Don Pendleton - Betrayed

His Callie. Blond and blue-eyed. A toned, supple figure. Clad in pale blue shorts, extremely short, and an equally skimpy stretch T-shirt. She was, as far as Rafiq was concerned, the ideal California girl.

His girl.

She made sure he understood that at every opportunity, and especially when they were alone. Just thinking about those times made him blush.

Callie waved as he caught her eye, her smile bright and caring. He might not have spoken it out loud, but Rafiq’s emotions were in a turmoil. They always were when he was in her presence. In a word, she captivated him. From the first day he had met her, the delightful blonde had him wrapped around her little finger, and he loved every moment.

“Hi,” she said when Rafiq reached her side.

“Hi, yourself. I almost didn’t get clear. Some of the guys wanted to get together and chill. Took me a while to break away.”

“Last thing I want is you chilling out.” She laughed. “I want you hot.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Very hot. Especially for this weekend. Or had you forgotten?”

As they moved along the sidewalk, heading for the parking area and Rafiq’s two-year-old SUV, he shook his head.

“My stuff is already in the truck. What about you?”

Callie showed him the backpack over her left shoulder. “Everything I need is in here.”

“It doesn’t look like much.”

“Enough for what we’re going to be doing.”

“You are a terrible woman.”

“It’s why you like me.”

“Yeah? And for a few other things.”

When they reached his vehicle, Rafiq unlocked it and Carrie threw her backpack on the rear seat alongside his own. She climbed in and waited as he joined her. He started the engine and reversed out of the slot, raising a hand to a passing group of students. Then he drove out of the lot and negotiated his way along the feeder road until they were on the highway.

“Let’s go, cowboy,” Carrie said, reaching to click on the radio.

Rafiq pushed down on the gas pedal and boosted the SUV up a notch.

He was feeling good. It was a beautiful day. The weekend was coming up and he was alone with the most fantastic woman he had ever known. Things couldn’t get any better.

The Air Force plane touched down late afternoon and Mack Bolan stepped back onto Afghanistan soil. Already dressed in military combat fatigues and boots, he slung his backpack over his shoulder, picked up his heavy hold-all, and crossed the dusty field to meet the Hummer speeding out to pick him up.

Beyond the military base the inhospitable Afghanistan landscape glowered beneath an empty sky. There were few clouds. It was hot and dusty, with the ever present dry wind soughing down off the higher hills. Underfoot the ground was hard and stony, with little vegetation other than isolated clumps of brittle grass.

The Hummer rolled to a stop a few feet away. The uniformed figure stepping out from behind the wheel nodded at Bolan. The guy was young, Bolan’s height. Lean and burned brown from the sun.

“Mr. Cooper.”

“I’ll be out of your hair ASAP, Lieutenant Pearson,” Bolan said, reading the man’s uniform name tag.

He understood the sometimes reluctance of the military to have to nursemaid civilians in their midst. They had enough on their hands, and Mack Bolan had no desire to add to their problems.

The officer smiled, said, “I don’t suppose you want to be here either.”

“I can think of more pleasant surroundings.”

They climbed into the Hummer. Bolan stowed his rucksack and weapons hold-all. Pearson turned the Hummer and headed in the direction of the collection of tents and huts that made up the base. It all looked familiar to Bolan, bringing back memories of his own service time, when he had lived and operated out of such places. It made him aware once more of the privations and the danger the men and women placed themselves in when they became part of the operation. Here, in this foreign environment, thousands of miles from family and country, they daily put themselves in harm’s way, exposing themselves to the ever present threat of violence. There were no guarantees out here. No promises of uneventful tours. Only the reality of sudden and brutal action.

“I was told to expect you, do whatever was needed to facilitate your mission, and not ask questions. I was told a local would be showing up to meet you. Something about him walking you into hostile territory, so I guess you’re not here to sightsee.”

“You’ve got that right, LT.”

Pearson threw him a quick glance, smiling.

“Now that’s not a civilian speaking. I’d say you’ve served your time.”

“And then some,” Bolan answered.

He didn’t expand and Pearson didn’t probe. The soldier might have been surprised if he learned about Bolan’s own private war, waged for many years against enemies who might not have worn regular uniforms but who were certainly combatants. It might have been waged against a different backdrop in some instances, but by any definition it was still war.

They reached the main camp, Pearson rolling the Hummer to a stop outside one of the smaller huts.

“Your guy is there,” the soldier said. He waited until Bolan had claimed his gear. “Anything you might need, give me a shout. I was told you might need assistance with an extract?”

“If I do, I’ll call.”

“We’ll be around if you need us.”

“Good to know.”

Pearson raised a hand, then gunned the Hummer and drove away.

Bolan pushed his way through the hut’s door and went inside. It was sparsely furnished, functional.

It was empty except for a single occupant.

A tall, lean Afghan turned at Bolan’s entrance. He wore a mix of traditional Afghan and Western clothing. A long sheepskin coat covered a colorful shirt, and U.S.-style combat pants were tucked into sturdy leather boots. He wore a lungee, the turban’s long scarf hanging almost to his waist. A broad leather belt circled his hips, supporting a canvas holster that held a modern autopistol. On the opposite hip was a sheathed knife. Leaning against a table was an AK-47. The Afghan eyed the big American while he continued to drink from a tin mug. Finally he lowered the mug. He wore a trimmed dark beard.

“You are Cooper?” When Bolan nodded, the man said, “I am Rahim Azal. You know why I am here?”

“Yes.”

“It is too late to go today. We will leave in the morning. Early.” Azal indicated a steaming pot sitting on a butane gas stove. “Tea?”

Bolan nodded. “Sure.”

The tin mug Azal handed Bolan was hot, the strong tea scalding. Bolan tasted it, nodding his approval.

“I can see why the Afghans are good fighters,” he said. “If you can drink this, you can face anyone.”

Azal laughed.

“I think I might like you, Cooper.” He looked Bolan over. “Are you a warrior? Dressing as one does not make it so.”

Bolan picked up his hold-all and dropped it on the table. He opened it to show Azal his ordnance. The Afghan peered at the contents of the bag.

Azal raised his mug. “Defeat to our enemies.”

THEY WERE on the move at first light. The air was still chilled from the cold night as Bolan and Azal finished their breakfast and readied themselves. The soldier took out his weapons and strapped on the webbing belt that would carry his Beretta 93-R in a hip holster. He had an MP-5 SMG, and a Cold Steel Tanto knife sheathed on his left side. A combat harness held extra magazines for both his weapons and Bolan added a few fragmentation grenades. From his backpack he took a black baseball cap and an olive-drab cotton scarf. The long scarf wound around his neck could be used to wipe away dust and sweat from his face; it could also prevent dust entering his mouth. Azal watched as Bolan put on the scarf, a smile curling his lips as he observed.