“Understood.”
“Aaron just came up with a tie-in for Kate Murchison,” Brognola interjected, “the real name of Rafiq Mahoud’s girlfriend. She’s in the system. Been arrested a few times for assault and fraud. Her photo shows her as young and attractive, but she’s known to be a hardass and has a violent temper. Not a nice lady. Word is she’s been involved with a guy named Greg Marino for the past couple of years. Marino is ex-military, and was kicked out of the Army for suspected theft of military weapons. Military CID couldn’t get enough evidence to convict after their main witness was found dead. All they could do was recommend Marino be discharged. Word is Marino runs a tight little crew ready to hire out to anyone who comes up with the cash. The sad end of my story is Kate Murchison’s logged phone calls were to Greg Marino.”
“What we need to know now is who Marino is contracted out to,” Bolan said.
“We’re on it.”
“Signing off now.”
“Watch yourself out there, Striker.”
“Always do,” Bolan said.
IT HAD BEEN HARD persuading Mahoud to stay behind. The man wanted to see his family and was prepared to join Bolan. It took the soldier some time to make the man see it wasn’t a wise move. He reminded Mahoud of the problems they had encountered getting to safety. Bolan had no intention of exposing Mahoud to further threats. He would have been the first to admit he had little idea who was behind the attempts on Mahoud’s life while they had been trekking through the hills. The repeated attempts told Bolan there was a concentrated effort being waged against Mahoud. He had detailed this to Lieutenant Pearson and stressed that Mahoud needed around-the-clock protection.
“The people opposing him are determined, LT. Taliban, rebels, paid killers—call them what you like. Mahoud is their target and they don’t give up. His peace initiative has upset a lot of people. Bottom line is, they want the guy out of the picture.”
“Look around, Cooper. This is a pretty well-armed camp. I think we can keep Dr. Mahoud secure. If those hostiles try to pull him out of here, they’re going to face some heavy resistance.”
Bolan nodded. “That’s good. I’m going to get some chow, then hit the sack for a couple of hours.”
“The medics look after you okay?”
“They did.”
Pearson grinned, checking out Bolan’s fresh combat fatigues.
“You look a lot better than when you arrived. When you’re ready, the chopper will fly you to your drop-off point. They can take you in pretty close. Hostiles are used to our air patrols so a helicopter isn’t going to bother them too much. You sure you don’t want any backup on this?”
“Grateful for the offer, LT, but I need to work this solo. No offence meant.”
“None taken. You got all the equipment you need?”
“I’m fine.”
AFTER THREE HOURS of uninterrupted sleep Bolan geared up. He downed a mug of black coffee before he checked with Pearson and told him he was ready to move out. On the way to the helicopter Bolan stopped to speak to Mahoud. The man had accepted he was going to stay behind, but he was fixated on the safety of his family.
“You will bring them to me here alive. You promise?”
They both knew he was placing a heavy burden on Bolan’s broad shoulders. They also both knew Bolan couldn’t give a hundred percent assurance. Mahoud understood but refused to accept the downside of the mission.
“I’ll give it everything I have, Reef.”
“Good enough, my friend. Go with God and my blessing.”
The waiting chopper, with pilot and navigator, was powered up and ready.
“Good luck,” Pearson said.
He stood beside his Hummer and watched Bolan walk across to the aircraft and climb in. The chopper rose smoothly, banking sharply once it reached height and the pilot settled it on course.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The outpost clung to the side of a rocky hill, its stone construction crumbling and weathered. At the end of a winding trail stood the village. Dusty and isolated, little had changed for decades. It was all but deserted. The border was less than a half mile from the village. At first glance there didn’t appear to be much in the way of movement in the area.
Mack Bolan knew different.
He had been watching both the village and the outpost for a couple of hours, using powerful binoculars supplied by the military along with the rest of his equipment. He wore combat fatigues, carried an M-16 A carbine, with an M-9 Beretta holstered on his right hip. Bolan also carried a 7-inch combat knife, with a black epoxy-coated carbon steel blade. He wore it strapped against his left thigh in a black leather sheath. The M-16 was slung across his back and over his fatigues he wore a combat rig holding extra magazines. In one pouch nestled a sound- and flash-suppressor for the Beretta. Bolan also carried a handheld transceiver, hooked to his waist belt, so he could call for pickup.
His recon had supplied Bolan with relevant information about the situation around the outpost.
The village appeared to have a trio of armed men positioned at the head of the street where they could see anyone approaching the outpost. A light-colored 4x4 was parked between a couple of buildings. He had also spotted two more men watching the outpost from a position two hundred yards down the road.
It looked as if the opposition’s intel had located Mahoud’s wife and daughters. They were on site, hopefully waiting for Mahoud to show up so they could grab him—or shoot him on sight.
Bolan slid back into cover and checked his watch. A half hour remained until dark. He was forced to wait until nightfall. There was no way he could reach the outpost during daylight hours. There was too much open ground with little cover.
BOLAN DIDN’T MOVE until a good half hour after full dark.
