great influence within various radical groups. If they were compromised, even killed, the effect could be serious. Cut off the head of a snake and the body may well still thrash around, but it will have lost its purpose and in doing that, its effectiveness.”



AN HOUR LATER Roger Dane found Hartman relaxing on deck, a chilled drink in his hand. Watching his assistant approaching, Hartman peered over the top of his dark glasses, allowing a thin smile to curl his lips.

Dane, he knew, was a worrier. He always found the weak spot in any argument, the chink in armor, something to fret about. The look on the man’s lean face spoke volumes.

“All right, Roger, spit it out. I always know when you have something to say.”

“I just got off the phone with Wazir Homani. The word is out on Mahoud, but Homani told me he has heard that Mahoud has a deal being set up. He’s on the verge of accepting. Homani doesn’t have all the details yet, but he’ll inform us when he has more.”

Hartman tool a long swallow from his glass. “And?”

“From what Homani has found out, Mahoud will make his commitment to broker the talks if he can be guaranteed safe passage to a secret location for them. He has made a nonnegotiable demand that his family is to be brought out, as well. Homani believes his source had also verified this deal is being made by the U.S. President himself. He’s going to send in someone he vouches for. Someone he trusts to do the job. The President, Daniel, of the United States, is getting personally involved.”

Dane turned and helped himself to a large drink, swallowing it back in a single gulp.

“Am I missing something here?” Hartman asked.

“Only that the American Commander in Chief is dealing himself in. Our own President.”

“Well, hell, Roger, let’s stand up and salute the flag. We didn’t expect it to be an easy ride. Don’t wet your pants over this. Look on it as a sign they’re taking things seriously. Nothing changes. We carry on as we have been. This might work in our favor. We have contacts in Washington. If the administration has thrown its cap into the ring, it presents us with a possible chance to pick up scuttlebutt. Jesus, Roger, the D.C. circuit has more holes than a leaky sieve. This could make life a lot easier for us. You get back on your phone and rouse everyone we know in Washington. Call in favors. Make threats. Do what the hell is needed, but see if you can get the info we need.”

Alone again Hartman topped up his own drink and turned to stare out across the blue expanse of the Mediterranean. The unexpected news Dane had delivered added a new angle to the affair. He wouldn’t have admitted it to Dane, but the emergence of the U.S. President sanctioning an operation to assist Sharif Mahoud had two sides. The probability of clashing with the American administration was something that needed consideration, though it was small compared with the positive benefits. If they could connect with whoever the President was sending in, their job could be made easier. All in all, it wasn’t too bad a deal, and Daniel Hartman had never been one to back off from a reasonable gamble.

Now all they needed to do was to find out the identity of the man the President was putting forward and give him enough leeway to guide them to Mahoud himself.




CHAPTER TWO


“The guy in the picture is—was—Jamal Mehet. That was how the French police found him in the cellar of a house outside of Paris,” Hal Brognola, director of the Sensitive Operations Group at Stony Man Farm, said. “The house had been rented by some guy who walked into the Paris office of the selling agent. Said he worked for a movie company and they just needed to shoot some interiors for a production. They only needed it for a few days. Guy paid cash. The agent figured it an easy deal because the old place was showing no signs of being bought. It was only when the keys weren’t returned and the agent drove out to check that he found the body. The medical examiner worked out that the body had been in the cellar for at least four days. Before he died Mehet had been subject to some pretty horrendous torture. On top of everything else both his legs had been broken. Fingers on both hands amputated. His teeth torn from his gums. He finally died from a double tap of 9 mm slugs to the back of his skull.”

Mack Bolan looked over the copies of the official police photographs. They were far from pleasant viewing. The fact that he had seen similar images many times over didn’t make any difference. The sight of what had once been a living, breathing human reduced to a shrunken and battered corpse always affected him. The idea that a human could do this to another, for whatever reason, saddened him.

He placed the photographs on the table, pushing them away.

“Not exactly family snapshots,” Brognola remarked. “Whoever did that to Mehet wanted something from him. Badly enough to torture him, then execute him when he was no more use to them.”

“And do you believe they did get something?”

“All we do know is that a couple of days later a hit team breached a villa on the Algerian coast after taking out the four-man security force. Once inside they also killed the two bodyguards, then cut down the guy they had been led to believe was Dr. Sharif Mahoud. Only it wasn’t Mahoud. Guy was a decoy being employed as a diversion while the real Sharif Mahoud was moving to a new location in Afghanistan.”

“Doesn’t look as if it worked the way Mahoud wanted.”

“His opponents found out he was in Afghanistan and broke up his trip. Mahoud and his family were separated, if that’s what you mean. Now the guy needs our help, Mack.”

“If Mahoud can be helped.”

“The President feels we should at least give Dr. Mahoud the benefit of the doubt. We should give the guy his chance. The President believes the man could make a difference.”

Bolan didn’t answer as quickly as Brognola expected, and his silence threw the big Fed slightly off balance.

“Or don’t you agree?” Brognola asked, trying to elicit some kind of response.

“Hal, I understand exactly what you’re pitching on the President’s behalf.”

“I happen to go along with him, Mack. His argument for backing Mahoud makes sense. If the guy can offer something—anything—out there we should be backing him. Hell, the Middle East, the whole region, is in a mess. I’m the first to hold up my hand to that. If someone comes along willing to put himself up as a mediator and without any kind of agenda other than looking for peace…”

Silence again as Bolan considered his friend’s words. He respected Hal Brognola more than any other man he could name. The big Fed was open, without guile, and he would be ahead of the list to cheer if Stony Man had to stand down because universal peace broke out. Brognola carried no death wish on his broad shoulders. He wanted a world where the eradication of violent conflict became the norm, but he also understood the likelihood of such a condition wasn’t in the cards. Greed, ignorance, political and religious desires were simply not going to vanish overnight. So the need for units such as Stony Man remained, and would for a long time.

As much as he might regret that need, Hal Brognola would use Stony Man to continue the fight. He would also reach out for any glimmer of hope, no matter how fragile.

“If you go for it, Hal, I’m in.”

“Son of a bitch,” Brognola muttered good-naturedly. “You enjoy seeing me squirm?”

He understood Bolan’s need to have the nature of a mission clarified, the reason behind it placed before him. The mission had to fit in with Bolan’s own agenda before he would put himself on the firing line.

“Mahoud believes he can bring various factions together, draw them to future meetings with opposing parties long enough to make serious inroads?”

“The man has that ability, Striker. You only have to check back over previous successes, the way he negotiated a cease-fire in one area of Afghanistan. He sat opposing warlords down at the table to talk and finally got them to agree to stop killing each other and cooperate. That was six months ago and the peace has held in that region. Don’t ask me how the guy does it. People have called him a messiah, a holy man. That he has the touch. And that comes from any region across the spectrum. Mention Dr. Sharif Mahoud and you’ve said the magic words.”

“What about the other side of the coin, Hal? He must have enemies. A man with that set of skills has to have upset a lot of people.”

Brognola nodded.

“Damn right. When it comes down to it, Mahoud has the premium. Mullahs. Clerics. Out-and-out hard-liners. They put out calls for his death routinely. He’s been accused of everything from being a false prophet to a blasphemer. His detractors accuse him of trying to weaken the beliefs of those who trust in God. The moderates accuse the hard-liners of being afraid of one man who only wishes to bring about peace across the region.”

“Do we know where Mahoud is right now?”

“Increased threats are forcing him to keep changing locations. He’s trying to stay one step ahead. When his message got through to the President he said he would make his whereabouts known only if the Man promised to bring him to safety.”

“And where would safety be?”

Brognola shrugged. “That’s open to debate. We’re working on it. First we need to get Mahoud and his family free and clear from Afghanistan.”

