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.
Bolan slammed the vehicle into gear and released the handbrake. The powerful drive threw the 4x4 forward, tires slipping on the wet surface, the vehicle bouncing over the rough ground as the wheels finally gripped. Bolan searched for and switched on the wipers. The first few strokes smeared dust in greasy streaks across the glass, but the increasing downpour quickly cleared that. The 4x4’s power steering helped Bolan control the erratic course as he swung the vehicle across the open camp, heading it in the direction of the rough trail that had brought them to the deserted village.
As they cleared the main section of the village, Bolan yanking on the wheel to line the Toyota up with the sloping trail, a gunman ran into view from his guard position. Bolan stamped on the gas, sending the 4x4 at the guy. The front of the Toyota hit the Taliban fighter head-on, flipping the screaming man up over the hood. There was a split second when the man’s face was visible through the windshield, then he slid up the glass and bounced across the roof. Twisting, Mahoud was in time to see the broken body slam to the hard ground.
At the first sharp bend in the trail Bolan hugged the wheel, guiding the speeding vehicle as the heavy tread tires slid on the rain-slick surface. The edge of the trail came disturbingly close before he hauled the Toyota back on line.
Instinct made Bolan check the rearview mirror. What he saw, in a jerking image, was one of the Taliban gunmen standing at the head of the trail. The Afghan rebel had an object in his hands that Bolan recognized even at that distance—a Russian RPG-7 rocket launcher.
The rebel shouldered the launcher, tracking the movement of the Toyota as it followed the trail. At the apex of the bend the vehicle was parallel to the head of the trail. Bolan saw the blue-gray coil of smoke as the rocket left the launcher, the missile swooping across the open distance. The RPG wasn’t acknowledged to be entirely accurate over longer distances, but it missed the Toyota by only a few feet. It slammed into the far side of the trail and exploded in a burst of flame, showering the 4x4 with clods of earth and rock. The detonation rocked the Toyota. Bolan felt the rear slide away from him as he fought the wheel.
“Not good,” he heard Mahoud say.
Bolan might have agreed if he hadn’t been busy.
A second missile struck a few yards behind. The force of the blast lifted the rear of the Toyota. For a few heart-stopping seconds the vehicle hung suspended, then it fell back to earth with a hard slam. Mahoud lost his grip on the AK-47 and it dropped into the foot well. He made no attempt to pick it up. He was gripping the sides of his seat, staring out through the windshield.
Bolan saw the trail veering to the left. If they could reach that point they would be shielded from further attack. He pushed down on the pedal and the 4x4 barreled forward. He could feel the slippery trail surface under the wheels as they hurtled toward the bend. He teased the wheel gently now, easing the vehicle into the curve. As they slid around the bend a third missile detonated, falling short but expending enough energy to push the rear of the 4x4 toward the open side of the trail. A heavy chunk of debris slammed into the rear, catapulting the Toyota forward. That halted the slide. Bolan felt the tires bite, giving him more control. He took them clear around the curve in the trail and straightened the vehicle. He eased off the gas and made careful use of the brake, feeling the Toyota reduce speed.
“A drive in the country will never have the same appeal again,” Mahoud said.
Within the next half hour two things happened to affect their situation.
The rain stopped and so did the Toyota. When Bolan checked, he saw the fuel gauge showing empty. He stepped out of the vehicle and could smell gasoline. A quick look under the 4x4 revealed a split in the fuel tank.
“Looks like we’re back on foot,” Bolan said.
Mahoud’s shrug expressed his feelings. “At least we have good weather for it.”
“Until it gets dark.”
Bolan was aware of the temperature drop that would accompany the oncoming night. And that cold would be severe.
Mahoud took some time checking their position. He seemed to be familiar with the area. Bolan saw little difference in the terrain. To him it was all the same. Featureless and far from user-friendly.
“We should go that way,” Mahoud said, indicating a tapering ridge that led off to the south and west. “It will take us down off the hills.” He checked the sky. “If we move fast enough, we should be able to cover a good distance before dark.”
Bolan let Mahoud move ahead, falling in behind the man so he could maintain a watch on their back trail. He felt sure they hadn’t seen the last of the Taliban. The rebels weren’t going to let Mahoud slip away so easily. Not after all the trouble to capture him in the first instance.
A couple of miles on and they had descended some distance. Mahoud moved with the assurance of a man who knew the terrain well. His knowledge of the area was gaining them ground.
But not enough.
A bullet gouged a slab of stone only feet away, the whip crack of sound following, echoing around the stony hills.
A quick glance back showed armed figures emerging from the higher slopes.
Taliban, weapons up and firing.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Bolan reached out and pushed Mahoud forward, sending the man stumbling out of harm’s way. Mahoud dropped into a shallow depression, turning so he could see up the slope.
As more shots clattered from the enemy weapons Bolan stood his ground, tracking his AK-47 on the moving rebels. His finger eased back on the trigger and he sent a searching burst at the Taliban fighter closest to his position. The man jerked aside as 7.62 mm slugs punched into his chest. He fell hard. Losing his grip on his rifle and following it down the uneven rocky slope, his momentum increased until he was bouncing and rolling in the loose-limbed way that only came with death.
