Betrayed

by Don Pendleton

  In the meantime the problem of Mahoud still remained. Since the abortive strike at Château Fontaine the man and his family had disappeared. They had obviously been relocated, but no one seemed to be able to find out where. Until they were found, the possibility of another attempt against Mahoud remained moot.

  A soft footfall behind Homani made him turn. He saw it was Asadi. The expression on the man’s face informed the mullah he had no good news, either.

  “I expect you have come to tell me Bouvier is dead?” Homani inclined his head. “I already know. You are not the only one with informants.”

  Asadi looked taken aback, unused to being spoken to in such a manner.

  “So we are still stumbling around in the dark?” Homani went on.

  “This American protecting Mahoud is no fool. Where he has taken the family is beyond us at the moment, but we will find them.”

  “I seem to recall the same promise earlier.” Homani held back from saying anything further. He sensed Asadi’s frustration. Whatever else he might have been, Homani retained the ability to understand human frailty. Asadi was angry with himself. A personal attack on the man would do nothing except raise his defenses and cause him to doubt his own ability. So he changed tack.

  “What are they saying in there? Our dear American allies?” Homani queried.

  The words almost made Homani choke. His need to remain close to Hartman and his odious second in command, Dane, was placing a great deal of strain on him. Play-acting didn’t suit him. He wanted rid of them. But until he could establish himself as the supreme master at the conference, he was going to have to remain their “friend.”

  “They’re like children. All they do is chatter on about regional stabilization. Redistribution of resources. Take from here. Increase financial strength there. I swear that if I have to listen to much more, I will slit their throats myself and bleed them on their expensive carpets.

  “They talk about our lands as if they already owned them. And we are nothing but figures they can move around at will. Their smugness appalls me. Like all Americans, they really believe money is the answer. That with it they can buy the world and everyone will fall to their knees in gratitude.”

  “Ali, have patience. When we have what we need from them, our day will come. They will be shown the way. Made to realize we are more than foreigners who dress in robes and spend our days in prayer. They have no understanding that we are guiding the way. Let them throw their money and weapons at us. We take it all, and when we are ready we will give the orders and watch them crawl on their knees at our bidding.”

  “I sit at that table and I listen. These fools talk too freely because they believe I am with them. All morning I have been forced to hear about their plans to deal with Mahoud. This information he is supposed to have. They are worried about it. They seem to believe it is of great importance, that it could bring down many people here and in America and Europe. Do you think this is so?”

  “Sharif Mahoud is a clever man. If he has been collecting all this material, and I have no reason not to believe it to be so, then there is the chance it could bring many down.”

  “Good or bad for us?”

  Homani smiled. “A good question. If it eliminates the credibility of respected men, then we could use it as a weapon to strengthen our own cause. Belittling a man, especially one who has great pride, can have an effect as damaging as a bullet.”

  Homani’s cell phone rang. Asadi watched his expression change as he received the message.

  “Good,” was all he said at the end. He lowered the cell. “We have them. A small hotel in Paris.”

  “I will assemble a team,” Asadi said.

  Homani raised a hand. “Let us wait before doing anything,” he said. “If Mahoud believes he is safe, he will go and collect his data. He has to collect it before leaving for the conference. Once he has it, we can move in and take it.”

  “And then?”

  “Then he can die.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Cujo checked that his weapon was secure, turned without a word and waded into the water. He pushed against the current, maintaining a direct line as he crossed.

  “That Indian is crazy,” Grover said.

  “No. He’s mad because he was shot and Benning got away.”

  Grover touched the side of his face where Lyons had hit him. The top of his skull was still aching, too.

  “Don’t remind me,” he said.

  “Todd, you must have let him get too close,” Kate mimicked.

  “Hey, look at him go,” Jake said.

  They watched Cujo wade ashore and start up the side of the gorge, moving in a sure-footed way that took him up the rocky slope fast and easy.

  Marino slung his weapon across his back. He took the transceiver clipped to his belt and activated it.