“Odds are that could be tricky. Bringing one man out from hostile territory isn’t going to be an easy trip.”

“Correction, Stricker. Not one man. Mahoud made a strict stipulation. He’ll fulfill his role as mediator for as long as it takes. But only if his wife and two children are also brought out with him.”

“Four people. An extraction from unfriendly territory. No backup.”

Bolan’s statement wasn’t a question or an exclamation of surprise. It was simply a confirmation of the cold, hard facts.

He leaned back in his seat, gently tapping the file on the table in front of him. Brognola recognized the signs. Bolan working the facts over in his mind, agilely creating and dismissing operational scenarios until he brought the number down to one.

“Five,” Brognola said.

“Say again.”

“Mahoud has a son, Rafiq, who just turned eighteen. He’s a student at Southern Cal, and according to information the kid is a high achiever.”

“In that case I’m going to need an assist. Even I can’t stretch myself between Afghanistan and California.”

“Yeah, I figured you’d say that so I pulled Carl’s name out of the hat. He’s on standing down at the moment, visiting a friend in Oregon. That puts him the closest to California. I’ll contact him.”

“So when do I get my flight plan?”

“I’m waiting for the President to pass me details,” Brognola replied. “When Mahoud spoke with him, he said one man would be waiting to guide you in to where Mahoud is in hiding. One of the few of his countrymen Mahoud trusts not to betray him.”

“Kind of putting his head into the lion’s jaws, isn’t it? What if this guy isn’t as loyal as Mahoud believes?”

“Mahoud does trust this guy. Enough to put his life in his hands. He’ll take you to Mahoud, then it’s down to you to make sure the man and his family gets safely to the U.S. base for his extract. You bring him out and stay with him until the conference. Stony Man will provide backup and whatever you need. President’s orders. You have full control on this mission.”

Bolan raised the file. “Time for me to read up on Mahoud and his family.”




CHAPTER THREE


Greg Marino checked the temperature and humidity of the Spanish cedarwood humidor. Satisfied it was steady at the required sixty-five degrees and seventy percent humidity, he removed one of the nine-inch Grand Corona cigars. He returned to his leather recliner and proceeded to cut the tip from the thick cigar, then took his time lighting it with a wooden match. He took a slow draw, allowing the mellow aroma to suffuse the length of the cigar, relaxing as the tendrils of tobacco smoke wreathed around him. Next to great sex, what he got from the cigar was the closest to perfection he could imagine.

Reaching for the phone, he hit a speed-dial number and waited for pickup. He recognized the subdued voice instantly.

“Grover, I just had the call from Dane,” Marino said. “We’re up. Let’s do it, buddy.”

“Okay. I’ll call Kate and have her push the kid’s buttons.” He chuckled. “The sap won’t know what’s hit him til it’s too late.”

“Keep me posted,” Marino said. “I’ll be leaving for the cabin in a couple of hours, so use my cell number.”

“Will do.”

Marino ended the call. He leaned back in the recliner, deciding to finish the cigar before he left. After all, he decided, good things should never be rushed. The deal was under way. His team would make it work, so he had nothing to concern himself with for a while.



RAFIQ MAHOUD SPOTTED the young woman the moment he stepped out of the science building. He weaved his way between the other exiting students and made directly for her. As far as Rafiq was concerned, she could have been the only other person on campus. His full attention was focused on her.

His Callie. Blond and blue-eyed. A toned, supple figure. Clad in pale blue shorts, extremely short, and an equally skimpy stretch T-shirt. She was, as far as Rafiq was concerned, the ideal California girl.

His girl.

She made sure he understood that at every opportunity, and especially when they were alone. Just thinking about those times made him blush.

Callie waved as he caught her eye, her smile bright and caring. He might not have spoken it out loud, but Rafiq’s emotions were in a turmoil. They always were when he was in her presence. In a word, she captivated him. From the first day he had met her, the delightful blonde had him wrapped around her little finger, and he loved every moment.

“Hi,” she said when Rafiq reached her side.

“Hi, yourself. I almost didn’t get clear. Some of the guys wanted to get together and chill. Took me a while to break away.”

“Last thing I want is you chilling out.” She laughed. “I want you hot.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Very hot. Especially for this weekend. Or had you forgotten?”

As they moved along the sidewalk, heading for the parking area and Rafiq’s two-year-old SUV, he shook his head.

“My stuff is already in the truck. What about you?”

Callie showed him the backpack over her left shoulder. “Everything I need is in here.”

“It doesn’t look like much.”

“Enough for what we’re going to be doing.”

“You are a terrible woman.”

“It’s why you like me.”

“Yeah? And for a few other things.”

When they reached his vehicle, Rafiq unlocked it and Carrie threw her backpack on the rear seat alongside his own. She climbed in and waited as he joined her. He started the engine and reversed out of the slot, raising a hand to a passing group of students. Then he drove out of the lot and negotiated his way along the feeder road until they were on the highway.

“Let’s go, cowboy,” Carrie said, reaching to click on the radio.

Rafiq pushed down on the gas pedal and boosted the SUV up a notch.

He was feeling good. It was a beautiful day. The weekend was coming up and he was alone with the most fantastic woman he had ever known. Things couldn’t get any better.




CHAPTER FOUR


The Air Force plane touched down late afternoon and Mack Bolan stepped back onto Afghanistan soil. Already dressed in military combat fatigues and boots, he slung his backpack over his shoulder, picked up his heavy hold-all, and crossed the dusty field to meet the Hummer speeding out to pick him up.

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.”

“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.”

“Having to keep correcting you is becoming a habit. If I was a merc, I wouldn’t be cheap.”

Bolan shouldered the man aside as he crossed to the cameraman who had been videoing the confrontation.

“Do you have a backup camera?” he asked.

“Yeah. In the Rover. Why?”

“You’re going to need it,” Bolan told him.

He reached out and wrenched the vidcam from the man’s hands. Ignoring Shehan’s yell of protest, Bolan walked to the trail’s edge and hurled the vidcam into space. It spun in a downward spiral to smash on the sun-bleached rocks far below.

“You bastard,” Shehan screamed. “Do you know how much that cost?”

“Rough country out here,” Bolan said. “Stuff gets smashed all the time.”

“You’ll regret this. I’ll fucking well sue you for every cent you have.”

Bolan shrugged. “Good luck. Remember I’m just a cheap merc. Your own words.”

Shehan’s face flushed with righteous anger. He turned to the cameraman, thrusting a finger as he yelled, “Go and get the other vidcam.” Anja simply stared back at him. “I said, get the other fu…What the hell is wrong with you?”

Bolan sensed the cameraman’s agitation. He turned to check out what the man was looking at and saw armed figures emerging from the rocks beyond the village. The soldier picked up a familiar, rising sound. His gaze rose and he spotted the thin trail, curving and pale against the hard blue sky.

A mortar shell.

“Incoming,” he yelled.

The mortar hit even as he called the warning. The solid thump of the explosion was followed by the geyser of dirt and rock. It mushroomed across the clearing, yards from Shehan’s Land Rover. The force of the blast rocked the vehicle and flying debris took out the side windows.

“Azal,” Bolan called.

“I am here,” the Afghan said. He appeared at Bolan’s side, shaking his head. “They will be Taliban. This is bad.”

“Tell me about it.”

A second and third shell landed. Number three was close enough to lift the Land Rover and flip it onto its side, one rear wheel torn from the axle. Smoke swirled, caught by the hot wind.

With the truck disabled the armed figures Bolan had seen started to move in, opening fire with the AKs they were carrying.

