Betrayed. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      The injured Afghan was wearing a U.S. style harness over his thick coat. Bolan saw a fragmentation grenade on one of the straps. He jerked it free and pushed it into one of the deep pockets in his combat pants. He grabbed his 9 mm Beretta pistol, which had been jammed behind the man’s leather belt. Bolan slammed the Afghan’s head against the stone wall hard enough to crack his skull. As the man slumped to the floor, Bolan’s eyes picked up an armed man running across the square.

      The gunner opened fire as he spotted Bolan. Slugs peppered the stone wall near the open door. The Executioner took a couple of steps to clear the door, then launched himself in a full dive toward the ground.

      Landing on his left shoulder, he used his forward momentum to keep him moving, then got to his knees, the AK-47 already tracking the movement of the rebel. Bolan triggered a burst, caught the guy in the left thigh, then adjusted his aim and fired again. The Afghan went down, still yelling, as other gunners exited the other huts. Once on his feet Bolan turned, powered forward and slammed up against the first of the stacked fuel drums. Behind him he could hear the yells of anger as his pursuers saw where he was. It didn’t stop Bolan. He raised the AK-47 and snapped a shot at the closest rebel. His burst caught the guy in the jaw, tearing out an ugly chunk of flesh and muscle. The Afghan gave a shriek of pain, dropping his rifle and clutching at the shattered jaw, blood spurting through his fingers. His companions hesitated, a couple of them grabbing the groaning casualty and dragging him away.

      Bolan used the break in the action to move himself along the line of drums and out of sight. His reprieve would be short-lived, he knew, and he wanted to make the most of it. As he moved around the end of the row, the soldier heard a raised shout. His time was already up and the Taliban rebels were closing in. He pulled the grenade from his pocket. Pulling the pin, he sprang the lever and dropped the grenade under the closest drum. From the far side of the stacked metal containers he heard the shuffle of feet and the rattle of weapons.

      The soldier ducked around the end of the closest hut, wanting to clear the immediate area before the grenade went off.

      The sharp sound of the blast preceded the heavier explosion as the volatile fuel blew, a ripple effect as the first explosion scattered shards of metal into the next drum and down the line. The vapor inside the containers ignited, expanding and sending sheets of blazing fuel up and out. The sudden screams of those caught in the surges of burning fuel were quickly lost. Bolan felt the ground underfoot shiver from the blast. The backlash lifted the rear of the standing truck inches off the ground and debris whistled overhead, keen-edged fragments of steel from the ruptured fuel drums.

      The moment he was clear of the truck Bolan cut off at an angle, heading directly for the hut that imprisoned Mahoud. He flattened against a stack of timber, leaning out to check the guard. The man was craning his neck, attempting to see what had happened but his position denied him a clear image. All he could see were the rising coils of flame and smoke, the storage shed blocking his view.

      Bolan stepped around to the rear of the timber, leaning out with the AK-47 in both hands. He tracked in and held his target, stroked the trigger and saw the guard go down, his skull shattered by the burst. Pushing clear Bolan crossed the open space.

      With the knowledge that he was still working against the clock the soldier didn’t hesitate. He moved to the wooden door, raised a booted foot and kicked it open. The force slammed it back against the inner wall, tearing it from one hinge so it sagged crookedly. Bolan followed it in. A robed figure sprang up from a seat, reaching for the AK leaning against the wall. Bolan hit him with a burst that ripped into his chest and tumbled the guy back across the open fire burning in the corner.

      There was only one door in front of Bolan. He yanked back the iron bolt and pushed the door open. Mahoud stood in the center of the room, a small wooden stool held in both hands, ready to protect himself.

      “Relax, Reef, it’s me.”

      Mahoud glanced at the stool, then tossed it aside. “I thought you were never coming.” Then his bloody, battered face split into a smile.

      Bolan led the way from the cell, pointing to the AK-47 leaning against the wall. Mahoud snatched it up. Spare magazines sat on a wooden table. The soldier checked them and found they were full. He handed a couple to Mahoud and took the others himself. At the open door Bolan checked the area. The raging blaze had spread to the storage building. Coils of smoke drifted across the area, constantly moved by the persistent Afghan wind. The smoke would give them temporary cover.

      “Around the rear,” Bolan said as he exited the hut, Mahoud close behind.

      Overhead the midday sky was darkening. Bolan could already feel the drop in temperature. Before they had gone many yards the first drops of rain fell.

      Someone began to shout. The cry was taken up, and Bolan spotted half a dozen gunners breaking into full view from around the side of burning storage buildings. Raised weapons began to chatter, slugs whipping up chunks of hard earth.

      “Keep moving,” Bolan said.

      He turned abruptly, cradling his AK, and opened fire on the advancing Taliban fighters. His first burst caught the lead rebel. The guy went down with both legs shattered, his blood staining the sand as he wriggled in agony. Bolan stood his ground, his weapon firing in short, controlled bursts. Two more gunners were slammed to the ground before the others pulled back. Bolan allowed them no leeway. His autorifle crackling steadily and one more of the Taliban rebels was hit, the guy tumbling awkwardly from the 7.62 mm slugs.

      Mahoud skidded around the line of huts, calling out, “We have transport.”

      It was the Toyota 4x4 that had accompanied the truck bringing them to the village.

      “Let’s go,” Bolan urged.

      They sprinted toward the vehicle, Bolan hoping the keys were still in the ignition, and assuming the Taliban’s sense of security within their own territory would allow them that confidence. He yanked open the driver’s door and almost gave a whoop of pleasure when he saw the key in place. On the far side of the Toyota, Mahoud hauled the passenger door open, then turned aside, bringing up his AK. Bolan saw an armed rebel burst into view from the gap between huts. Mahoud’s autorifle hammered out a long burst, 7.62 mm slugs, ripping stone shards from the hut wall and flesh from the Taliban gunner. The man fell back with a sharp cry, his body blossoming red as he absorbed the scything burst. As Bolan turned the key and the Toyota’s engine roared to life, Mahoud rolled into the cab, slamming his door shut.

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