Betrayal j-2

  Betrayal

  ( Jet - 2 )

  Russell Blake

  Russell Blake

  Betrayal

  Chapter 1

  Gordon nudged his sleeping companion. “Doug. Wake up.”

  Doug’s chin was drooping onto his stained military green T-shirt, sweat-soaked in the muggy night heat.

  Gordon elbowed him again.

  Doug shuddered, raised his head, and cracked open a bleary eye.

  “What?”

  “Shhh. Keep it down,” Gordon hissed. “We don’t want to alert the guards.”

  He shifted his camouflage-clad legs in the mud and rotting vegetation then glanced at his partner’s calf, where a filthy bandage was wrapped around a festering bullet wound, the pants cut off at the knee. The rusty stain of dried blood on the dressing was alive with ants exploring the once-white gauze.

  Doug was pale, his body battling infection and fever. It hadn’t helped that neither of them had been fed for two days, or that they only got water every four hours. The jungle in the southern hills of Myanmar was brutal at the best of times — if their captors didn’t kill them, nature soon would.

  “I got my hands almost free,” Gordon whispered. “Slide over here so I can work on yours.”

  Both men were tied to a stake hammered into the ground at the edge of a clearing, their wrists bound behind them with rope. A crude-yet-effective form of imprisonment — and it wasn’t as if there were a lot of places to go. The Golden Triangle was a lawless area that ran from Myanmar to Vietnam, encompassing a swatch of Laos and northern Thailand. Other than occasional villages, where the natives lived in abject poverty, it was a sprawling patchwork of jungle and opium poppy fields.

  “How?” Doug slurred, too loud for Gordon’s liking.

  “Shut up. Just edge over a little. And stay quiet.”

  Doug complied, inching his body to where Gordon could reach his wrists.

  The night was dark, but a sliver of moon shining through the trees overhead provided enough light to reveal Doug’s haggard features. Glancing to the right, Gordon could make out the main encampment’s tents in the clearing and the few rough-hewn shacks near the tree line, close to one of the countless streams in the hills of the Shan state that bordered Laos and Thailand.

  Gordon sawed at the rope with a sharp shard of bamboo he’d broken from the base of the stake. His hands were bleeding from where the jagged edge had sliced the skin — not that he cared. If they didn’t escape, they would die. It was that simple.

  He guessed that it was around one in the morning. The sun had set at least five hours ago, although his sense of time had become warped, he knew, from the dehydration, hunger and exposure. They’d been left out through the inevitable periodic downpours, the mountain air drying the moisture from their skin over time, bringing with it the mosquitoes that swarmed around them. He’d been bitten so often that every area of exposed skin was swollen and red, as was Doug’s.

  He didn’t even want to think about the mosquito-borne diseases that were endemic to the area. Dengue fever, malaria, yellow fever, chikungunya…and there was typhoid, hepatitis, the plague, hemorrhagic fever and a host of other delights that could be had from drinking the water or coming into contact with the jungle denizens.

  But they had bigger problems right now.

  Gordon strained to hear anything from the camp. All was quiet, but that could be illusory because, day and night, random patrols of two or three men moved soundlessly into the jungle from the shelters, assault rifles slung over their shoulders. These were Shan: area tribesmen who knew the region like their own backyard — hired guns, paid to live like fugitives and act as security for the man who was a kind of God to them.

  A white man.

  A round eye — with incredible riches and a desire for extreme privacy, who ruled his domain like a warlord.

  Gordon hadn’t spotted their elusive target: the farang that the natives were protecting, in whose camp they were now involuntary guests. From what he could make out of the guards’ hushed discussions, the man wasn’t there. So even if their mission had gone to plan and they’d been able to sneak up on the camp without being captured, it would have been in vain.

  He felt Doug’s rope fraying from his efforts with the bamboo and kept sawing methodically. Doug slumped into unconsciousness again at some point over the next hour, and Gordon let him be. He’d need any energy he could muster soon enough.

  A noise disrupted the gloom’s tranquility, branches snapping, as two armed men entered the clearing from the periphery, chatting in the local dialect — the night sentries had arrived. The camp seemed calm even during the day, the men lounging around lazily with nothing much to do but cook, patrol and gamble amongst themselves. With their patron absent, there was nothing to guard. Nobody would be interested in taking on a heavily-armed group in order to confiscate their tents or guns. This slice of the world had plenty of weapons — they were more common than shoes in the rural hills.

  Gordon watched through shuttered eyes as the new arrivals headed to a small fire, where another man sat nursing a Kalashnikov rifle. They gestured in unison for him to pass his bottle. He protested half-heartedly, then laughed as he handed it over. Cigarettes came out, followed by the inevitable cards, which were shuffled in preparation for another late-night redistribution of wealth.

