Don Pendleton - Betrayed

Bolan had his own weapon snatched from his hands. Others took his Beretta and his sheathed knife. He was searched for any other weapons, but all that was found was the GPS unit and Bolan’s triband cell phone. He watched as they were thrown to the cave floor and crushed under heavy boots.

One of the attackers scattered the crushed items across the cave.

“They will not be of use to you any longer, American. You are in our hands now. We are the Taliban. We will give the orders.”

Bolan looked him in the eye. “I’ll try to remember that.”

The Taliban fighter laughed. He spoke to his men in the local dialect. His words seemed to humor them. The leader turned back to Bolan.

“Be certain, American. You will remember. I promise you.”

“So will I,” Bolan said.

And he meant it.

The journey lasted at least a couple of hours. The vehicle drove over some of the worst tracks Bolan had ever experienced. The old truck had worn springs, or no springs at all. The fact he was bound hand and foot and had been thrown on the wooden floor did little to ease Bolan’s condition. His body ached from the continuous bouncing as the truck wheels hit every pothole and crevice.

Mahoud lay a couple of feet away, his back to Bolan. He was bound in a similar fashion, his body rocked and jarred by the truck’s passage.

Five armed rebels sat on the side benches, watching over their captives, endlessly talking, and occasionally aiming hard kicks at the prisoners.

Bolan blinked away sweat that ran into his eyes. Inside the canvas-topped truck the heat and the cloying odor from unwashed bodies made the air rank. From the angle of the truck floor, they were climbing. He had no idea where they were. Not that it mattered. Bolan’s only thoughts were centered around how he and Mahoud were going to get free.

It was going to happen. Bolan was convinced of that. He would never allow himself to accept defeat. It wasn’t in his glossary of words. He had always erred on the side of optimism. Until the final breath was taken it didn’t matter how hopeless the situation. There was always a chance to reverse things, to turn a less than positive predicament into success. So while he lay on the truck floor Bolan was looking forward to the moment, and that was all he needed, when he would reverse the way things were now and take control on his terms.

The truck made a final lurch over stony ground and swung in a half circle before coming to a stop.

Rough hands dragged Bolan and Mahoud over the tailgate. The ropes around their wrists and ankles were cut away, and they were marched in the direction of a huddle of crude huts. The village had been cleared and was now being used by the local rebels. The door to one hut was dragged open across the village square and Mahoud was hustled off toward it.

A dusty Toyota 4x4 had been driving ahead of the truck, leading the way. Bolan watched it circle the area and vanish behind one of the huts.

The soldier was hauled off to one of the other huts. His eyes scanned the area, picking out points of interest and seeking possible escape routes. The hut door swung open and Bolan was unceremoniously thrust inside. The door banged shut behind him. He moved to the facing wall and peered through cracks in the stonework where mortar had crumbled and dropped out.

He was able to look across the central area and could see Mahoud’s hut. To the right was a stack of fuel drums. Some yards farther back was the hut where the 4x4 was now parked.

Bolan saw three armed men heading for his hut. He moved to the rear, back to the wall as the door was kicked open and the trio stepped inside. One remained by the door, his AK-47 trained on Bolan. The man in charge of the group was one of Bolan’s visitors.

“What are you doing in Afghanistan?” he asked.

“They told me it’s a nice country for a vacation.”

The butt of an AK-47 swept up and cracked against the side of Bolan’s head. The pain stunned him momentarily. The Taliban rebel planted a big hand against Bolan’s chest and pushed him against the wall.

“Choose what you say with care, American. Your death is of no consequence to me.” He stepped back. “Why are you helping Sharif Mahoud, the blasphemer? He is a traitor to his own people. He has sold his soul to the West.”

“Is that what Homani tells you?”

“Do not defile his name or I will have your tongue torn from your mouth.”

“All Mahoud is doing is trying to bring peace. Isn’t it worth seeing what he has to offer? Or perhaps you don’t want peace.”

The Afghan shook his fist at Bolan.

“I am Ashid Khan. I rule these hills and the people in them. What do you know about my country? Nothing, like all Westerners. You come here and make war on us. The Russians tried and went home like whipped dogs. Now it is the turn of the Americans, Canadians and the British. We will send you all home in coffins.” Khan stepped close, staring deeply into Bolan’s eyes. “For those of my men you have killed, American, I will make sure you remember them up until the moment you die screaming.”

Bolan worked his aching jaw, watching as the leader turned and spoke to the man beside him. He couldn’t hear what was being said, but he understood the message when the butt of the AK-47 was slammed into his stomach. A hard fist clubbed him behind the ear and Bolan stumbled and fell to his knees, dazed by the sheer power behind the blow. When the mist cleared, he was alone again.

On his feet Bolan took another look through the fractured wall. The village looked all but deserted. Only a couple of armed men standing watch.

The violent visitations would occur again. Bolan figured Mahoud was probably being treated in a similar fashion. Most likely worse. The Taliban fighters would be doing their best to gain information from him, and no matter how courageous, Mahoud would talk eventually.

Bolan didn’t want that to happen. He wanted them to make their bid for freedom while they were still physically able. That meant they needed to get out now.

A half hour later Bolan saw two of the Afghans approaching his hut again. That cut down the odds for him.

The hut door opened and one man stepped inside, the second standing just outside. Bolan recognized his visitor as the man who had used his gun butt and fist on him.

Bolan stood, his head lowered, open hands at his sides. He watched the Afghan cross the dirt floor. He snapped out a command, but Bolan didn’t move. The words were shouted this time and the man moved closer, reaching out to shake him. His AK-47 was in his left hand, muzzle down. Over the guy’s shoulder Bolan could see the second Afghan. He had his rifle partially raised, but Bolan was blocked from his sight by the bulk of the man standing in front of him.

The Afghan’s fingers brushed Bolan’s shirt.

Before the man could take hold Bolan erupted into action. He slammed his knee up between the Afghan’s thighs, a brutal, well-aimed blow that struck with crippling force. The Afghan screamed in agony. He would have dropped the AK-47 but Bolan was already reaching for it, turning it in his grip. He kept his eye on the second guy, arcing the rifle around and bracing it against the injured Afghan’s hip. Bolan’s finger squeezed back on the trigger. The Russian combat rifle crackling viciously, sending a burst of 7.62 mm rounds at his target. They cored in through his chest and spun him away from the door. He hit the ground on his back, twisting in pain as his body responded to the internal damage.

Bolan hooked his free arm around the neck of his moaning Afghan and dragged him to the door. The Executioner took a quick look across the square, fixing on the hut where Mahoud had been imprisoned. He could see a couple of armed rebels turning in his direction and started to count down the numbers.