Betrayed

by Don Pendleton

  “Chose the spot well,” Sharon said.

  Bolan had parked the SUV off road. He was checking out the farm through a pair of powerful binoculars. There was little movement around the site. No sign of any kind of work going on. Mandelson’s information had indicated there was a permanent armed staff of at least six, who made certain Homani had no unwelcome visitors. He did spot a couple of men at the front of the main building where three cars were parked. Neither man appeared to be carrying a weapon but it was possible they had pistols under their coats.

  “I have to ask this,” Sharon said. “Matt, you haven’t told me what you intend if you face off with Raika.”

  Bolan glanced at him. “Because I’m not sure. Take her back to her family. To somewhere she can be talked out of her condition. It’s something I can’t give you an answer for, Ben.”

  “Whatever you do, don’t allow feelings to cause you to stall when it happens. You understand that?”

  “It’s what worries me.” Bolan understood Sharon’s concern. “I won’t let it compromise the situation, Ben.” He put the binoculars aside. “Let’s get this done.”

  Bolan eased the SUV deep into the trees and undergrowth edging the narrow approach road.

  He and Sharon, clad in combat gear, performed a final check of their weapons and moved out, using the natural terrain and heavy foliage to cover their approach to Homani’s retreat.

  Corey Mandelson’s background on the place had informed them the farm, outwardly innocent, had been internally altered to provide a training ground for Homani’s acolytes. His trainees went through religious and combat indoctrination in the cellar area under the main house. Here were soundproofed sections for weapons practice and training in physical combat. The farm had become a breeding ground for Homani’s extremist cells. The mullah chose his people, grounded them, then sent them out to do his bidding. Homani selected only a few pupils at any one time, preferring smaller numbers who were solidly trained, rather than too many who might be inefficient.

  It took Bolan and Sharon half an hour before they reached the perimeter of the farm property. Concealed in long grass with a simple wood fence the only barrier, the pair took its time looking over the place. They scanned the eaves of the buildings for video cameras, but saw no sign of electronic surveillance.

  “Someone’s coming this way,” Sharon said.

  They watched the patrolling sentry strolling along the beaten path that ran parallel to the fence. He was a stocky man, casually dressed. Up close Bolan was able to spot the pistol in a shoulder rig exposed as the guy’s light windbreaker flapped open. He also carried a compact transceiver, and as he neared where Bolan and Sharon lay they could hear the intermittent chatter coming through the set.

  The sentry passed by, moving on, his solid, measured tread suggesting he had been tramping the perimeter for some time. As dedicated as any sentry might be at the start of his patrol, it became boring after a long shift. Senses dulled and slackness started to creep in.

  “No point waiting until his partner shows,” Sharon said. “You agree?”

  Bolan nodded, swung his Uzi and pushed to his feet. He eased over the fence and cat-footed after the sentry. The guy never saw or heard a thing. Bolan stepped up behind him and encircled the guy’s neck, pulling him tight as he applied a choke hold. The transceiver slipped from his hand as Bolan’s grip tightened, the effect of the hold rendering the sentry unconscious. Bolan lowered the limp figure to the ground. He picked up the transceiver and switched it off. As Sharon joined him, the Executioner slipped the pistol from the sentry’s shoulder holster. It was a 9 mm SIG-Sauer P-226, with a 15-round magazine. There was a second magazine in a belt holder. Bolan slipped it free and pocketed it.

  “Let’s go,” he said, pushing to his feet.

  They cut across to the wall of the closest building, flattening against it.

  Before either of them could move on, a warning shout alerted them. It came from their right. Following the call, the stutter of autofire broke the comparative silence, slugs peppering the ground just feet short.

  “Break off,” Bolan said.

  Sharon moved to the left, while Bolan dropped to a crouch, bringing up the SIG and sighting in on the bulky figure of the auto shooter. The guy was large, heavy-bodied, and he moved awkwardly because of his size. He also presented a good target. Bolan’s pair of 9 mm slugs slammed into his chest. The guy stumbled, looking down at his punctured body, then went down hard.

