Betrayed. Don Pendleton

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.

      Moving on, Bolan caught the flicker of moving figures at the top of the defile, heard the crackle of fire as they angled their weapons into the gap. Slugs pounded the dry earth, kicking up dusty gouts. Bolan flattened against the wall, turning his weapon up at the gunners. He triggered a burst that dragged dirt from the defile feet below his target, using it as a guide for his second burst. His next shots caught one guy in the lower legs, blowing out gouts of red. The Taliban fighter stumbled to his knees, missed his balance and plunged headfirst into the defile, slamming into the ground only yards from Bolan, his skull shattering on impact. The second shooter shouted something unintelligible, firing even as he uttered the yell. His slugs tore at the defile wall above Bolan’s head, showering him with dirt and stone chips. The soldier returned fire and caught the guy center mass, tossing him back out of sight.

      Running hard, Bolan caught up with Azal and Shehan. The Afghan was ushering the journalist into a shadowed gap where the defile merged with the rock face that ended it.

      “Quickly,” Azal said. “This will take us to other side of the hills.”

      Pausing at the entrance, Bolan asked, “You sure?”

      Azal grinned. “I remember from many years ago. We played in here when I was a child. It goes all the way through the hills. Would I be so foolish as to walk into a trap myself?”

      “Guess not,” Bolan said.

      Azal led the way deeper into the passage. The farther they walked, the less the light penetrated. After a few hundred yards they were stumbling along in near darkness. The air was hot and stale. The walls curved and hollowed out as they progressed along the rough ground. At one point the ceiling overhead swooped down to shoulder height, and they had to hunch forward to avoid cracking their heads on the unyielding rock. Water glistened in the pale light, sliding down the rock face from some unseen source, creating shallow pools they had to walk through.

      Bolan took time to backtrack a few yards, listening to the silence behind them. He waited, his ears straining to pick up any sound of their pursuers. He was almost ready to move on when he caught the merest whisper of boot leather sliding over rock. As the sound increased, Bolan judged there had to be at least five, possibly six. They were still following, but staying well back after the last encounter with the grenade. The soldier idly fingered one of the remaining two grenades clipped to his harness, then decided to hold them back. He moved to the opposite side of the defile, back pressed against the rock wall.

      Shapes emerged from the rock-strewed backdrop, and Bolan opened fire instantly. Two went down. He kept up his rate of fire, driving the others back. Angling the MP-5’s muzzle, the Executioner raked the angle of the rock wall, hearing the slugs ricochet. He was hoping some of the slugs might bounce off and cause some extra confusion for the enemy. Anything to make them stay back. He emptied the magazine and quickly snapped in a fresh one, then turned and picked up the pace.

      The way ahead widened, the rock ceiling rising to a great height; light was starting to penetrate. Bolan picked out Azal and Shehan way ahead of him, crossing a wide, smooth table of stone that angled upward. As he hit the table he felt warm sun on him. Glancing up he saw sections of the ceiling were open to the sky. Reaching the peak of the table, Bolan saw the high cavern give way to exposed ground, a massed jumble of massive boulders, water tumbling in a narrow fall from some greater height and splashing onto the bleached stone below where it spilled from a naturally formed rock pan to create a runoff.

      “Come quickly,” Azal called, gesturing with his arm.

      Bolan saw Shehan close by the Afghan. There was a moment when the journalist seemed to be pulling at his crumpled shirt. Then Shehan suddenly pulled a long-bladed knife from under his shirt. He swung it hard at Azal’s back, stabbing down into the Afghan’s body. Azal gasped, his lean body twisting in agony as Shehan yanked out the glittering steel blade and raised it to strike a second time, plunging it deep into Azal’s flesh.

      Bolan had raised the MP-5 by this time, and he hit Shehan with a burst. The slugs clawed at the journalist’s right side, splintering ribs and gouging flesh. The man stumbled, shock etched across his face. He went down on one knee, the knife slipping from his fingers and his head turned toward Bolan. The soldier was moving fast, powering his way across the open rock, and the expression on his face warned Shehan not to expect any leeway. The journalist had showed his hand at the wrong moment. Bolan fired again, this time going for a kill shot, placing his 9 mm slugs into Shehan’s chest. The man fell backward, slamming down hard, the rear of his skull striking the rock. He was still conscious when Bolan’s shadow fell across him. Shehan stared up at him, his eyes blazing with a righteous fervor, spitting blood as he tried to speak.

      “You won’t succeed. We will still get to Mahoud and he will die.”

      Bolan ignored him, knowing the man would bleed out in seconds.

      Azal was hunched over on his knees, his head almost touching the rock. As Bolan bent over him, he noted the spreading blood patch extending down the Afghan’s back from the knife wounds. Azal turned his head so he could see Shehan sprawled on the rock only feet away.

      “Was it something I said?” he whispered, managing a wisp of a laugh. Then, “Cooper, you need to go. If you stay you will be caught. Then Mahoud will lose his chance.”

      “I’m supposed to leave you?”

      “You are a good man, Cooper. Be a wise one. I’m not going any farther. Shehan saw to that.” When Azal slowly raised his head, Bolan saw blood dribbling from his mouth. “Whatever else he was, Shehan knew where to place his blade.”

      “Azal…”

      “Here.” Azal slid his hand inside his long coat and pulled out a slim six-by-four item that he thrust at Bolan. “GPS unit. A backup in case I failed. I believe this is what Shehan wanted from me. Mahoud’s location is keyed in. He is due east from where we are. In the higher country.” Azal’s free hand gripped Bolan. “Get him out, Cooper, and he will do what he has promised. Now pass me my weapon.”

      At Azal’s urging Bolan eased the Afghan into a sitting position, his bloody back pressed to the curve of a large boulder. He placed the AK-47 in the man’s hands. Azal gestured at the two grenades on Bolan’s harness, and he handed them to him.

      “Now go before those bloody Taliban jackals show their ugly faces. Go now, Cooper. I will cover your back.”

      Bolan found himself hesitating, torn between his mission and the fate of the man in front of him.

      “What good if we both die here? Mahoud promises at least some measure of success and, however small, it must be allowed its chance.”

      Bolan laid his hand on Azal’s shoulder. Nothing more spoken passed between them, but the Afghan’s words made him aware of why he was here and what he had to do. He turned away and cut across to the east and the forbidding, craggy slopes. As he moved he slid the GPS unit into a pocket for safety.

      The terrain was harsh and unforgiving. Bolan kept up as fast a pace as he could, slinging the MP-5 to free both hands as he hauled himself over jagged outcroppings and eroded ledges of dusty rock.

      He picked up the chatter of autofire coming from behind him. There was a pause, then more rapid fire followed by the sharp blast of a detonating grenade. Azal was making good use of his limited ordnance. The second grenade blew. The Taliban would know who they were facing—a single man, yes, but an Afghan warrior from a long line of warriors who had fought invaders before and had never been truly