  “Move out, people, this isn’t a vacation we’re on. We lose that kid, we don’t get paid. Remember?”

  “Who needs money when we’re having a fun time?” Kate said. “Jesus, this water’s cold.”

  Grover laughed as he followed her into the river. “You should wear pants.”

  “Todd, you don’t have the legs for shorts like these.”

  “Will you two quit the small talk,” Marino said. “It’s like running a kindergarten class.”

  He raised the transceiver and began to speak into it.

  “At least Cujo is getting his kicks,” Harper said, spotting Cujo just before he vanished from sight over the lip of the gorge.

  “I hope he saves enough for me,” Kate muttered sourly. “I owe that son of a bitch Benning.”

  “You’re just grumpy ’cause you wet your shorts,” Grover said.

  CUJO LOOKED BACK once as he reached the top of the gorge. The rest of his crew was starting to cross the river. He shook his head at their struggles through the current. They were going to be a long way behind. He had no intention of waiting for them.

  He cast around and found the tracks left by Benning and Rafiq. The others were going to have to do the same. He figured Marino the most likely to pick up the trail. He was the most experienced of the group after Cujo. Marino had served and knew his battlefield techniques. He’d keep the others on track. The Apache hoped to have the matter sorted by the time they caught up. The boy would present no kind of a problem. Benning was another matter. The guy had proved himself by his breakout from the cabin. The thought made Cujo aware of his shoulder. It still ached from the slug that had creased it, tearing flesh and leaving a tender wound. The side of his face was still tender where he had pulled out the wood splinters. It made him wary of the man. And he hadn’t forgotten Benning had a loaded gun.

  Cujo swung his own weapon from his shoulders, made sure it was ready for use, then loped forward into an easy, distance-eating run. His eyes scanned the way ahead, keeping the tracks left by Benning and Rafiq Mahoud in plain sight.

  His quarry had no vehicle, and were on foot, without food or water. Benning had looked fit, the boy less so. He would slow Benning down. The Justice agent would stick with him. Mahoud was in his charge now and Benning’s training would click in. He would do everything he could to keep the boy safe, even if it meant putting his own life at risk. That was the way those agents were indoctrinated. Nothing else mattered except the safety of their charges. It was the kind of dedication Cujo understood.

  Loyalty.

  Honor.

  Sacrifice even.

  The problem was these days most people had forgotten those things. Cujo held to those traditions. They had been inbred into the Apache psyche for generations.

  When he caught up to Benning he would still kill the guy, because that was what you did to an enemy. It didn’t mean you couldn’t respect him.

  An hour later Cujo felt he was getting close. Benning had tried to reduce his sign, using hard ground whenever he could. Twice Cujo lost the tracks. When that happened he took time to study the ground, searching for where Benning and the boy had been forced to return to
softer ground. Cujo had already seen that Benning was moving steadily west, so it proved easy to pick up the tracks again.

  Crushed grass. Broken twigs on the brush. Benning was good but he was no Apache. Once Cujo found footprints in wet mud where his runaway pair had crossed a patch of ground softened by a runoff from a spring bubbling from underground. There were knee prints close by, too, where they had paused to drink from the water source. Cujo drank from the chill water himself before moving on.

  He abruptly stopped, freezing on the spot as he sensed something out of place.

  The prints in the soft mud.

  Too obvious. Meant to catch Cujo’s attention.

  They were made deliberately, because Agent Benning wouldn’t be so clumsy as to accidentally leave them.

  Cujo saw a flicker of sunlight reflecting from metal off to his right, coming from a patch of brush.

  Gun, Cujo thought.

  He reacted immediately, throwing himself to the side, but realized his mistake as a shadow fell across him from behind.