“Get us out of here,” Shehan yelled, lunging at Bolan, his fingers clutching at Bolan’s shirt. “They hit my truck.”

Bolan ignored him.

With the smoke clearing he had just seen the cameraman, flat down on the ground, his back a ragged wound from neck to hips. Bone and flesh had been shredded by the blast from one of the mortar rounds. Little remained of the man’s rear skull and neck.

“Let’s move, Azal,” Bolan said, brushing off Shehan’s hands. “We’re leaving. Shehan, come with us or sit and wait for the people you most likely led here.”

The lead attacker pounded across the path that snaked into the village from the rocky slope above, Kalashnikov crackling. Slugs whined off the stony ground. Bolan leaned around the edge of the hut wall, his MP-5 rising. He led the rushing figure and waited, then triggered a short burst, slamming the guy to the ground in a flurry of dust and bloody spray. Close by, Azal was using his own weapon to good effect, putting down two more of the agile figures as they bounded across the open ground leading into the village.

With three of their number suddenly down, the attack faltered. The armed figures retreated into cover.

“They are eager but not bloody foolish.” Azal grinned at Bolan.

“I doubt they’re ready to quit, either,” the soldier said.

As he spoke he was checking out the area, recalling the lay of the land around the village. He had checked it out even as he had walked in, selecting possible back door escape routes in case of emergencies.

He lifted his head as he heard more incoming, mortars sizzling in from deep cover. The attackers could bide their time, laying down a solid wall of shells that would saturate the area. While the defenders were forced to maintain cover, the attackers could start to close in while maintaining their own safety. The hard thump of explosions, lifting more dirt and rock, created clouds of acrid dust that swirled back and forth across the village. Bolan crouched with his back to the wall, figuring that by the law of averages the hut they were using was going to take a hit.

“Azal, if we sit here too long…”

“I know. We should leave quickly before they regroup and come for us again.”

Then as swiftly as it had started the mortar attack ceased. Someone shouted in the distance. Shadowy figures began to emerge from the dispersing clouds of dust. More of the armed attackers. They came from two directions, opening up with hard autofire that threw streams of 7.62 mm slugs across the area. Bolan could hear the solid thwack as they ripped into the dry earth, the harsher sound as they struck rock, some whining off into the air. The rattle of autofire continued without let up.

“Let’s go,” Bolan snapped at Azal.

The Afghan moved without a word, crossing the hut and exiting through the rear window, dropping out of sight. Bolan followed.

“What about me?” Shehan demanded, his tone losing none of its arrogance.

Bolan paused, throwing a hard look across his shoulder. “Follow or stay. Your choice. I don’t care.” Then he was gone, clearing the frame.




CHAPTER FIVE


As Bolan’s boots hit the dusty ground at the rear of the hut, he picked up Azal’s moving figure. The Afghan was moving fast, weaving his way through the scattered rocks and brush, and heading for the jagged defile snaking away from the village. It was the best way out. Bolan and Azal had picked it during their early recon. He checked the immediate area and saw that it was clear—for the moment at least. Bolan didn’t expect it to remain that way. The autofire was still crackling and now Bolan picked up raised voices. The attackers were getting closer, probably wondering why there was no further resistance.

He took off after Azal.

“Hey…”

Looking back Bolan saw Shehan tumbling through the window. He fell as he hit the ground, luck favoring him as a burst of autofire chewed at the wooden frame, splintering wood and filling the air with splinters. Bolan was tempted to keep moving, leaving the obnoxious journalist behind. Something held him back and he spun on his heel, sending a long burst from the MP-5 in through the shadowed window. He was rewarded by a brief shriek as his bullets found a target.

“Move, Shehan. Get your ass over here and head for that defile up ahead, or so help me I’ll shoot you myself.”

Bolan plucked a grenade from his harness and pulled the pin. He let the lever pop free, held the grenade for a count, then hurled it in the direction of the window. The projectile sailed through the gap. As Shehan passed him, and Bolan followed, the grenade detonated with a solid crash of sound, smoke gushing from the window. The impact of the explosion shifted some of the wall stones.

Hard on Shehan’s heels Bolan sprinted for the defile. As the journalist vanished down the gap leading into the defile, Bolan dropped and rolled, taking up a defensive position, giving the others time to move deeper into the fissure. He exchanged the almost empty MP-5 magazine for a fresh one, slipping the ejected mag into a pouch. He freed a second grenade, took out the pin and waited.

His wait was a short one. Gunners began to move around the side of the hut. Bolan counted at least four of them. They clustered together, uncertain which way to move. They hadn’t yet seen the defile, but Bolan knew they would spot it quickly enough. He wasn’t about to allow them that luxury. He let the lever go, raised himself and threw the grenade hard. It hit the ground only feet from the hesitant group and they began to scatter. The lethal blast from the grenade caught them on the run, the white-hot fragments ripping into flesh and sending the enemy sprawling.

Before they could regroup Bolan slid down into the defile and raced after Azal and Shehan.

They needed to clear the area, to move out of range of the locals. The Taliban would offer little in the way of mercy if they got their hands on him and his companions. Like it or not, Bolan was saddled with Shehan, at least for the moment. Despite his reservations concerning the morals of the man’s business, Bolan couldn’t simply leave him alone in enemy territory. So until he could deliver him into friendly hands he was stuck with the guy. Bolan decided he wasn’t going to allow Shehan an easy ride. If the soldier was going to have to devote some of his energy and skill toward keeping Shehan alive, the man would earn his keep.

As he hit the base of the defile, feeling the rocky sides close around him, Bolan spotted Shehan and Azal directly ahead. He pressed on, closing in, calling for them to keep moving.

He almost missed the sound of an incoming mortar. The shell struck the upper rim of the defile, and though it was yards behind, the explosion threw thick clods of earth and a shower of stone fragments into the ravine. The opposition was not giving in easily. Bolan understood that the cards were all falling into their hands. This was their territory, and they would know it intimately. Every rock and patch of brush. Every place where a man could hide. All Bolan had was his desire to survive and not let himself fall into the hands of the Taliban.

A second mortar blew more debris over them. This time it was closer, the blast rocking them on their feet. Yards ahead Shehan stumbled and fell, shredding his hands on the flinty rocks.

“Christ, my hands!”

“On your feet, mister,” Bolan ordered. “Sooner or later those mortars are going to be ranged in, and whining about your grazed fingers isn’t going to be much help. Now get up and keep moving.”

Shehan dragged himself upright, wiping his bloody hands down his shirt. The look he threw at Bolan was murderous, but it had no effect on the soldier. Bolan understood the situation they were in. They had no time to discuss the finer points of battlefield etiquette. They were in a race for their lives and one slip, one miscalculation, would allow the enemy to close in and end it.

The rattle of small-arms fire echoed the length of the defile. Slugs struck rock, splinters flying. As Bolan followed the natural curve of the land he plucked a grenade from his harness, yanked out the pin and let the lever go. Ignoring the small insistent voice urging him to throw the projectile, he waited, then turned and lobbed the grenade around the curve. The detonation was close, but the sweep of the bend protected Bolan from the blast. He heard a couple of harsh screams as the pursuers were caught, their luck running out.

Moving on, Bolan caught the flicker of moving figures at the top of the defile, heard the crackle of fire as they angled their weapons into the gap. Slugs pounded the dry earth, kicking up dusty gouts. Bolan flattened against the wall, turning his weapon up at the gunners. He triggered a burst that dragged dirt from the defile feet below his target, using it as a guide for his second burst. His next shots caught one guy in the lower legs, blowing out gouts of red. The Taliban fighter stumbled to his knees, missed his balance and plunged headfirst into the defile, slamming into the ground only yards from Bolan, his skull shattering on impact. The second shooter shouted something unintelligible, firing even as he uttered the yell. His slugs tore at the defile wall above Bolan’s head, showering him with dirt and stone chips. The soldier returned fire and caught the guy center mass, tossing him back out of sight.

