Christopher Reich - Rules of Betrayal

Balfour navigated a winding path through the stacks. A welcoming committee waited at the far side. Jonathan counted ten men dressed in traditional shalwar kameezes, and one, an older, darker figure, wearing the black robes of an imam. Several vehicles were parked behind them: a Hilux pickup, two jeeps, and a van.

The Range Rover halted and Singh hauled Jonathan out of the car. At the same time Balfour’s men decamped from their vehicles and formed a perimeter. There were no fewer than twenty of them, all wearing identical tan suits, all carrying identical Kalashnikovs. Singh barked a command, and two of the men unloaded the crate and carried it to a large table.

Haq approached Jonathan and handed him a damp cloth. “Clean yourself up.”

Jonathan dabbed at his eye, and Haq patted him on the shoulder. It was the gesture of victor to vanquished, and Jonathan pushed his hand away. “I’m done,” he said, tossing the cloth back.

Haq walked to the man in the black robes and kissed him three times on the cheek. The men exchanged words and Haq pointed at Jonathan. The older man approached. “You are the healer who killed my father?”

Jonathan didn’t answer. The truth embarrassed him. He had been an unwitting pawn when he should have been an active participant. His fingers itched for a knife to plunge into the man’s gut.

“My name is Massoud Haq. I am the head of our clan. You will return with me to our tribal lands. We have a particular punishment for murderers. We bury them to the neck and allow the wronged family to cast stones until they are dead. I will cast the first in my father’s name.”

“I look forward to it,” said Jonathan, acidly.

“As do I.”

Two of the scientists Jonathan had seen at Blenheim supervised the removal of the warhead from the crate. The weapon did not resemble the pictures Connor had showed him. It had been reduced in size. Instead of an artillery shell, it resembled a larger version of a stainless-steel thermos. The scientists unscrewed one end of the device and performed a series of tests for the benefit of Haq and his brother. English was the lingua franca, and Jonathan heard the words “twelve kilotons,” “undetectable,” “timer,” and “detonation code.” Sultan Haq carefully punched six digits into a keypad. The device was resealed and placed in a second crate. Looking closely, Jonathan noted the words “U.S. Department of Defense” stenciled on the side.

Massoud Haq placed a phone call and issued a succession of instructions in Pashto. Jonathan understood enough of the language to know that a bank was involved and the subject was the transfer of $10 million. Massoud Haq hung up, and immediately thereafter Balfour made a call to his banker, speaking an account number that Jonathan recognized as one he’d memorized the night before. Balfour smiled broadly, and Jonathan knew that the transfer had been successful.

Balfour walked to Jonathan and extended his hand. “By the way, you wouldn’t happen to know of a good plastic surgeon?” He laughed loudly, showing his perfect white teeth, his eyes smiling with the knowledge that even though his chosen surgeon had been exposed as a spy, no harm had come from it, and he could still take pleasure in knowing that his retirement was gilded and that surely it would not be too difficult to find another physician to provide him with a new face and a new identity.

“Bastard,” said Jonathan, ignoring the outstretched hand, at which Balfour cocked his head and laughed even louder.

There was a harsh, slapping sound, and Massoud Haq’s face dissolved in a miasma of gore. Like a rag doll, he collapsed to the ground.

Machine-gun fire broke out from all directions. There was a terrific explosion, and a pack of Humvees roared into the hangar.

The smile vanished from Balfour’s face. Cowering, he ran to a stack of crates draped with webbed netting and fell against them.

Jonathan hit the ground and crawled toward the safety of the nearest stack of crates. Looking to his left, he saw the word “Semtex” stenciled ten centimeters away.

The exchange of gunfire devolved into a pitched battle. Balfour’s men, along with Mr. Singh and Sultan Haq, held position at one end of the hangar, taking cover behind their vehicles. Soldiers in assault gear advanced from among the crates of guns and ammunition at the other end. Jonathan was caught in between.

A grenade sailed over his head and rolled toward Sultan Haq. One of Balfour’s guards jumped on it, his body lifting into the air a second later, the blast inaudible in the cacophonous gunfire. Another grenade followed. Haq caught it on the bounce and threw it back. But he did not throw it at the attacking troops. Instead, he turned toward the stack of crates where Balfour had sought protection and lobbed it expertly into its center. Jonathan read the words “. 30 caliber ammunition” stenciled on an exposed section of pine. The grenade bounced once, and Balfour scrambled to pick it up, fumbling with the ovoid canister. Jonathan watched as he cocked his arm to throw it. The grenade exploded, Balfour disappearing momentarily inside a blossom of orange and black.

The explosion died and he was still standing, half his arm obliterated, bone and muscle dangling, his face sheared off by the force of the blast. Dazed, he spun and saw Jonathan looking at him. His one eye opened wider, as if he were confused at how this might have come to pass. Another grenade landed in the webbing. There was an explosion, and the. 30 caliber rounds began to cook off. Balfour’s body jerked as the bullets tore into his body, hurling him to the floor.

The hangar shuddered. Overhead, the lights flickered.

The assault troops pulled back, and Jonathan spotted an American flag sewn to one man’s shoulder. It had to be Connor who’d sent them, but how had he known the site of the exchange when Jonathan himself hadn’t?

Nearby a fire broke out among the crates. In seconds, flames were shooting into the rafters. More ammunition began to cook off. Tracers arced above his head. Explosions grew more frequent. Shrapnel whizzed through the air like bottle flies. A girder broke from the ceiling and fell to the floor, crushing a soldier.

Desperate to escape, Jonathan lifted his head and peered around him. Ten meters away, Haq stole the warhead off the table and carried it to the flatbed of a jeep. Jonathan rose to a knee. A bullet slammed into a crate above his shoulder and he fell back to the floor, watching as Haq closed the tailgate and ran to the passenger seat. A man climbed into the driver’s seat, was shot, fell, and was replaced by another.

“Get him!” Jonathan waved his arms and pointed at Haq, but his voice was a whisper among the murderous symphony. Fed up, he climbed to his feet and dashed across the floor toward the truck. Bullets sizzled past, one shaving off the top of his ear, upsetting his balance and toppling him to the ground. He pushed himself up. “Haq!”

A body slammed into him, knocking him to the cement floor, winded.

Mr. Singh threw himself on top of him, rammed a pistol into his jaw, and pulled the trigger. The gun fired empty. Jonathan kneed him in the groin and heaved him off. Jumping to his feet, he managed one step before Singh grabbed his ankle and dropped him. In place of his pistol, the Sikh held the long curved kukri in his hand. He slashed, but the blade missed Jonathan’s calf and struck the floor. Jonathan kicked at him, striking his cheeks, knocking his turban loose. Another blow landed squarely on his nose, breaking it, and a third connected with his chin.

Singh shook off the blows, matted braids of hair falling about his face, blood streaming from his nose. Rising to his feet, he held the blade high, a killing blow. In vain Jonathan threw up an arm to protect himself. But the blade did not fall. Singh shuddered time and time again, geysers of blood and fabric erupting from his chest. The Sikh fell to his side, his chest rising spasmodically.