  Carl Lyons’s body slam threw Cujo forward. The Apache stumbled and Lyons dropped to the ground, twisting his body into a powerful leg sweep that took Cujo’s feet from under him. He slammed to the ground, the impact winding him briefly. Lyons rolled to his feet, a booted foot slamming the SMG from Cujo’s hand. Lyons snatched the weapon from the ground and hurled it aside. Grunting in annoyance Cujo sucked air back into his lungs and powered off the ground. As fast as he was, he walked into a solid right fist that smashed into his jaw, tearing open his lower lip. Lyons followed through with an equally heavy left that cracked hard against his adversary’s cheek. It split the flesh, snapping Cujo’s head around.

  The Native American pulled back to give himself breathing space and a chance to gather himself. His head hurt from the stunning blows. Disregarding the pain, he lunged at Lyons, catching him around the waist. Cujo was no lightweight. He planted his feet apart and lifted the Able Team leader clear off the ground. He held the position for long seconds, crushing the man in his powerful embrace, until Lyons slammed the point of his elbow down across the base of Cujo’s neck. Lyons repeated the blow a few times, feeling his opponent’s grip slacken a little. As the man’s grip eased, Lyons planted his open palm across Cujo’s face and pushed hard, forcing the man’s head back.

  Lyons could feel blood wet against his hand. He drew his palm back, then slammed the heel of his hand into Cujo’s nose. He put every ounce of his strength into the blow. Cujo’s nose disintegrated, cartilage collapsing. Blood gushed from the crushed nose. Cujo howled, shaking his head from side to side in pure agony, his long hair fanning out. His concentration broken, Cujo lost his grip and Lyons was able to slip free. He grabbed handfuls of the Apache’s hair and yanked his head down without hesitation, swinging his right knee up to connect with the man’s face. Lyons followed with an elbow punch to the throat. Cujo toppled backward and fell stiff-legged to the hard ground, the back of his skull slamming down hard.

  Bending over the Apache, Lyons checked the man’s pockets. Cujo wasn’t carrying anything of interest, apart from a heavy bladed knife in a leather sheath, which he took. Lyons crossed to where Cujo’s H&K had landed. He ejected the magazine and tucked it behind his belt, then threw the empty weapon into the center of a spread of tangled brush. Turning back, he crossed to the patch of the brush that had caught Cujo’s attention. Leaning forward he pulled out the H&K he had wedged into the tangle; it was the SMG, catching sunlight, that had attracted the sharp-eyed Apache.

  “Rafiq, you can come out now.”

  The young man raised himself from a grassed-over depression where he had been lying. As he joined Lyons, he was unable to prevent himself from looking at Cujo’s prone form, shaking his head at the bloodied face.

  “I’ve never seen anything like that before,” he said. “Is he…?”

  “Dead? He could be,” Lyons said. He placed a hand on Rafiq’s shoulder and turned him away.

  “Why didn’t you shoot him? I mean, he had a gun. Wouldn’t it have been less risky?” Rafiq asked.

  “Maybe,” Lyons said as they moved away. “Think about it. Shots would have told his partners where we were. Drawn them here faster.”

  “Oh. Yeah, I see that now.”

  “Here, take this and try not to cut yourself.” Lyons handed over the knife he had taken from Cujo. “It’s sharp.”

  “I’ll do my best to remember that,” Rafiq said with a grin.

  Ahead, the spread of undergrowth and trees began to thicken again. They were still out in the open when Lyons caught an all too familiar sound.

  He stood and searched the sky. The sound became sharper. Rafiq had heard the same noise. He thrust an arm to the north.

  “There. A helicopter. You see it, Benning?”

  “I see it,” Lyons said, watching the distant dark spot growing larger. And it appeared to be heading directly for them.

  “Hey, look at him come.”

  Lyons was looking, and he was beginning to wish the helicopter wasn’t coming on so fast.

  “Could be a rescue party from your agency,” Rafiq said.

  “It’s not,” Lyons said. “And it isn’t from the Forestry Service.”

  “So who is it from?”

  “You want me to spell it out in simple words?” Lyons asked.

  “I guess not.”

  “So let’s hit those trees as fast as we can. At least we’ll have cover.”

