Don Pendleton: Betrayed

The lead attacker pounded across the path that snaked into the village from the rocky slope above, Kalashnikov crackling. Slugs whined off the stony ground. Bolan leaned around the edge of the hut wall, his MP-5 rising. He led the rushing figure and waited, then triggered a short burst, slamming the guy to the ground in a flurry of dust and bloody spray. Close by, Azal was using his own weapon to good effect, putting down two more of the agile figures as they bounded across the open ground leading into the village.

With three of their number suddenly down, the attack faltered. The armed figures retreated into cover.

“They are eager but not bloody foolish.” Azal grinned at Bolan.

“I doubt they’re ready to quit, either,” the soldier said.

As he spoke he was checking out the area, recalling the lay of the land around the village. He had checked it out even as he had walked in, selecting possible back door escape routes in case of emergencies.

He lifted his head as he heard more incoming, mortars sizzling in from deep cover. The attackers could bide their time, laying down a solid wall of shells that would saturate the area. While the defenders were forced to maintain cover, the attackers could start to close in while maintaining their own safety. The hard thump of explosions, lifting more dirt and rock, created clouds of acrid dust that swirled back and forth across the village. Bolan crouched with his back to the wall, figuring that by the law of averages the hut they were using was going to take a hit.

“Azal, if we sit here too long…”

“I know. We should leave quickly before they regroup and come for us again.”

Then as swiftly as it had started the mortar attack ceased. Someone shouted in the distance. Shadowy figures began to emerge from the dispersing clouds of dust. More of the armed attackers. They came from two directions, opening up with hard autofire that threw streams of 7.62 mm slugs across the area. Bolan could hear the solid thwack as they ripped into the dry earth, the harsher sound as they struck rock, some whining off into the air. The rattle of autofire continued without let up.

“Let’s go,” Bolan snapped at Azal.

The Afghan moved without a word, crossing the hut and exiting through the rear window, dropping out of sight. Bolan followed.

“What about me?” Shehan demanded, his tone losing none of its arrogance.

Bolan paused, throwing a hard look across his shoulder. “Follow or stay. Your choice. I don’t care.” Then he was gone, clearing the frame.

As Bolan’s boots hit the dusty ground at the rear of the hut, he picked up Azal’s moving figure. The Afghan was moving fast, weaving his way through the scattered rocks and brush, and heading for the jagged defile snaking away from the village. It was the best way out. Bolan and Azal had picked it during their early recon. He checked the immediate area and saw that it was clear—for the moment at least. Bolan didn’t expect it to remain that way. The autofire was still crackling and now Bolan picked up raised voices. The attackers were getting closer, probably wondering why there was no further resistance.

He took off after Azal.

“Hey…”

Looking back Bolan saw Shehan tumbling through the window. He fell as he hit the ground, luck favoring him as a burst of autofire chewed at the wooden frame, splintering wood and filling the air with splinters. Bolan was tempted to keep moving, leaving the obnoxious journalist behind. Something held him back and he spun on his heel, sending a long burst from the MP-5 in through the shadowed window. He was rewarded by a brief shriek as his bullets found a target.

“Move, Shehan. Get your ass over here and head for that defile up ahead, or so help me I’ll shoot you myself.”

Bolan plucked a grenade from his harness and pulled the pin. He let the lever pop free, held the grenade for a count, then hurled it in the direction of the window. The projectile sailed through the gap. As Shehan passed him, and Bolan followed, the grenade detonated with a solid crash of sound, smoke gushing from the window. The impact of the explosion shifted some of the wall stones.

Hard on Shehan’s heels Bolan sprinted for the defile. As the journalist vanished down the gap leading into the defile, Bolan dropped and rolled, taking up a defensive position, giving the others time to move deeper into the fissure. He exchanged the almost empty MP-5 magazine for a fresh one, slipping the ejected mag into a pouch. He freed a second grenade, took out the pin and waited.

His wait was a short one. Gunners began to move around the side of the hut. Bolan counted at least four of them. They clustered together, uncertain which way to move. They hadn’t yet seen the defile, but Bolan knew they would spot it quickly enough. He wasn’t about to allow them that luxury. He let the lever go, raised himself and threw the grenade hard. It hit the ground only feet from the hesitant group and they began to scatter. The lethal blast from the grenade caught them on the run, the white-hot fragments ripping into flesh and sending the enemy sprawling.

Before they could regroup Bolan slid down into the defile and raced after Azal and Shehan.

They needed to clear the area, to move out of range of the locals. The Taliban would offer little in the way of mercy if they got their hands on him and his companions. Like it or not, Bolan was saddled with Shehan, at least for the moment. Despite his reservations concerning the morals of the man’s business, Bolan couldn’t simply leave him alone in enemy territory. So until he could deliver him into friendly hands he was stuck with the guy. Bolan decided he wasn’t going to allow Shehan an easy ride. If the soldier was going to have to devote some of his energy and skill toward keeping Shehan alive, the man would earn his keep.

As he hit the base of the defile, feeling the rocky sides close around him, Bolan spotted Shehan and Azal directly ahead. He pressed on, closing in, calling for them to keep moving.

He almost missed the sound of an incoming mortar. The shell struck the upper rim of the defile, and though it was yards behind, the explosion threw thick clods of earth and a shower of stone fragments into the ravine. The opposition was not giving in easily. Bolan understood that the cards were all falling into their hands. This was their territory, and they would know it intimately. Every rock and patch of brush. Every place where a man could hide. All Bolan had was his desire to survive and not let himself fall into the hands of the Taliban.

A second mortar blew more debris over them. This time it was closer, the blast rocking them on their feet. Yards ahead Shehan stumbled and fell, shredding his hands on the flinty rocks.

“Christ, my hands!”

“On your feet, mister,” Bolan ordered. “Sooner or later those mortars are going to be ranged in, and whining about your grazed fingers isn’t going to be much help. Now get up and keep moving.”

Shehan dragged himself upright, wiping his bloody hands down his shirt. The look he threw at Bolan was murderous, but it had no effect on the soldier. Bolan understood the situation they were in. They had no time to discuss the finer points of battlefield etiquette. They were in a race for their lives and one slip, one miscalculation, would allow the enemy to close in and end it.

The rattle of small-arms fire echoed the length of the defile. Slugs struck rock, splinters flying. As Bolan followed the natural curve of the land he plucked a grenade from his harness, yanked out the pin and let the lever go. Ignoring the small insistent voice urging him to throw the projectile, he waited, then turned and lobbed the grenade around the curve. The detonation was close, but the sweep of the bend protected Bolan from the blast. He heard a couple of harsh screams as the pursuers were caught, their luck running out.