  Bolan, on his feet, sprinted past the downed sentry, rounding the end of the building. The main house lay ahead, across a stretch of open ground. He remained at the corner of the building, using it as cover. From behind he heard the unmistakable thunder of Sharon’s Desert Eagle.

  A pair of armed figures tumbled out of a rear door of the main building. Both were carrying 5.56 mm SIG autorifles. They set off across the open space, moving in a line that would bring them to his position.

  Bolan stepped into view, the P-226 already at arm’s length. He put two fast shots into the closest guy, punching the 9 mm slugs into his lean frame, then switched to the second man. The autorifle crackled as the guy’s finger hit the trigger hastily, the burst of slugs going wild. Two 9 mm bullets put him down in a pained flurry. He was jerking in spasms as Bolan closed in and placed a third shot into his skull. As he moved past, Bolan scooped up one of the autorifles, tucking the P-226 behind his belt.

  He reached the rear wall of the house, pressed against it as the door flew open again. A tall, dark, bearded man eased out, hesitating when he saw his two partners on the ground. He raised his autorifle and tracked it back and forth, searching. As he came around to where Bolan was waiting all he saw was a dark blur. The soldier had his own weapon on line, and he hit the guy with a short burst that flipped him off the step and dropped him to the ground in a bloody heap.

  Bolan stepped up to the rear door and grasped the handle. He jerked the door wide, the autorifle probing ahead, and moved inside.

  BEN SHARON ROUNDED the back end of the large outbuilding and almost onto the muzzle of a SIG autorifle. The other man was just as startled. Sharon immediately dropped to the ground, sweeping the other guy’s feet from under him. The man landed hard on his back, Sharon rolling clear and back on his own feet. He angled the big Desert Eagle and pumped a pair of .44 Magnum slugs into the prone figure. Although he was also carrying a 9 mm Uzi, Sharon bent and retrieved the sentry’s SIG autorifle. A weapon with a 30 round magazine was too good to pass up.

  Sharon tracked across the rear of the outhouse. He heard shots from the distance and knew Bolan had encountered more of Homani’s crew. Angling right, Sharon picked up speed. As he reached the end of the outbuilding, the main house facing him, he saw Bolan as the tall American stepped inside the building. Seconds later autofire erupted from inside the house.

  BOLAN CROSSED the empty kitchen, reaching the door as an armed figure stepped to the opening at the same moment. The Executioner’s fast reflexes gave him the advantage and he slammed the assault rifle into the other guy’s face. Blood flared from gouged flesh as the guy stumbled back from the door, his eyes glazed. Bolan hit him with a close burst that cored in and blew out through his spine, leaving a glistening smear on the wall.

  A commotion rose from one of the rooms along the passage. At the door Bolan saw a group of white-robed figures milling around in confusion. They were mostly male, but he saw a couple of females. Their confusion was genuine. Bolan aimed the autorifle at the ceiling and triggered a burst that showered the room with plaster dust.

  “Out,” he yelled. “Get out now.”

  Bolan stepped back as the room emptied, the robed figures jostling as they crowded past him. He grabbed a man’s arm. “Homani? Mullah Homani?”

  The man stared at him. Bolan caught him by the throat, pushed him against the wall.

  “Homani?”

  The man pointed at the floor. “Below,” he mumbled in a choked word. Bolan let him go and the guy ran after his departing co
lleagues.

  “In the cellar,” a familiar voice said.

  It was Sharon. He had followed Bolan into the house.

  “Let’s find it,” Bolan snapped, and headed along the passage. They hit the front section of the house. The main door had been flung open. Outside Bolan caught a glimpse of the robed figures spread across the front area. He slammed the heavy door shut and worked bolts to secure it.

  “Here,” Sharon said.

  Bolan joined him. A short flight of worn stone steps led toward the cellar.

  “Go ahead,” Sharon said. “I’ll check out the rest of the place in case we still have hostiles sneaking about.”

  “Watch your back.”

