Betrayed

“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.