Don Pendleton: Betrayed

“Azal.”

The Afghan joined him, nodding. “I hear it.”

“Taliban?”

“Could be. But the fighters would be less likely to allow themselves be heard in such a way. A vehicle cannot go farther than this place. Your military would only use helicopters if they were coming here.”

“Wait inside the hut,” Bolan said. “Cover me from there.”

Azal backed away and stood inside the doorway, hidden in the shadows, while Bolan edged around the corner of the hut.

The vehicle turned out to be a battered 4WD Land Rover. Bolan couldn’t have guessed how old it was. Despite the outward appearance, the mechanics of the vehicle seemed to be in good shape. It rocked into view over the final rise in the trail and came to a stop near the edge of the steep drop-off. The beat of the engine faded.

The passenger door opened and a man climbed out, one hand raised to shade his eyes from the glare of the sun. He was of medium height, heavy build, with beefy shoulders. He wore crumpled chinos and a short-sleeved bush shirt. The moment he stepped from the Land Rover the man locked eyes with Bolan, staring at him with a hard gaze. His eyes were shadowed under thick brows, deep set in a lined, unshaved brown face, and he made no attempt to hide his aggressive manner.

“You guys are off the beaten track,” he said, which was more of an accusation than a query.

Bolan ignored him. That seemed to annoy the man even more.

“You hear me?”

“They can probably hear you in Pakistan,” Bolan said. He hadn’t missed the man’s reference to Bolan not being on his own.

You guys.

Whoever he was, the newcomer was sharp. Or he knew more than was apparent.

“You want something or are you passing through?” Bolan asked.

“Could be we’re both looking for the same thing.”

“You think so?”

“How many Afghans are there in these hills who go by the name of Sharif Mahoud?” the newcomer queried.

“You’re the one with all the answers,” Bolan said. “I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”

“The hell you don’t.” The man turned and waved to the Land Rover’s driver to join him.

When the guy stepped into view, Bolan saw he was carrying a professional video camera. He hoisted it on his shoulder and trained it on the soldier.

“Hey,” Bolan called. “You carry life insurance?”

The cameraman frowned, then said, “What’s that mean?”

“It means turn that thing away from me or you’ll find out if your policy pays off.”

“Anja, don’t listen to him. We can film whatever we want.”

“It isn’t you he has that gun pointing at.”

“Don’t be a chicken-shit.” The guy turned back to Bolan. “You know who I am?”

“Why don’t you tell me.”

“Kris Shehan.”

Bolan’s face didn’t flicker with recognition.

“Look at that,” he said. “You didn’t surprise me. Should I have heard of you?” he asked.

“I’m starting not to like you, pal,” Shehan stated.

“One, I don’t give a damn about that. Two, I’m not your pal. And I think it’s time you backed off.”

Bolan turned to stare at the cameraman, who had turned his lens back in Bolan’s direction. Shehan’s voice interrupted him.

“I’m getting tired of you playing the hard guy. Why don’t you move your ass out of my way? My assignment is to meet up with Mahoud and get his story. What are you going to do? Shoot me?”

“The thought had occurred to me.”

“Go ahead. Anja will get it all on tape. Hell, I could make you famous.” Shehan was smiling now, enjoying himself. “I could sell you all over the Middle East. Maybe even get it picked up by CBS or Fox News. You know how the great American public likes its violence.”

Bolan blocked Shehan’s way.

“You leave it right there,” he said. “Take your cameraman and turn around. Get clear of this village and stay out of my sight.”

Shehan glanced at his cameraman, a knowing grin crossing his face. When he faced Bolan again that smile had gone.

“You know who I am? Who I represent?”

“I know you believe you have the right to push your way into people’s lives. Put them at risk just so you get your thirty seconds on some cheap TV news program.”

“Fuck you, mister. I’ve brought home more important reports than you could imagine. I put my life on the edge to get my stories. You think American networks are the only ones allowed to tell what is happening here? Ha. My news is for the real people of Afghanistan. Sharif Mahoud is a story. I’m going after an exclusive. Who the hell are you to try to stop me?”

This time it was Bolan who gave a weary smile.

“Correction, Shehan. It won’t be try to stop you. I will stop you if you get in my way.”

“Hard man now, huh? Listen, friend, I’ve faced off with real warlords in my time. Some cheap merc isn’t making me back down.”

“Having to keep correcting you is becoming a habit. If I was a merc, I wouldn’t be cheap.”

Bolan shouldered the man aside as he crossed to the cameraman who had been videoing the confrontation.

“Do you have a backup camera?” he asked.

“Yeah. In the Rover. Why?”

“You’re going to need it,” Bolan told him.

He reached out and wrenched the vidcam from the man’s hands. Ignoring Shehan’s yell of protest, Bolan walked to the trail’s edge and hurled the vidcam into space. It spun in a downward spiral to smash on the sun-bleached rocks far below.

“You bastard,” Shehan screamed. “Do you know how much that cost?”

“Rough country out here,” Bolan said. “Stuff gets smashed all the time.”

“You’ll regret this. I’ll fucking well sue you for every cent you have.”

Bolan shrugged. “Good luck. Remember I’m just a cheap merc. Your own words.”

Shehan’s face flushed with righteous anger. He turned to the cameraman, thrusting a finger as he yelled, “Go and get the other vidcam.” Anja simply stared back at him. “I said, get the other fu…What the hell is wrong with you?”

Bolan sensed the cameraman’s agitation. He turned to check out what the man was looking at and saw armed figures emerging from the rocks beyond the village. The soldier picked up a familiar, rising sound. His gaze rose and he spotted the thin trail, curving and pale against the hard blue sky.

A mortar shell.

“Incoming,” he yelled.

The mortar hit even as he called the warning. The solid thump of the explosion was followed by the geyser of dirt and rock. It mushroomed across the clearing, yards from Shehan’s Land Rover. The force of the blast rocked the vehicle and flying debris took out the side windows.

“Azal,” Bolan called.

“I am here,” the Afghan said. He appeared at Bolan’s side, shaking his head. “They will be Taliban. This is bad.”

“Tell me about it.”

A second and third shell landed. Number three was close enough to lift the Land Rover and flip it onto its side, one rear wheel torn from the axle. Smoke swirled, caught by the hot wind.

With the truck disabled the armed figures Bolan had seen started to move in, opening fire with the AKs they were carrying.

“Get us out of here,” Shehan yelled, lunging at Bolan, his fingers clutching at Bolan’s shirt. “They hit my truck.”

Bolan ignored him.

With the smoke clearing he had just seen the cameraman, flat down on the ground, his back a ragged wound from neck to hips. Bone and flesh had been shredded by the blast from one of the mortar rounds. Little remained of the man’s rear skull and neck.

“Let’s move, Azal,” Bolan said, brushing off Shehan’s hands. “We’re leaving. Shehan, come with us or sit and wait for the people you most likely led here.”