Running hard, Bolan caught up with Azal and Shehan. The Afghan was ushering the journalist into a shadowed gap where the defile merged with the rock face that ended it.

“Quickly,” Azal said. “This will take us to other side of the hills.”

Pausing at the entrance, Bolan asked, “You sure?”

Azal grinned. “I remember from many years ago. We played in here when I was a child. It goes all the way through the hills. Would I be so foolish as to walk into a trap myself?”

“Guess not,” Bolan said.

Azal led the way deeper into the passage. The farther they walked, the less the light penetrated. After a few hundred yards they were stumbling along in near darkness. The air was hot and stale. The walls curved and hollowed out as they progressed along the rough ground. At one point the ceiling overhead swooped down to shoulder height, and they had to hunch forward to avoid cracking their heads on the unyielding rock. Water glistened in the pale light, sliding down the rock face from some unseen source, creating shallow pools they had to walk through.

Bolan took time to backtrack a few yards, listening to the silence behind them. He waited, his ears straining to pick up any sound of their pursuers. He was almost ready to move on when he caught the merest whisper of boot leather sliding over rock. As the sound increased, Bolan judged there had to be at least five, possibly six. They were still following, but staying well back after the last encounter with the grenade. The soldier idly fingered one of the remaining two grenades clipped to his harness, then decided to hold them back. He moved to the opposite side of the defile, back pressed against the rock wall.

Shapes emerged from the rock-strewed backdrop, and Bolan opened fire instantly. Two went down. He kept up his rate of fire, driving the others back. Angling the MP-5’s muzzle, the Executioner raked the angle of the rock wall, hearing the slugs ricochet. He was hoping some of the slugs might bounce off and cause some extra confusion for the enemy. Anything to make them stay back. He emptied the magazine and quickly snapped in a fresh one, then turned and picked up the pace.

The way ahead widened, the rock ceiling rising to a great height; light was starting to penetrate. Bolan picked out Azal and Shehan way ahead of him, crossing a wide, smooth table of stone that angled upward. As he hit the table he felt warm sun on him. Glancing up he saw sections of the ceiling were open to the sky. Reaching the peak of the table, Bolan saw the high cavern give way to exposed ground, a massed jumble of massive boulders, water tumbling in a narrow fall from some greater height and splashing onto the bleached stone below where it spilled from a naturally formed rock pan to create a runoff.

“Come quickly,” Azal called, gesturing with his arm.

Bolan saw Shehan close by the Afghan. There was a moment when the journalist seemed to be pulling at his crumpled shirt. Then Shehan suddenly pulled a long-bladed knife from under his shirt. He swung it hard at Azal’s back, stabbing down into the Afghan’s body. Azal gasped, his lean body twisting in agony as Shehan yanked out the glittering steel blade and raised it to strike a second time, plunging it deep into Azal’s flesh.

Bolan had raised the MP-5 by this time, and he hit Shehan with a burst. The slugs clawed at the journalist’s right side, splintering ribs and gouging flesh. The man stumbled, shock etched across his face. He went down on one knee, the knife slipping from his fingers and his head turned toward Bolan. The soldier was moving fast, powering his way across the open rock, and the expression on his face warned Shehan not to expect any leeway. The journalist had showed his hand at the wrong moment. Bolan fired again, this time going for a kill shot, placing his 9 mm slugs into Shehan’s chest. The man fell backward, slamming down hard, the rear of his skull striking the rock. He was still conscious when Bolan’s shadow fell across him. Shehan stared up at him, his eyes blazing with a righteous fervor, spitting blood as he tried to speak.

“You won’t succeed. We will still get to Mahoud and he will die.”

Bolan ignored him, knowing the man would bleed out in seconds.

Azal was hunched over on his knees, his head almost touching the rock. As Bolan bent over him, he noted the spreading blood patch extending down the Afghan’s back from the knife wounds. Azal turned his head so he could see Shehan sprawled on the rock only feet away.

“Was it something I said?” he whispered, managing a wisp of a laugh. Then, “Cooper, you need to go. If you stay you will be caught. Then Mahoud will lose his chance.”

“I’m supposed to leave you?”

“You are a good man, Cooper. Be a wise one. I’m not going any farther. Shehan saw to that.” When Azal slowly raised his head, Bolan saw blood dribbling from his mouth. “Whatever else he was, Shehan knew where to place his blade.”

“Azal…”

“Here.” Azal slid his hand inside his long coat and pulled out a slim six-by-four item that he thrust at Bolan. “GPS unit. A backup in case I failed. I believe this is what Shehan wanted from me. Mahoud’s location is keyed in. He is due east from where we are. In the higher country.” Azal’s free hand gripped Bolan. “Get him out, Cooper, and he will do what he has promised. Now pass me my weapon.”

At Azal’s urging Bolan eased the Afghan into a sitting position, his bloody back pressed to the curve of a large boulder. He placed the AK-47 in the man’s hands. Azal gestured at the two grenades on Bolan’s harness, and he handed them to him.

“Now go before those bloody Taliban jackals show their ugly faces. Go now, Cooper. I will cover your back.”

Bolan found himself hesitating, torn between his mission and the fate of the man in front of him.

“What good if we both die here? Mahoud promises at least some measure of success and, however small, it must be allowed its chance.”

Bolan laid his hand on Azal’s shoulder. Nothing more spoken passed between them, but the Afghan’s words made him aware of why he was here and what he had to do. He turned away and cut across to the east and the forbidding, craggy slopes. As he moved he slid the GPS unit into a pocket for safety.

The terrain was harsh and unforgiving. Bolan kept up as fast a pace as he could, slinging the MP-5 to free both hands as he hauled himself over jagged outcroppings and eroded ledges of dusty rock.

He picked up the chatter of autofire coming from behind him. There was a pause, then more rapid fire followed by the sharp blast of a detonating grenade. Azal was making good use of his limited ordnance. The second grenade blew. The Taliban would know who they were facing—a single man, yes, but an Afghan warrior from a long line of warriors who had fought invaders before and had never been truly defeated.

The sound of battle faded. Bolan’s way was becoming steeper, the ground beneath his feet less firm. Afghanistan refused to treat anyone with any kind of favor. Its lofty slopes presented obstacles at every turn, demanding that anyone bold enough to confront it did so at a high cost. Many had tried and failed. This time the inhospitable met the undefeatable. Mack Bolan never gave up, no matter what the odds. Afghanistan was about to find that out.

Something played on his mind: Shehan, a paid mercenary or a believer in the cause?

Bolan could accept either, but it seemed illogical for someone like Shehan to kill Bolan’s guide before he led him to Mahoud. It was a counterproductive move. If the intention was to get to Mahoud, why eliminate Azal now? Bolan saw no sense in the act. Unless Shehan had known about the GPS unit and decided to step up his mission by taking out Azal and gaining possession of the unit himself. Anything was possible. Maybe Bolan had been next on Shehan’s list. If it had been his intention Shehan had shown his hand too quickly. His unexpected action, the savage attack on Azal, the man directing Bolan to Mahoud’s whereabouts, had played out his hand. There didn’t appear to be any kind of logic in his desire to kill the Afghan—unless Shehan had been in the pay of Mahoud’s enemies, working covertly until the moment arrived when he could strike at Azal and remove him, leaving Bolan without his guide, alone in enemy territory with little way of knowing where Mahoud was waiting. It was likely, now that he considered Shehan’s risky move, that the man had panicked because of the Taliban attack. He had been just as surprised as Bolan when they had showed up. Fearing his chance slipping away Shehan had gone for the GPS unit, hoping he could lose Bolan and go after Mahoud himself.