  They picked up their pace, breaking into a run as the helicopter swooped down, angling in from the right, and the sharp stutter of autofire reached their ears. Bullet hits kicked up grass and dirt. The chopper roared in over their heads, banking sharply to turn and come in again.

  It was, Lyons decided, coming in too fast.

  Too soon.

  Too damn soon…

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Kerim nudged his partner.

  “There they are,” he said. “Mahoud and the American.”

  “I see them,” Rashid said.

  He leaned forward and turned on the ignition. The Renault’s engine caught, ticking over quietly. Kerim took out the transceiver he carried and thumbed the transmit button.

  “We have them in sight. Dark blue SUV.” He read the license plate. “Follow the plan. We cannot afford to make any more mistakes. It was foolish when they tried to take Mahoud earlier, before he had picked up the data. If Mahoud does get his information, then we can take him. Not before.”

  Rashid concentrated on the SUV, moving as it did, and merging with the traffic. He stayed at least three vehicles behind the SUV. A quick check in his rearview mirror confirmed that the other two cars had fallen in behind him. While Kerim spoke into the transceiver Rashid watched the SUV, ready to turn if it did.

  They drove at a steady pace. Traffic wasn’t heavy, which, to Rashid, was both good and bad. It meant it was easy for him to keep the SUV in his sight, but on the negative side it could leave him open to being spotted if he stayed on its tail for a long time. There was nothing Rashid could do. He would have to stay where he was and hope Mahoud and the American failed to realize they were being tailed.

  Ten minutes later and Kerim spoke rapidly into his transceiver.

  “They are heading for Pont Neuf. Pont Neuf.”

  Pont Neuf was one of the many bridges spanning the Seine. It was a wide, stone-built bridge that led across the river and would bring them into the 1st Arrondissement or District. Paris was broken up into twenty of these districts, laid out on both sides of the river.

  Rashid, who knew the city well, eased into position so he would not miss the bridge approach. As traffic was funneled into position he was staring ahead, making sure he still had the dark blue SUV in sight. He began to nod his head as a realization came to him.

  “They will head for the second district,” he said. “The 2nd Arrondissement.”

  “Yes,” Kerim agreed. “The financial district.”

  ONCE THEY HAD CLEARED the bridge Mahoud
directed Bolan through the streets until he saw the building that housed the Paris branch of a Swiss bank. Bolan pulled in just beyond it, cut the engine and they climbed out, Mahoud leading the way into the bank. Crossing the floor, Mahoud presented himself to the young woman seated at the reception desk. Bolan stayed well back, his eyes lingering on the entrance. Mahoud filled in a small card and handed it to the woman. She smiled and tapped into her keyboard. Mahoud was requested to press his right thumb on an electronic pad that read his print. The woman acknowledged the positive response and signaled to one of the waiting assistants. The man gestured for Mahoud to follow. Bolan watched them go through a door that would lead them to the safety vaults.

  Mahoud returned within a few minutes. He nodded to the young woman and joined Bolan.

  “I wish all matters could be resolved so smoothly,” he said.

  They walked out of the bank and crossed to the SUV. As they climbed in, Bolan checked his door mirror, confirming something that had been nagging at him for a while. His concerns were validated as he pulled away from the curb.

  He had spotted a Renault saloon after they had cleared the bridge, and now it fell in a number of cars behind them.

  “We have company.”

  “You are certain?”

  “I wasn’t sure until we turned into this street. Then the guy parked a few cars back. And I don’t think he’s alone.”

  As he drove, Bolan constantly checked his mirrors. The Renault held its place.

  “What do we do?”

  “They’re not going to leave us alone,” Bolan said, “so we’ll have to lose them.”

  “That sounds easier than I expect it to be.”

  “Reef, we outsmarted the Taliban in Afghanistan. Don’t say you’re going soft on me.”

  They drove for a while, Bolan working his options. His main concern centered on Mahoud’s safety. He hadn’t forgotten the man had a wounded arm, which could hamper Mahoud if they got themselves into a compromising situation. The identity of the men following them was also something Bolan was thinking about. Two groups were after Mahoud.