“Get down,” Mahoud shouted, using his AK-47 to cover Bolan.
Heeding the advice, Bolan scrambled behind a crumbling slab of rock, slugs slamming into the hard surface an instant after he slid into cover. He about-faced, reaching over the top of the slab to pick out another target, sending a second man sprawling as the rebel reached a close position but refused to take cover himself. The man was screaming in Pashto, the language native to Afghanistan. Bolan knew only a few words and the way the man was yelling he couldn’t make them out. The guy’s rant ceased the moment he took Bolan’s slugs.
Mahoud’s AK was firing single shots steadily, well placed to keep the rebels off balance.
Bolan worked his way alongside Mahoud. He checked out the surrounding terrain, following the run of the depression, which sloped down away from their present position. He turned to look toward the western horizon where the sun was already sinking.
“It’ll be dark soon,” he said. “We’ll have good cover then. If we take this route, we can maybe lose those guys.”
Mahoud nodded. “Whatever you decide.”
“Hit them with some hard fire to make them keep their heads down, then we go. You ready?”
“Yes.”
The AK-47s cracked on full-auto as Bolan and Mahoud expended their magazines, firing in the general d
irection of the Taliban. The sustained fire threw 7.62 mm slugs in deadly streams. The harsh bursts hammered against rock and earth, filling the air with debris, the effect forcing the rebels to stay under cover for the duration.
The moment their weapons locked on empty Bolan slapped Mahoud on the shoulder. “Go,” he said simply.
They turned and headed along the depression, ejecting empty magazines and replacing them, ignoring caution now as they distanced themselves from the enemy who would soon be following. Bolan knew they had a thin window in which to get themselves clear. However narrow, they had to make the most of it.
Shadows were starting to lengthen. The light was fading quickly around them, and darkness would apply dual problems. The rebels would find their tracking abilities restricted, but at the same time Bolan and Mahoud would have their own rate of travel reduced.
Reaching the edge of the depression, Bolan saw the slope fall away in a sheer incline. Even in the fading light he could see the surface was loose, covered in stretches of eroded rock. Checking left and right he saw the incline spread in both directions. He sensed Mahoud close by, and by the look of the man’s face they were both reaching the same conclusion.
“No choice,” Mahoud said.
Both men slung his AK-47, stepped onto the incline and began their descent, feeling the loose surface move beneath their feet almost immediately. The rattle of disturbed shale underfoot would carry for a long way in the thinner air, so the pursuing Taliban would be drawn to the spot. There was nothing Bolan or Mahoud could do to prevent that, so they made no attempt. They simply moved as fast as the shifting incline would allow. Dust began to rise from their passage, clouding the air. When Bolan checked the base of the long incline, he was unable to make it out. The shadows were spreading quickly now as the daylight faded.
Even though he heard the angry cries above him, Bolan kept moving. He couldn’t know how well the rebels could see him and Mahoud, and he had no desire to find out. The abrupt crackle of shots from above told him the Taliban head reached the top of the incline. The shots that came were off target, slamming into the slope around Bolan and Mahoud. The sharp whine of ricochets spun off into the encroaching darkness.
The soldier felt a section of the incline start to slide and heard a startled cry from Mahoud. When he turned toward the man he was barely able to see him. The slide began to pick up speed. More dust rose, making Bolan cough even though he had wrapped his scarf across his mouth, and the gritty feel stung his eyes. He struggled to keep his balance, lost it, and felt his legs sinking deeper into the soft mass of the collapsing slope. It gripped him, dragging him down the incline at an expanding rate.
Bolan lost the struggle. He was pulled down into the darkness, losing his balance. He slammed facedown, feeling the overwhelming mass of loose stones covering him. There was a roaring sound in his ears as the fall tumbled and rolled him, bruising his body as he was swept away like a drowning man in a flood.
CHAPTER NINE
A weight was pressing down on Bolan, pinning him the full length of his aching body. Darkness surrounded him when he opened his eyes, and it took a moment for him to recall what had happened—the Taliban following him and Mahoud; he and Mahoud plunging down the steep incline; the struggle against the shifting surface that had dragged them into the utter darkness at the bottom…
Bolan drew a deep breath, tasted the dust in his mouth. He flexed his limbs. Nothing appeared to be broken, but every muscle screamed for release from the weight pressing down on them. He moved, felt the rocks above him shift.
“The hell with this,” Bolan said softly.
He worked his hands beneath him, found some semblance of support and pushed up hard, feeling shards of stone fall away as he continued his efforts. Bolan’s aching body demanded he stop. His abused muscles screamed for release from the extra strain he was putting them through. Bolan closed his mind to the pain, aware that if he quit now he literally might lay down and die. He was far from ready to do that. This temporary setback needed to be overcome. He managed to pull his legs into a kneeling position, which helped to give him more leverage. Bolan paused long enough to gather strength, then heaved again, the sound of tumbling rock like thunder in his ears. Only now could he taste blood in his mouth from a cut on the inside of his cheek. That at least told him he was still alive. His head broke free, cold air hitting him like a slap in the face. It had never felt more welcome. A final push and he was on his knees, free of the restricting weight.