He hadn’t thought his plan through. Maybe he panicked when he realized Bolan had almost wiped out the unexpected Taliban group and he, Shehan, was on his own. Whichever way, it forced Bolan to carry on his mission solo. Not the first time he had been left to his own devices.

Bolan secured his backpack, drawing the straps tight. He did the same with the MP-5. The last thing he needed was the subgun swinging loose as he made his climb. With his equipment seen to, the soldier ran a final check from the GPS unit, establishing his line of travel before he began his ascent.

It wasn’t exactly a vertical climb, but the slopes were some of the steepest Bolan had faced for a long time. The outcroppings weren’t solid, often breaking away when he put weight on them. It forced him to move slowly, testing each section as he moved across it. That wasn’t a bad thing, Bolan decided. Better late than no show.

Despite his caution, he twice found a handhold giving way. The second time he found himself slipping down the slope. It took a few stomach-clenching moments before he arrested his fall, digging for footholds and flattening himself against the rocks until his breathing settled. Bolan felt warm blood oozing from grazes on the palm of one hand, and he wiped it across his jacket.

Moving on, he negotiated the fragile surface and pushed himself another fifty feet before he was able to take a break on a dusty ledge. He allowed himself some water, pressing himself back against the rocks. The temperature was high on this exposed slope. Bolan looked out across the empty landscape. It was all sky. Cloudless. He picked out contrails showing against the blue, wondering who the jets belonged to. Bolan knew there were allied aircraft operating high overhead. U.S.? British? There was no way he could determine which at their great height. Were they on their way to initiate an armed strike, or on their way back to base at the conclusion of their mission?




CHAPTER SIX


Four hours in and Bolan was making progress, albeit slow. Reaching a comparatively level section, he rolled into the scant shade of an overhang, placing his back against the hot rock wall. He took his water bottle from its webbing and used a small amount of the warm liquid to moisten his lips. He spit the dusty taste from his mouth and took a couple of sips, just enough to ease his dry throat. Bolan put away the bottle and took the GPS unit from the pocket he’d stored it in. He checked his position and found he had drifted slightly off course. Not by much, but every deviation from the satellite track simply added to his journey time. Bolan figured he could pull himself back on line without too much effort. It was worth a great deal to him right now. He was starting to feel the effects of his climb. Not so much that it would hold him back, but enough to warn him to maintain his steady pace. He used the scarf around his neck to wipe his face, then pulled off his baseball cap and ran a hand through his damp hair. He allowed himself a full ten minutes of rest before pushing to his feet and moving off again.

Once he built up to his steady pace again he kept a regular check of the GPS and after a half hour he was back on track. He estimated that if he kept up this pace he would reach his destination just before dark.

The heights Bolan scaled gave way to what was level terrain for Afghanistan—a jumbled maze of baked and dusty rock and brittle vegetation. Bolan had the MP-5 back in his hands as he made his way, according to the GPS, in a direct line for Sharif Mahoud’s location.

That high up the wind was constant, the fine dust it stirred scratching at his skin. Bolan pulled his scarf across his mouth so he didn’t have to breathe in so much of the fine grit. He kept his MP-5 close to his body, the muzzle angled down and away from the drifting dust.

His last GPS reading had indicated he was close to his destination. The soldier made his way along a dry streambed, the earth underfoot cracked and broken. There hadn’t been water here for a long time.

The whisper of sound might easily have been lost in the wind, but Bolan picked it up. To his left and just behind. He turned the MP-5, snapping into position and locating its target as the newcomer mirrored Bolan’s move.

They faced off, neither man willing to back down, weapons trained on each other, fingers laid against triggers. The only movement the restless flap of the other man’s loose garb, caught by the wind. Bolan saw traditional Afghan dress—sturdy, coarse clothing, a wrapped robe and headdress; strong boots for comfortable travel across the harsh terrain; a belt around the man’s waist with a holstered, modern autopistol and a curved knife; in his strong brown hands an AK-47. Above the neatly bearded face keen eyes surveyed Bolan with unblinking calm.

Bolan knew the face from the photographs he had seen in Brognola’s files.

Dr. Sharif Mahoud, the man he had come to meet. But not dressed the way his photograph had shown him.

It was Mahoud who broke the silence.

“Tell me how you see the Koran.”

“It presents the true believer with the peaceful path he should walk. Not as a handbook of war and injustice.”

The password phrase Mahoud and the U.S. President had decided on.

Mahoud’s eyes remained steady. His gaze penetrated the outer man, looking down into Bolan’s soul. The moment passed. The muzzle of the AK lowered a fraction and Mahoud’s shoulders relaxed.

“You are Cooper?”

“Yes, Dr. Mahoud.”

“Where is Azal?”

“Most likely dead. We were betrayed by a man named Shehan. He must have been in the pay of your enemies. We had been attacked by a roving group of Taliban and had to retreat. Azal took us through the hills and we lost the Taliban, but Shehan turned on Azal and stabbed him before I could stop him. Azal knew he couldn’t keep up with me, so he chose to hold off any Taliban. He stayed behind to give me time.”

“Azal was a good friend. Then how did you find me, Cooper?”

Bolan showed the GPS unit.

“Azal gave me this. Told me it would lead me to you.”

“This man Shehan?”

“He won’t be killing anyone else.”

Mahoud turned, beckoning Bolan to follow him. They walked along the dry bed for a couple hundred yards before Mahoud turned abruptly and led Bolan through tangled scrub, emerging at what looked very much like a narrow slit in the dry streambed. He pushed his way through, Bolan close behind, and after a few feet they emerged in a small clearing with a cave entrance on one side.

Inside, the head-high cave proved to be surprisingly expansive. Mahoud was equipped with relatively few belongings: a bedroll and blankets, a few cooking items, a sturdy backpack.

“As you see, I travel light.”

“Makes it easy to move on.”

“Dangerous times force us to desperate measures.”

Bolan eyed the AK-47 in Mahoud’s grasp.

“So I see.”

“I am not by nature a violent man, Mr. Cooper. By the same token I am also not stupid. If someone makes an attempt to harm me, or a member of my family, I will defend myself.” Mahoud made a vague gesture with the AK. “To the extent of using this.” He smiled wistfully. “So much for the man of peace.”

“Denying yourself the right to live is no answer,” Bolan said. “It benefits no one.”

“Except my enemy.” Mahoud smiled, a weary expression that betrayed his sadness, his dismay at how the region and its people were trapped in the mire of religious and political intolerance. It was a state that had kept the country at war, struggling through years of deprivation and suffering, violence and mistrust. “Afghanistan is once again the prize that others struggle over. Its people are the real victims. Pushed back and forth by the different groups, each working its own agenda. Then the foreign powers who come here and tell us they will liberate us. Make us free so we can plan our own destiny. The destiny of Afghanistan lies in the hands of our invaders. It has been this way for so many decades it is hard to remember when the country was its own master.

“Tell me, Mr. Cooper, how will Afghanistan ever break free from the imposition of those who come here and decide our fate? Who say one year that this group are their allies, and the next declare them to be terrorists? First they arm them, give them great supplies of weapons, and then find those very same groups have turned against the Afghan people and are slaughtering them.”

“I have no answer, Dr. Mahoud. I’m just a soldier sent to protect you and take you to safety. I’m told you are the man who might be able to bring some sanity to this madness. That you have the skills to bring opposing factions to the conference table and get them talking. If that’s true, then it’s worth the risk to enable you to do just that. Someone has to try.”

