Читать книгу Betrayed - Don Pendleton - Страница 12

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?