  Sharon nodded. He stayed at the head of the cellar steps as Bolan moved down and through the open door.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Bolan felt the chill of the cellar creep over him. It was well lit, fluorescent lights in the ceiling showing him the open area ahead. It was partly filled by packing cases, unused furniture, the universal debris that was on display in a thousand other cellars.

  Stone pillars were interspersed at intervals, supports for the house above Bolan’s head. At the extreme side of this section, an opening showed where the cellar area branched off. Bolan guess the cellar’s dimensions were as generous as the main house. Somewhere he could hear the subdued noise of a generator supplying power to the farm. He could smell diesel oil.

  A faint sound alerted him to the presence of others. Bolan followed the noise and arrived at the archway that led through to the extended cellar area. He paused before he stepped through.

  Something warned him to be more than cautious.

  Bolan waited, close to whitewashed wall. Ahead the new passage was uneven, extra pillars adding a series of alcoves. His wait was rewarded by a flicker of shadow falling on the smooth concrete floor from behind one of the alcoves.

  Bolan’s rubber-soled combat boots made no discernible sound on the floor as he stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the jutting shadow. He drew level with the alcove, picked up a faint breath as his would-be attacker braced for his move. Bolan feinted, heard the rasp of breath and saw the dark figure lean out, a combat knife catching light as it came at him. Bolan drew back and used the autorifle in a clubbing smash that hammered at the arm holding the knife. The attacker gasped, the blade spinning from numbed fingers, blood starting to bubble from the gashed flesh of his arm. Bolan turned fast, sweeping up the rifle and slugging the guy across the side of his face. The impact bounced the man off the wall. Bolan went in close, hammering at the guy with the solid autorifle onto the torso and head, rolling him along the wall until he stumbled and went down on one knee, head hanging. Blood dripped from him in long strings. He pushed upright, using the wall, his bloody face turning to stare at Bolan.

  The man was Ali Asadi.

  Recognizing Bolan, the man vented his frustration at the American’s interference in the Mahoud affair. His angered scream echoed along the passage.

  “No more,” he roared. “You interfere no more.”

  He went for the pistol holstered on his hip. It was a futile gesture.

  Bolan triggered the autorifle and punched in a half dozen 5.56 mm slugs that chewed Asadi’s insides apart, bloodying his torso and knocking him back along the passage. He hit the floor, writhing and clawing at the air until Bolan ended it with a double tap to his skull, spreading Ali Asadi’s brains across the concrete floor.

  The Executioner moved along the passage, passing an opening that showed him a deserted shooting range. Next was an open area with padded dojo mats spread across the floor.

  Mandelson had been honest in his data. The farm was more than a spiritual retreat. It was a training base for Homani’s extremist students.

  There was a final opening. Light flooded from the room beyond. Bolan edged up to it, glancing inside. The moment his gaze settled on the equipment spread over the benches and on the racks around the walls Bolan knew he was looking at Homani’s bomb room. The bench surfaces were covered in antistatic layers to prevent the chance of accidental explosions. A series of vented extraction units kept the air clear of vapors. Even the light fittings were housed behind wired glass.

  Five people were in the room.

  Homani himself, clad in his somber black robes. His thin hands were clasped together across his stomach. Flanking him were his two dark-suited bodyguards, expressionless, their eyes fixed on Bolan as he eased into the opening, the autorifle covering them.

  A few feet away, still in his pristine-white robes was Yusef Masada. When he saw Bolan, he was unable to prevent the anger that burned behind his eyes.

  And then there was Raika Mahoud. She refused to look Bolan in the eye after recognizing him. She lowered her head, gazing at her feet.

  “A little late for contrition, Raika,” Bolan said.

  She spoke softly, but Bolan felt the conviction in her words. “I do not recognize your right to challenge me. My choice has been made. My life is here. With Mullah Homani.”

  “Your father would be hurt to hear you say that. He loves you very much.”

  “My father no longer exists. The man you know as Sharif Mahoud is a traitor to our faith. He trails at the heels of the infidels and does their evil bidding. He is a betrayer of all that is holy in our lives.”

  Bolan had stepped inside the room, his back to the solid wall.