Mahoud smiled, nodding as he said, “Your President told me he would send me a man I could trust with my life.” He leaned forward to stare at Bolan’s face, looking deep into the American’s eyes. Bolan held his stare, unblinking, aware that Mahoud’s scrutiny might make the difference between acceptance or rejection. “I see no guile. No deceit. But I do see honesty. I see a man who has endured a great deal of adversity and who has learned to overcome. Perhaps together we can confront whatever lies before us and reach sanctuary together.”

Mahoud leaned his rifle against the cave wall beside his makeshift bed. He squatted in front of his cooking stove, a small butane-fueled unit. He set water on to boil.

“Azal’s death serves to show how determined my enemies are to reach me. I hope you realize how much danger you have placed yourself in, Mr. Cooper.”

“Let’s concern ourselves with your safety, Dr. Mahoud.”

“On one condition. We may be together for some time. Too long for you to keep calling me Dr. Mahoud. Call me Reef. Please.”

Bolan nodded. “Matt.”

“I will prepare food, then. While we eat we can talk.”

At the cave entrance Bolan took time to check out the terrain. From this high position he could see for a long way. The Afghan landscape was stark, empty, simply endless miles of bleak rock formations. Serrated and steep-sided, it gave the impression it went on forever. At this higher elevation the wind held constant and Bolan knew once darkness fell the temperature would drop. As the days were hot, the nights were bitter. It wasn’t Bolan’s first time in the country. He had tramped the inhospitable hills and dusty plains on a number of occasions, and he had seen blood spilled. The country had seen its share of bloody war, oppression and divided loyalties. The Afghan people were a resilient breed, a proud warrior class that refused to bend beneath the heel of the invader. It was nothing new. Afghanistan resisted, survived and watched its enemies withdraw.

Squatting in the dust, Bolan took out compact but powerful binoculars from his backpack and spent long minutes scanning the area. His meticulous surveillance told him there were no insurgents around. Even so Bolan maintained a cautious attitude. It was too easy to let himself be convinced the enemy was nowhere around. That kind of thinking could get a man killed. Just because he couldn’t see anyone didn’t mean gunners weren’t out there somewhere. He stayed where he was until Mahoud called him in for the meal.

“This is the last of the food I have with me,” Mahoud explained. “I brought it from the last village I was in. Many Afghan people have helped me as I traveled. Often at possible great risk to themselves. If the local Taliban learned they had been aiding me…” There was no need for him to finish. “They gave me some food at each place, even though they had little. This is all I have left. Rice. Some lamb and onion. Spices.” He smiled at something. “You know, in Paris this would cost a great deal of money in a restaurant. It is a traditional dish. Qorma. Not very fancy but tasty.”

He filled bowls and passed one to Bolan. From a satchel he produced rolled wheat Afghan bread. They broke it and used it to scoop up the spicy stew, eating in silence for a while.

“This makes me appreciate the expensive meals I’ve eaten in Paris restaurants,” Mahoud said. He studied Bolan’s face. “And why then, you wonder, does the man exile himself to a cave in the middle of nowhere, dressed this way?”

“I’d say you’re less likely to get yourself shot than walking around in an Armani suit.”

“Perhaps. But how could I get the locals to take my word seriously from the comparative safety of Paris. Or London. Or New York. I promise them I will plead their case for peace. Should I expect them to believe me if I refuse to walk into their village while I drive through Washington in a bulletproof automobile? Matt, these are men who live and fight in this country. They build their homes from the materials they find around them. They trust someone who will talk to them face-to-face, who will eat what they eat, a man who would walk ten miles to help a neighbor. I will do what I can to try to bring some kind of order here. There is mistrust here, religious intolerance, bigotry, tribal disputes. Expand that across the borders and you will find the same in Iran and Iraq. All across the Middle East.” Mahoud leaned back against the cave wall. “I want to help. I must help. While I am able, I have to try. Does that sound naive to you? Be truthful—am I deluding myself? Am I a lone voice in the wilderness, unheard, ignored?”

Mack Bolan understood Mahoud’s dilemma. The man’s cause mirrored his own struggles against evil. Bolan, too, did what he could because he was able to. If he stood by and allowed evil to flourish, those who were too weak, incapable of fighting back, would simply suffer and perish. Bolan was a warrior trained in the art of war. His unique perspective of the machinery of savagery had placed in his hands and in his heart the will and the ability to fight the battles on behalf of the beleaguered. Bolan did what he did because he was able and he felt himself allied with Mahoud.

“I’d say the opposite. If your cause is having no effect, why are so many out to stop you? Why are there people desperate to silence you?”

Mahoud filled tin mugs with hot bitter coffee, thoughtful as he returned the tin pot to the stove.

“You will have heard about my good friend Jamal Mehet being murdered. And the decoy in Algeria. They were brave men who willingly stood alone so I can make my bid for peace. And now my dear friend Rahim Azal. They have all died because they believed in what I try to do. And I put my family at risk by bringing them here. All that because there are those who are still determined to kill me.”

“Do you have any idea who these enemies are?” Bolan asked.

“Believe me, Matt, I know who they are. Some are from Afghanistan. Those who want me out of the way because I threaten their grip on positions of power. If my particular brand of peace becomes accepted, then there are those who will see their control fade away. Add to them the entrenched religious zealots who use the written words in twisted versions, forcing the ordinary people to bend to their will. They terrorize. Cajole. Turn brother against brother because they refuse to look beyond carved-in-stone obedience to rigid laws. They want me dead. Of that I have no doubt. And there are others from your own country, men who see coming peace as a tragedy because it will weaken their hold on the region. They encourage the radicals, the rabble-rousers, the hotheads so full of rage against the U.S.A. These are their customers. They buy the arms these people offer. They make deals for oil. For long-term agitation. These hyenas feed off the despair of the Middle East. They foment confrontation because it is worth millions of dollars to them. War is big business, Matt. And these men are powerful. Their organizations are worldwide. They have the power to influence the policies of nations, to manipulate and direct governments. They want conflict to continue to maintain their markets. If my upcoming negotiations help to pacify the regions, these men will see their dealings dwindle.” Mahoud paused, smiling at Bolan. “Do I talk too much? I am afraid it is one of my failings.”

“Reef, we need more men who can talk enough to bring adversaries together. Talking is easy, but the kind you bring to the table is special. As long as you are able keep that going, you keep right on speaking. If we don’t talk our way to some kind of accord, the Middle East is going to stay on the path that will simply eat away at all the good.”

Mahoud refilled the coffee mugs. He placed the pot down, thoughtful, then looked directly at Bolan.

“Is my son safe? Is he being protected in America?”

“One of my most trusted people is guarding him.”

“Yes?”

“I’d put myself in his hands if my life was at risk. Whatever happens, he won’t let you down.”

“Well, your President said he would send me a man I should trust. He must think of you very highly.”

Bolan smiled. “We have an understanding. We would never betray each other, or break our word.”

“I wish trust was as easy to gain in my world,” Mahoud said. “Unfortunately it is not. Among those who oppose me betrayal is the watchword. I have little reason to trust anyone.”

“Things are that bad?”

“The reason is simple,” Mahoud said. “I know many of the ones who may attend the meeting are not who they seem. They pretend to be peacemakers, but truly they are in league with the hard-line radicals. And they know if I attend and stand in front of them I will point the finger and expose them. Over the past couple of years I have made it part of my mission to gain a great amount of data on the betrayals and the deceit.

“Deals are made behind closed doors. Money and favors are bartered for loyalty. Matt, if the talks are to offer any chance of reconciliation, no matter how small, then the ones who want to wreck the conference have to be exposed for what they are.”

“And that’s why they seem set on pulling your family apart, to silence you? To make it impossible for you to offer your solutions?”