He circled the checkpoint, working his way to the rear, using empty huts as cover. He finally eased between close-spaced huts and crouched just short of the 4x4. He could hear the three Afghanis conversing in Pashto. To one side was a small fire with a metal pot that held steaming tea. Bolan could smell the strong brew from where he crouched.
A keen wind was spiraling across the valley. It tugged at the clothing of the three men, lifting coarse dust that drifted across the area.
Bolan slung the M-16 and unleathered the Beretta. He slid its suppressor from the pouch on his rig and threaded it onto the barrel.
The Executioner clicked off the safety, picked his first target and didn’t delay.
The head shot dropped the guy to the ground without a sound.
While the two Afghans spent seconds attempting to source the shot, Bolan racked back the Beretta’s slide.
He targeted his second man and caught the guy as the Afghan half turned, starting to lift his own rifle. The 9 mm slug cored in between the eyes, the velocity taking it through the skull and into the brain, pushing out a wedge of bone before it stopped short of exiting fully.
The surviving Afghan gave a yell, his AK-47 rising.
Bolan knew he had to stop the man before he opened fire and alerted the other watchers along the monastery road.
The numbers fell with startling speed.
The Afghan’s finger slid into the trigger guard, his eyes searching for a target.
Bolan worked the Beretta’s slide, his hand directing the muzzle, lining up on target. The pistol chugged once, brass flipping from the ejection port.
The guy fell back across the fire, Bolan’s slug tunneling into his chest and perforating his heart, knocking the steaming tea can aside. His rifle clattered unfired to the hard ground.
The Executioner stepped around the 4x4, checking to see if the vehicle was ready to move. He found the key in the ignition and took it, dropping it in a pocket. The vehicle would be a backup means of transport if anticipated help failed to arrive.
Before he set off along the road he racked the Beretta’s slide again. It took him twenty minutes to close in on the two men standing watch outside the old outpost. They were squatting in the dust
, blankets draped around their shoulders against the windchill.
Bolan dispatched the pair with a couple of shots from the suppressed Beretta. He slipped around to the west side of the building, flattening himself against the crumbling stone wall. His instincts warned him to check out the interior before making any deliberate entry. As the mission had advanced, revealing obvious breaks in Mahoud’s security, Bolan was now working on the assumption nothing could be taken at face value.
The man’s family was supposed to be established here in safety, but hostile forces had been waiting. The thought occurred that when he did get inside he might find Mahoud’s family already removed—or worse.
Bolan stayed low, moving along the side of the building until he reached the rear. Thick weeds had grown along the base of the wall, the ground underfoot littered with scattered refuse. Midway there was a small window, next to it a narrow, rotting wooden door. As Bolan closed in on the window, he saw a faint gleam of lamplight showing in the square. Crouching beneath it Bolan picked up faint sound. He pushed upright, keeping his head below the window. The sound was still there, faint but audible.
Someone was talking in a low monotone, then he realized it was someone in prayer. The voice was young, reciting the verses with confidence.
Stepping to one side of the window, Bolan peered inside the room. It was bare of furniture. An oil lamp hung from a hook on one wall, throwing a soft circle of orange light that reached out to show the kneeling figure of a slender girl. She was dressed in jeans and a sweater, with a pair of sturdy boots on her feet. A soft scarf covered her head. When she lifted her head, Bolan got a clear view of her face and recognized her from the photographs in the file Brognola had supplied at the start of the mission.
Amina Mahoud, the younger daughter, was twelve years old, large-eyed and pretty.
It confirmed without a doubt that Mahoud’s family was still here.
Bolan moved to the door. Light from the oil lamp gleamed dully through the weathered timber. He checked it. The door was secured by a simple wooden latch, which he raised and eased open the door. It moved easily on heavy iron hinges and made no sound. He opened the door far enough so he was able to look inside the room.
The girl had lowered her head as she continued her devotions, the sound of her young voice as gentle as a warm summer breeze.
Bolan eased inside the room, pulled the door shut behind him and stood silently, his Beretta in his right hand. Out of respect for Amina he waited until the girl completed her prayers.
When she finished Bolan was ready to move. Amina abruptly raised her head and stared directly at him. Her beautiful brown eyes regarded his shadowy figure, flicking briefly to the pistol in his hand. Bolan immediately lowered the weapon, pressing it against his thigh in a non-threatening gesture. He stretched out his left arm, palm of his hand held toward the girl.
“Don’t be frightened, Amina. I’m not here to harm you. Your father sent me to take you away from here. Back to where he’s waiting for you all.”
She regarded him silently, those innocent eyes full of questions, assessing him with the uncomplicated candor of the very young.
“Is Daddy safe now?”
“Yes. He’s at an American military base being guarded by soldiers.”
“Has he been arrested?”
Bolan smiled. “No. He’s with friends. Safe from the men who want to harm him.”
Amina stood, the scarf slipping from her head to rest around her slender shoulders. Her hair was thick and black, shining in the lamplight.
“I’m telling you the truth, Amina.”
The girl took a step toward him, her face solemn as she said, “Yes. I know you are. What’s your name?”
“Call me Matt.”
