Betrayed

“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.”