“These people are desperate. And they will resist me to the last breath.”

“Who controls them?”

“The one with power here in Afghanistan is Mullah Homani. We have been declared enemies for many years. He has denounced the peace accord as nothing more than blasphemy. He condemns it every chance he gets, to anyone who will listen. My sources tell me that many are tired of his radical posturing, the way he urges his followers to make every sacrifice in order to crush my initiative.” Mahoud smiled. “He sends out his followers, convinced they are on missions for God, and that their sacrifices will be rewarded with a wonderful afterlife. This man sits in comparative safety, issuing death sentences, and never once places himself in any kind of danger. His hypocrisy staggers me. He denounces everything that is not of our religion as evil, as corrupting, but orders the deaths of men and women and even children if, in his words, they contribute a threat to God. The sad thing is he will never run short of those who he can bend to his will. He calls himself a peacemaker. Yet he refuses to even discuss that very thing, and is willing to urge hundreds to follow his calling.”

“In reality I guess any leader with influence employs similar actions,” Bolan said. “They all have to call on their people to go to war while they sit in the safety of their offices.”

“An astute observation, and in a way you are correct. But the reasoning behind the call differs here. Homani is urging slaughter. He wants his believers to go out and create rivers of blood, to destroy Western culture, to wipe out Israel. He even wages his Holy War against other Muslims, those who see things differently. The man openly declares he will spread his campaigns across the Middle East. I cannot in all honesty sit back and allow his poison to be spread.

“Homani condemns the West to his followers but also deals with the consortium of Americans whose aim is to bolster his plans, to make him stronger. They promise him weapons and backing to keep the Middle East in a state of war. They profit from the concessions he and his own partners across the region offer—contracts for construction, for rebuilding, minerals, oil, of course. These powerful groups comprise businessmen and politicians, even the military. To them it is a great game that will bring them more power and wealth. They manipulate policy, playing the region as if it is a chess game, seeking the advantage, setting one regime against another.”

“And it’s the people who suffer,” Bolan said. “They become the losers, the refugees, and are dispossessed in their own countries. They lose every time.”

“Now you see why I must carry on. Why I have to try.”

Bolan dropped his coffee mug, reaching for his MP-5. He pushed to his feet and headed for the cave entrance.

“What is it?” Mahoud asked, snatching up his own weapon. “Did you hear something?”

Bolan didn’t get a chance to reply. Shadows loomed large as gunmen rushed the cave entrance, crowding in. Their weapons were up and ready, covering Bolan and Mahoud as they pushed forward. Bolan counted at least seven, maybe eight. He had no chance to tackle them. There were too many.

The superior force failed to stop Mahoud. He rushed at the interlopers, his weapon rising.

“Mahoud, don’t give them the chance…” Bolan yelled.

Mahoud ignored him, pushing the American aside.

His resistance was futile as the group rushed to meet him, someone knocking aside Mahoud’s AK-47. His finger jerked against the trigger, sending a single shot into the cave wall. And then Mahoud was beaten 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. Others took his Beretta and his sheathed knife. He was searched for any other weapons, but all that was found was the GPS unit and Bolan’s triband cell phone. He watched as they were thrown to the cave floor and crushed under heavy boots.

One of the attackers scattered the crushed items across the cave.

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

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

The Taliban fighter laughed. He spoke to his men in the local dialect. His words seemed to humor them. The leader turned back to Bolan.

“Be certain, American. You will remember. I promise you.”

“So will I,” Bolan said.

And he meant it.




CHAPTER SEVEN


The journey lasted at least a couple of hours. The vehicle drove over some of the worst tracks Bolan had ever experienced. The old truck had worn springs, or no springs at all. The fact he was bound hand and foot and had been thrown on the wooden floor did little to ease Bolan’s condition. His body ached from the continuous bouncing as the truck wheels hit every pothole and crevice.

Mahoud lay a couple of feet away, his back to Bolan. He was bound in a similar fashion, his body rocked and jarred by the truck’s passage.

Five armed rebels sat on the side benches, watching over their captives, endlessly talking, and occasionally aiming hard kicks at the prisoners.

Bolan blinked away sweat that ran into his eyes. Inside the canvas-topped truck the heat and the cloying odor from unwashed bodies made the air rank. From the angle of the truck floor, they were climbing. He had no idea where they were. Not that it mattered. Bolan’s only thoughts were centered around how he and Mahoud were going to get free.

It was going to happen. Bolan was convinced of that. He would never allow himself to accept defeat. It wasn’t in his glossary of words. He had always erred on the side of optimism. Until the final breath was taken it didn’t matter how hopeless the situation. There was always a chance to reverse things, to turn a less than positive predicament into success. So while he lay on the truck floor Bolan was looking forward to the moment, and that was all he needed, when he would reverse the way things were now and take control on his terms.

The truck made a final lurch over stony ground and swung in a half circle before coming to a stop.

Rough hands dragged Bolan and Mahoud over the tailgate. The ropes around their wrists and ankles were cut away, and they were marched in the direction of a huddle of crude huts. The village had been cleared and was now being used by the local rebels. The door to one hut was dragged open across the village square and Mahoud was hustled off toward it.

A dusty Toyota 4x4 had been driving ahead of the truck, leading the way. Bolan watched it circle the area and vanish behind one of the huts.

The soldier was hauled off to one of the other huts. His eyes scanned the area, picking out points of interest and seeking possible escape routes. The hut door swung open and Bolan was unceremoniously thrust inside. The door banged shut behind him. He moved to the facing wall and peered through cracks in the stonework where mortar had crumbled and dropped out.

He was able to look across the central area and could see Mahoud’s hut. To the right was a stack of fuel drums. Some yards farther back was the hut where the 4x4 was now parked.

Bolan saw three armed men heading for his hut. He moved to the rear, back to the wall as the door was kicked open and the trio stepped inside. One remained by the door, his AK-47 trained on Bolan. The man in charge of the group was one of Bolan’s visitors.

“What are you doing in Afghanistan?” he asked.

“They told me it’s a nice country for a vacation.”

The butt of an AK-47 swept up and cracked against the side of Bolan’s head. The pain stunned him momentarily. The Taliban rebel planted a big hand against Bolan’s chest and pushed him against the wall.

“Choose what you say with care, American. Your death is of no consequence to me.” He stepped back. “Why are you helping Sharif Mahoud, the blasphemer? He is a traitor to his own people. He has sold his soul to the West.”

“Is that what Homani tells you?”

“Do not defile his name or I will have your tongue torn from your mouth.”

“All Mahoud is doing is trying to bring peace. Isn’t it worth seeing what he has to offer? Or perhaps you don’t want peace.”

The Afghan shook his fist at Bolan.

“I am Ashid Khan. I rule these hills and the people in them. What do you know about my country? Nothing, like all Westerners. You come here and make war on us. The Russians tried and went home like whipped dogs. Now it is the turn of the Americans, Canadians and the British. We will send you all home in coffins.” Khan stepped close, staring deeply into Bolan’s eyes. “For those of my men you have killed, American, I will make sure you remember them up until the moment you die screaming.”

Bolan worked his aching jaw, watching as the leader turned and spoke to the man beside him. He couldn’t hear what was being said, but he understood the message when the butt of the AK-47 was slammed into his stomach. A hard fist clubbed him behind the ear and Bolan stumbled and fell to his knees, dazed by the sheer power behind the blow. When the mist cleared, he was alone again.

On his feet Bolan took another look through the fractured wall. The village looked all but deserted. Only a couple of armed men standing watch.

The violent visitations would occur again. Bolan figured Mahoud was probably being treated in a similar fashion. Most likely worse. The Taliban fighters would be doing their best to gain information from him, and no matter how courageous, Mahoud would talk eventually.