  “I have to congratulate you, Homani. Raika is a convert. You must be proud. One more for the ranks of the faithful ready to die for you.”

  “The Western mind is unable to realize the dedication of the true believer. In our faith we do not consider the existence in this life. We are here to serve God. Sacrifice is a joy because it fulfills our purpose. To die in the name of God is to be blessed.”

  “As long as that sacrifice doesn’t include you? I don’t see Mullah Homani strapping on an explosive belt and walking into a crowd. I see your faithful doing that while you hide behind closed doors, counting your oil shares.”

  Homani stiffened in anger. Bolan held the mullah’s gaze, reading what lay behind the man’s eyes. He knew he had scored. Homani recovered, raising a thin arm and jabbing a bony finger at Bolan.

  “This is how the Americans judge us. They fail to understand and fight that ignorance by accusing us of hypocrisy.”

  “Sharif Mahoud is willing to put his life on the line to procure some kind of peace throughout the region. He uses his faith in the way only a true believer should. Is an end to war wrong? A possibility of relief for all those suffering because of the madness? Deny that, Homani, and you are the traitor to your cause.”

  Homani didn’t respond. He was watching Masada. The young man had edged closer to the workbench next to him. Masada stepped up to the bench and reached for the body-wrap explosive device spread out there, his hand dropping onto it, finger curling around the length of cord attached to the detonator.

  “Let us show him our faith,” Masada said. “Prove our courage.”

  “Now is not the time, Yusef,” Homani said. “Remember our plan.”

  There was a look on Masada’s face that Bolan recognized. The young man was ready to commit right now. The hand holding the detonator cord was shaking.

  “Is that the bomb for Sharif Mahoud, Masada? The one you will use to destroy him when Raika introduces you to him?”

  Masada stared across the room. His lean face was flushed, glistening with sweat, breath rasping in his throat.

  “If you’re lucky, Raika’s family will be there, too.”

  Raika looked at Bolan for the first time he had entered the room. “I have no family,” she whispered, her voice faltering.

  “She looks just like her beautiful mother. Did you know that?”

  “Please, no.”

  “Her younger sister misses her. Amina loves her. She doesn’t understand why Raika has gone away.” Out the corner of his eye Bolan saw Raika slowly shaking her head. “Amina wants Raika home. She even wants her to bring her boyfr
iend with her.”

  Masada was slowly curling his fingers completely around the detonator cord. He reached out with his other hand to draw the bomb to his chest.

  “Perhaps you’ll get the chance to say goodbye to them before Yusef sets off that bomb, Raika. See the love in Amina’s eyes before she’s blown apart.”

  Raika stared at Bolan. Her eyes were glistening with tears.

  “You…”

  Homani moved forward. “Yusef. Not now.”

  One of the mullah’s bodyguards decided his chance had come and clawed at the pistol holstered under his coat.

  Bolan triggered the autorifle, hammering out 5.56 mm slugs one after another. He saw them strike, shredded cloth flecking the air, blood gouting from wounds. His shots were close spaced at the group, striking Homani and his bodyguards.

  “Yusef, no,” Raika screamed.

  Bolan saw her throw herself at Masada as he tensed, his fingers clenched around the detonator cord. As Raika slammed into Masada the pair of them stumbled and slid to the floor.

  Bolan about-turned and lunged for the opening, twisting his body around the edge of the wall. As he hit the floor, Bolan felt the instant concussion of the blast, the roar of the explosion filling his head. He dragged himself away from the opening as a rush of flame filled the passage, aware of other explosive material in the workroom. The secondary explosion blew out the protecting wall, and Bolan was picked up and tossed along the passage, helpless in the grip of the blast. His body was pummeled and battered by debris. Heat and dust swirled around him. He lay helpless, choking from the thick smoke that filled the passage, his hearing fading from the concussion.

  Half buried beneath the rubble, semiconscious, he passed out before Ben Sharon found him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  “Damn it, Mack, we were looking in the wrong place. The leak didn’t come from the President. It was from Mahoud’s family.” Brognola took a breath, shaking his head. “How the hell does that happen?”