“Can we go to Daddy now?”
“First we have to tell your mother and your sister, Raika. Are you all alone here?” Bolan asked.
She nodded.
“There are men outside watching us. They’re bad men.”
“You don’t have to worry about them any longer. Let’s go and talk to your mother.”
She reached to take Bolan’s hand, a natural, trusting gesture. They walked out of the room into a bleak passage. At the end of the passage an open doorway led into a larger room that faced the approach road. There was no furniture. Just sleeping bags and blankets on the bare floor. A couple of oil lamps were the only illumination. There was a small butane cooking stove, utensils and cans of food. Water came from a large plastic container.
Two women were in the room, equal in height and build. They were dressed like Amina in plain, serviceable clothing and boots, all-weather jackets.
One of the women turned as Bolan and the girl stepped into the room. Bolan knew this was Mahoud’s wife, Leila. She was in her early forties and despite the situation a beautiful woman. She was tall and slim. Her fine, well-drawn features were framed by hair as black as Amina’s, and worn in a short style that was both practical and enhancing. She regarded Bolan silently, her eyes keen and not missing the way her younger daughter gripped his big hand with her own. Bolan kept the Beretta as much out of sight as he could, but Leila didn’t miss its presence.
“This is Matt,” Amina announced brightly. “Daddy has sent him to take us to him.”
Leila Mahoud absorbed her daughter’s statement in silence, assessing him with her intelligent eyes.
“How do we know? How do we know he has not been sent by Homani?”
Bolan glanced at the speaker. Raika Mahoud was a younger version of her mother. She was nineteen years old, with the same features, but leaner. Her beauty was edged aside by a hardness in her expression. The brown eyes held a fiery defiance that held Bolan’s gaze. He noticed that her hands, down at her sides, were pulled into taut, knuckle-white fists. There was a lot of anger in the young woman’s stance.
“Yes,” Leila said, “how do we know you are not from Homani, or any of those people who follow him?”
“Because he said he was from Daddy,” Amina said, “and I believe him.”
“Oh, come on,” Raika snapped. “You’re a child.”
Bolan felt Amina’s fingers grip even harder as she returned her older sister’s aggressiveness.
“You are so a bully,” she said.
Raika leaned forward, one hand lifting. She was held back when her mother reached out and gently held her back.
“My name is Matt Cooper, Mrs. Mahoud. I was sent to escort your husband to a safe haven and bring you to him. This was a request coming from the U.S. President on behalf of Dr. Mahoud. Your son, Rafiq, is being looked after by a colleague.”
“Is my husband injured?”
Bolan managed a slight smile as he said, “The trip out was a little hectic. We made it with a few cuts and bruises. If Reef is as good a talker as he is a fighter, those meetings are going to be well served.”
Bolan noticed the proud rise of Leila’s chin when he mentioned her husband’s courage.
“Yes, Mr. Cooper, I can tell you he is. And I can see you have gone through a rough journey. You know, there are not many people who call my husband Reef. It is not something he reveals to many people these days.”
“You see,” Amina insisted. “I told you he knew Daddy.”
“You expect us to trust you because you know that?” Raika said. “That is just the sort of thing an assassin would learn to use.”
“If I was here to kill you, would I be wasting my time in conversation?”
“Whoever you are, you will be aware of not only my father’s skill as a negotiator, but also the fact he has important information hidden away. Perhaps you want to use us to obtain that information.”
“If that’s the case why have you been left alone here? Why didn’t those men outside ask you the same thing while they waited for your father? They would want you alive so that if they capture him he could be threatened with your lives.”
“This is all very interesting,” Leila said. “Mr. Cooper, we are in your hands. These hills a
re full of rebels devoutly opposed to my husband. How do you intend to spirit us away? On a magic carpet?”
“The closest I can manage is a military helicopter.” Bolan took out the transceiver. “One call and they can home in on the in-built tracker. It should take them an hour or so to reach us.”
Leila turned to her daughters. “Make sure you are both properly dressed for the journey. We leave everything else behind.”
Amina moved immediately to do as her mother had instructed. It took Raika a little longer. She stared across at Bolan, making no attempt to conceal her hostility.
“Excuse Raika,” Leila said. “She is young. Full of conflicting emotions. The past few weeks have been hard on us all. These are difficult times.”
Bolan nodded. Yet something was telling him to keep a close eye on Raika Mahoud.
He felt Leila’s hand on his arm. She edged him to the far side of the room before she spoke.
“Tell me the truth. How did you get by those men outside?” She brushed the barrel of the Beretta. “I see the silencer on your weapon. Are they dead?”
She was looking directly at him as she spoke. Bolan returned her stare without flinching.
“Yes. The two outside and others near the village.”
Leila drew breath, her hand at her throat. “Does this not bother you?”
“It bothers me. But in war these things are inevitable.”
“Are we in a war, Mr. Cooper?”
“You understand the answer to that, Mrs. Mahoud,” Bolan stated. “Your husband, too. If he had been unable to grasp what it means, he wouldn’t have been able to fight alongside me when his enemies surrounded us.”
Betrayed Page 10