Bolan sucked in the chill air, feeling the burn in his aching lungs. When he raised a hand to his aching head, he felt the warm slick of blood from cuts and grazes. He stayed on his knees, staring around him. Overhead a pale moon gleamed through scudding clouds. Faint light showed him the spread of the rockslide, which was substantial. It seemed he and Mahoud had disturbed half the Afghan landscape.
The soldier lurched to his feet, hauling his AK-47 from his back, awareness returning with a vengeance.
Where was Mahoud?
Was the Taliban still around, waiting?
He stared into the semidark, attempting to break shadow into substance. Bolan saw nothing except the spread of fallen stones. Beyond the range of his vision there was the Afghan night. Empty and cold. He realized just how cold it was. The wind that had brought constant heat during daylight hours now blew in and enveloped him in its icy grip. He could hear the low moan as it sifted through the rocky terrain. Bolan braced himself against the chill, lowering his gaze to the loose surface at his feet.
He had to locate Mahoud.
He recalled the man had been on his right as they first negotiated the incline. But which way had they both fallen as the tide of rock had swept them to the deep base of the long slope? Bolan had been swept along himself, turned back and forth, end over end, and by the time he’d reached the base of the slope he had no idea where he had been deposited. Mahoud had obviously undergone similar treatment. He could be anywhere within a wide radius. Maybe buried deeper than Bolan. Unconscious.
Dead.
Bolan refused to accept that. Until he saw Mahoud’s body, the man was alive.
The sound came from his left, yards away, the stirring of loose stone disturbed by some unseen source. As Bolan turned in that direction, he heard the rattle increase, and he moved in on the source.
And as Bolan bore down on the location he picked up the soft muttering of someone not too happy at being buried beneath a mass of sharp rocks.
Sharif Mahoud rose out of the rockslide like something from a horror movie, pushing to his feet with a loud gasp drawing fresh air into his starved lungs. He swayed on his feet, turning in Bolan’s direction when he heard his approach.
“It’s me,” Bolan said.
“I have lost my weapon,” Mahoud replied. He patted his clothing. “But I still have extra magazines.”
“You hang on to them,” Bolan said. “I have a feeling we may still need them.”
“Why? Is the Taliban still here?”
“I don’t think so. Too dark to see much. So I suggest we move out in case they’re still close by.”
“You are right. We should go.”
“Are you hurt? Any broken bones?”
“I’m cut and bruised all over. My head aches. This damned dust does not get to taste any better, either.”
“We were lucky,” Bolan said.
Mahoud laughed sharply. “Lucky? Matt, let me know when things get bad and I’ll quietly leave.”
“Let’s move out. The more distance we can make, the better I’ll feel.”
“As soon as it is light, they will be back.”
CHAPTER TEN
In the first couple of hours of the new day Bolan and Mahoud were crossing a dusty section of the plateau. They had little choice. Staying out in the open was forced on them by the fact there was little real cover where they were.
They had barely slept during the night, preferring to keep moving so the cold didn’t engulf them. Dusty and bruised from their roc
kslide, they moved slowly across the inhospitable landscape, watching, checking all around them in case the Taliban tried different options.
Bolan heard the first distant sound and came to a dead stop, scanning the sky. The sound faded, then returned. Each time it came back it was louder.
“That’s all we need,” he said.
“Is that what I think it is?” Mahoud asked.
Bolan had already identified the sound. It was a helicopter. But the configuration didn’t sound like any military chopper. It was lighter, suggesting a civilian helicopter. That gave him further concern.
Mahoud touched his arm. “Over there.”
Bolan followed his finger and saw a pair of Taliban rebels on a nearby ridge. One was holding a transceiver to his ear as he spoke rapidly. His right arm was signaling, indicating Bolan and Mahoud’s position.
“He’s guiding the chopper in,” Bolan said.
As the words were spoken, the helicopter hove into view, sweeping up out of a low depression, moving fast. It was a sleek machine, dark blue and black, with a narrow orange stripe angling across the fuselage. Light bounced off the tinted canopy.
Bolan reached out and caught a handful of Mahoud’s robe, hauling the man to him, then pushed hard. The roar of the rotors filled his ears as the dark bulk of the chopper loomed large.
The sharp crackle of autofire canceled out any other sounds. A line of heavy slugs hammered the ground, kicking up debris.
At the last moment Bolan yanked Mahoud off balance, almost throwing the man into the cover of a canted boulder the size of a small house. His move caught the chopper’s pilot off balance and the machine overshot. Bolan knew they would have only a short respite before the pilot swung around and came for them again. And if the gunner fixed them in his sights…
He saw there was a gap at the base of the boulder, wide and high enough for a man to take cover.
“In there, Reef, and don’t make a fuss.”
Betrayed Page 7