Bolan didn’t want that to happen. He wanted them to make their bid for freedom while they were still physically able. That meant they needed to get out now.

A half hour later Bolan saw two of the Afghans approaching his hut again. That cut down the odds for him.

The hut door opened and one man stepped inside, the second standing just outside. Bolan recognized his visitor as the man who had used his gun butt and fist on him.

Bolan stood, his head lowered, open hands at his sides. He watched the Afghan cross the dirt floor. He snapped out a command, but Bolan didn’t move. The words were shouted this time and the man moved closer, reaching out to shake him. His AK-47 was in his left hand, muzzle down. Over the guy’s shoulder Bolan could see the second Afghan. He had his rifle partially raised, but Bolan was blocked from his sight by the bulk of the man standing in front of him.

The Afghan’s fingers brushed Bolan’s shirt.

Before the man could take hold Bolan erupted into action. He slammed his knee up between the Afghan’s thighs, a brutal, well-aimed blow that struck with crippling force. The Afghan screamed in agony. He would have dropped the AK-47 but Bolan was already reaching for it, turning it in his grip. He kept his eye on the second guy, arcing the rifle around and bracing it against the injured Afghan’s hip. Bolan’s finger squeezed back on the trigger. The Russian combat rifle crackling viciously, sending a burst of 7.62 mm rounds at his target. They cored in through his chest and spun him away from the door. He hit the ground on his back, twisting in pain as his body responded to the internal damage.

Bolan hooked his free arm around the neck of his moaning Afghan and dragged him to the door. The Executioner took a quick look across the square, fixing on the hut where Mahoud had been imprisoned. He could see a couple of armed rebels turning in his direction and started to count down the numbers.

The injured Afghan was wearing a U.S. style harness over his thick coat. Bolan saw a fragmentation grenade on one of the straps. He jerked it free and pushed it into one of the deep pockets in his combat pants. He grabbed his 9 mm Beretta pistol, which had been jammed behind the man’s leather belt. Bolan slammed the Afghan’s head against the stone wall hard enough to crack his skull. As the man slumped to the floor, Bolan’s eyes picked up an armed man running across the square.

The gunner opened fire as he spotted Bolan. Slugs peppered the stone wall near the open door. The Executioner took a couple of steps to clear the door, then launched himself in a full dive toward the ground.

Landing on his left shoulder, he used his forward momentum to keep him moving, then got to his knees, the AK-47 already tracking the movement of the rebel. Bolan triggered a burst, caught the guy in the left thigh, then adjusted his aim and fired again. The Afghan went down, still yelling, as other gunners exited the other huts. Once on his feet Bolan turned, powered forward and slammed up against the first of the stacked fuel drums. Behind him he could hear the yells of anger as his pursuers saw where he was. It didn’t stop Bolan. He raised the AK-47 and snapped a shot at the closest rebel. His burst caught the guy in the jaw, tearing out an ugly chunk of flesh and muscle. The Afghan gave a shriek of pain, dropping his rifle and clutching at the shattered jaw, blood spurting through his fingers. His companions hesitated, a couple of them grabbing the groaning casualty and dragging him away.

Bolan used the break in the action to move himself along the line of drums and out of sight. His reprieve would be short-lived, he knew, and he wanted to make the most of it. As he moved around the end of the row, the soldier heard a raised shout. His time was already up and the Taliban rebels were closing in. He pulled the grenade from his pocket. Pulling the pin, he sprang the lever and dropped the grenade under the closest drum. From the far side of the stacked metal containers he heard the shuffle of feet and the rattle of weapons.

The soldier ducked around the end of the closest hut, wanting to clear the immediate area before the grenade went off.

The sharp sound of the blast preceded the heavier explosion as the volatile fuel blew, a ripple effect as the first explosion scattered shards of metal into the next drum and down the line. The vapor inside the containers ignited, expanding and sending sheets of blazing fuel up and out. The sudden screams of those caught in the surges of burning fuel were quickly lost. Bolan felt the ground underfoot shiver from the blast. The backlash lifted the rear of the standing truck inches off the ground and debris whistled overhead, keen-edged fragments of steel from the ruptured fuel drums.

The moment he was clear of the truck Bolan cut off at an angle, heading directly for the hut that imprisoned Mahoud. He flattened against a stack of timber, leaning out to check the guard. The man was craning his neck, attempting to see what had happened but his position denied him a clear image. All he could see were the rising coils of flame and smoke, the storage shed blocking his view.

Bolan stepped around to the rear of the timber, leaning out with the AK-47 in both hands. He tracked in and held his target, stroked the trigger and saw the guard go down, his skull shattered by the burst. Pushing clear Bolan crossed the open space.

With the knowledge that he was still working against the clock the soldier didn’t hesitate. He moved to the wooden door, raised a booted foot and kicked it open. The force slammed it back against the inner wall, tearing it from one hinge so it sagged crookedly. Bolan followed it in. A robed figure sprang up from a seat, reaching for the AK leaning against the wall. Bolan hit him with a burst that ripped into his chest and tumbled the guy back across the open fire burning in the corner.

There was only one door in front of Bolan. He yanked back the iron bolt and pushed the door open. Mahoud stood in the center of the room, a small wooden stool held in both hands, ready to protect himself.

“Relax, Reef, it’s me.”

Mahoud glanced at the stool, then tossed it aside. “I thought you were never coming.” Then his bloody, battered face split into a smile.

Bolan led the way from the cell, pointing to the AK-47 leaning against the wall. Mahoud snatched it up. Spare magazines sat on a wooden table. The soldier checked them and found they were full. He handed a couple to Mahoud and took the others himself. At the open door Bolan checked the area. The raging blaze had spread to the storage building. Coils of smoke drifted across the area, constantly moved by the persistent Afghan wind. The smoke would give them temporary cover.

“Around the rear,” Bolan said as he exited the hut, Mahoud close behind.

Overhead the midday sky was darkening. Bolan could already feel the drop in temperature. Before they had gone many yards the first drops of rain fell.

Someone began to shout. The cry was taken up, and Bolan spotted half a dozen gunners breaking into full view from around the side of burning storage buildings. Raised weapons began to chatter, slugs whipping up chunks of hard earth.

“Keep moving,” Bolan said.

He turned abruptly, cradling his AK, and opened fire on the advancing Taliban fighters. His first burst caught the lead rebel. The guy went down with both legs shattered, his blood staining the sand as he wriggled in agony. Bolan stood his ground, his weapon firing in short, controlled bursts. Two more gunners were slammed to the ground before the others pulled back. Bolan allowed them no leeway. His autorifle crackling steadily and one more of the Taliban rebels was hit, the guy tumbling awkwardly from the 7.62 mm slugs.

Mahoud skidded around the line of huts, calling out, “We have transport.”

It was the Toyota 4x4 that had accompanied the truck bringing them to the village.

“Let’s go,” Bolan urged.

They sprinted toward the vehicle, Bolan hoping the keys were still in the ignition, and assuming the Taliban’s sense of security within their own territory would allow them that confidence. He yanked open the driver’s door and almost gave a whoop of pleasure when he saw the key in place. On the far side of the Toyota, Mahoud hauled the passenger door open, then turned aside, bringing up his AK. Bolan saw an armed rebel burst into view from the gap between huts. Mahoud’s autorifle hammered out a long burst, 7.62 mm slugs, ripping stone shards from the hut wall and flesh from the Taliban gunner. The man fell back with a sharp cry, his body blossoming red as he absorbed the scything burst. As Bolan turned the key and the Toyota’s engine roared to life, Mahoud rolled into the cab, slamming his door shut.




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