Читать книгу Betrayed - Don Pendleton - Страница 14

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.