  There would be none of this kind of sloppiness once their target was back. They’d both read his dossier. It was just lucky that Gordon had gotten the rope loose on a night when security was lax. That might be the edge that kept them alive.

  Although Doug’s odds weren’t good.

  The gunshot wound in his calf had missed the bone, but infection had set in and would hobble his ability to get far. Gordon had debated slipping off without him, but he didn’t have the heart. If he had been wounded, he knew Doug would have stayed with him. After all they’d been through together, Gordon owed Doug at least that much in return.

  But that didn’t mean his chances were favorable.

  If the guards kept drinking, Gordon hoped that in an hour they could make their move and disappear into the jungle. But then what? They were days from anything remotely resembling civilization. And this wasn’t the only armed group in the region. Drug smugglers, bandits, human traffickers, poachers: all flourished in the no man’s land that was the Triangle, and any one of them would kill without a second’s hesitation.

  Not the greatest scenario, but one they wouldn’t have to worry about if Gordon couldn’t get their arms loose.

  Twenty minutes later, he felt the final frayed edges of the bindings separate with a quiet snap and nudged Doug again.

  “Hey. You’re free. Cut the rest of my rope the same way I cut yours.”

  Doug jolted and looked at him with uncomprehending eyes.

  Maybe it had been a mistake to wait after all. He was out of it. The delirium brought about by the infection had progressed too far.

  “Doug. Grab this piece of bamboo. Keep your hands behind you. Don’t make any sudden movements. Saw until I’m free.”

  Awareness flickered, and Gordon felt Doug’s fingers grasping for the shard.

  When the bindings finally separated and his wrists pulled apart, circulation returned to his numb hands with a harsh rush of feeling. He peered through slits at the gunmen, who had finished the bottle and were slapping down cards, cheating each other with tired familiarity, their vigil punctuated by an occasional burp or hacking cough. The guards were seventy-five yards away, and Gordon’s hope was that if they crawled into the underbrush it could be hours before anyone noticed they were missing. It wasn’t as though anyone had checked on them since the sun had set, and he knew from his experience over the last two nights that nobody would be by to look at them until da
wn, at the earliest.

  “Doug. Listen,” Gordon murmured. “We’re going to slide over by that clump of plants and then run for it. Can you make it?”

  Doug seemed more alert now that his hands were free and there was a chance of escape.

  “I think so. How do we do this?”

  “I’ll go first. There’s so little light, they won’t be able to make us out if we don’t do anything stupid. Once I’m out of sight, you crawl to me, and then we’ll head downhill. If we make it till daylight, we’ll be able to tell by the sun what direction we’re headed, and we can get to the Thai border.”

  Doug nodded.

  With a final glance at the guards, Gordon inched down and rolled onto his stomach, then dog-crawled to the trees. Nobody noticed — no shots were fired or alarms raised. Once he made it into the brush, he turned and watched for Doug. He hoped he wasn’t making a fatal mistake by taking him.

  Two minutes later, Doug materialized next to him. Both of them stood, and Doug tentatively put weight on his leg. The severity of pain this caused reflected in his eyes, but he choked it down.

  After a final glance at the camp, they slipped deeper into the brush, the sound of night creatures around them their accompaniment as they wordlessly wove through the thick vegetation, hoping to find a trail in the meager moonlight.

  Gordon supported Doug as they plodded forward, an hour into their trek to freedom. Doug was already tiring from the ravaging his system had endured from the infection, but he trudged on without complaint. Gordon’s arm burned with inflammation from where the guards had crudely carved out the implanted tracking chip, leaving a gash of tortured flesh. He could only imagine what Doug was enduring.

  They fought their way through deadwood and tangles of vines until they came to a stream that meandered downhill from the camp. A game trail ran along its banks, enabling them to pick up the pace.

  “Gahh. Oh, God…” Doug exclaimed as his ankle twisted on a rut, tearing at his brutalized calf muscle and bringing tears to his eyes.

  “Let’s take a break and rinse off that bandage. The water will make you feel better,” Gordon said as Doug sank to the ground grabbing at his leg.

  As Gordon unwound the gauze, Doug gasped, his breath coming in hoarse bursts.

  The stink was unbearable. Like rotting meat. Discoloration ran up the veins, and the wound seeped a bloody mixture of pus. Gordon rinsed it carefully, but didn’t comment on the insects that had taken up a home. The water washed them away, but Gordon wasn’t kidding himself. If Doug survived he’d probably lose the leg unless there was some miracle antibiotic they could get their hands on.

  “How is it? Hurts like a b-”

  Gordon cocked his head to the side and raised a finger to his lips.

  “What?”

  “Shhh,” Gordon whispered, listening. “Damn. We need to get moving. Now. Let’s get you wrapped up. We don’t have much time.”

  Gordon wrung out the bandage and hastily wound it around the gash — the bullet had passed cleanly through the calf muscle, but the subsequent infection had caused immeasurable damage.

  Doug glanced at him with alarm. “What do you hear?”

  “A dog.”

  They struggled to their feet and stepped into the stream, hoping that would eliminate their trail — although Gordon suspected that Doug’s wound was emanating a strong scent.

  He had no idea where his captors had gotten their hands on a dog. Probably one of the nearby villages. A few dollars would buy almost anything, even at three in the morning. Their luck had just run out.

  Clouds drifted across the sky, and without warning, a downpour started, drenching the two men and further darkening their way. There was no place to take cover from the cloudburst, but getting wet was the least of their worries.

  Doug stumbled several times and cried out. He’d pulled the ravaged muscle again, and this time looked like he wasn’t going to be able to continue any longer.

  “Just leave me,” Doug hissed through clenched teeth.

  “Not a chance. Come on. Pick up the pace.”

  “I…I can’t do it. It’s too-”

  A burst of rifle fire tore across Doug’s torso, bullets whizzing past Gordon as he instinctively threw himself to the ground. Doug spun and collapsed next to him, burbling his last breath, and then lay still. The crash of men and beast tearing through the jungle a few hundred yards away signaled that Gordon’s time had run out. He wondered whether they would drag him back or simply end his ordeal with a bullet to the skull.

  The rain poured down with renewed vigor, large drops pelting him, and he used the temporary cover it offered to scramble forward and put distance between himself and his pursuers. His boots slammed onto the rocky riverbed, but the torrent falling all around him drowned the sound out. His only hope now was that nobody had night vision gear, or worse, an infrared scope. If they did, he was already dead.

  He followed the brook until it tumbled into an area of angry churning froth. Rapids, the stream swollen from the rain. He stepped carefully onto the exposed rocks and hopped across from one to another, hoping to make it to the other side while the downpour covered his escape.

  His footing gave out, and his sole slipped on the third rock. Gordon felt himself falling, disoriented as he slammed into the water, the force of the jolt knocking the wind out of him. He shook his head to clear it and felt warm liquid streaming down his neck; when he reached around to feel the back of his skull, his hand came away with a smear of blood.

  Glancing around, he climbed to his feet and jogged along the shore as the stream widened, straining to hear any followers. The muffled sound of a dog barking told him everything he needed to know. He needed to put distance between himself and his pursuers while he could. When the rain stopped, he’d be exposed — the guards were all locals recruited from the neighboring hamlets, and he had no doubt that some of them were guides for the smuggling trails that wove through the hills. His only edge now was a slim lead and the dark of night. Come morning, if he lasted that long, he’d be a dead man unless he could make it across the border into Thailand and into relative civilization.

  The irony of his being the prey wasn’t lost on him. This had been a seek-and-destroy mission, the target a relatively easy, if elusive, one. Gordon had carried out similar operations in Afghanistan, the Balkans and the Middle East with no complications. He was the predator. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

  The sound of men crashing through the trees trailed him, but at a greater distance now.

  Maybe his gambit had worked. But if so, he’d need to get away from the stream soon. It had served its purpose but was too easy to follow.

  A barely-discernible path forked off from the water to his right. After a moment’s hesitation, he threw himself headlong down the trail, willing his legs to greater speed even as he felt light-headed from the blood loss. He’d have to stop soon and try to clot the gash or it would do the gunmen’s job for them.

  Shouts echoed through the jungle behind him, but far enough back to afford him a momentary glimmer of hope. If the dog had lost the scent at the stream, then they were as blind as he was, and it was a big area.

  Vines tore at his skin as the trail narrowed. At that moment, he would have given anything for a machete and an M4 rifle. He would have made short work of the amateurs who were tracking him, even with just the machete.

  Shots rang out in the distance, but there was no accompanying shredding of vegetation. So the armed men were now shooting at phantoms.

  A stirring in one of the trees stopped him in his tracks — a pair of glowing eyes burned into him. He squinted in the dim light and then started. There on a branch was a spotted leopard, capable of taking down a deer.

  The big cat hissed as it watched him edge cautiously away while maintaining eye contact so it wouldn’t think he was afraid. Animals could sense fear, Gordon knew. His fight wasn’t with the hungry leopard, and he didn’t want to provoke it in any way. At seventy pounds, it could in
flict real damage, especially in his weakened state. He backed off, but the leopard seemed intent on challenging him. It could obviously smell blood.

  The two stared each other down, twenty feet apart, until the cat decided there was easier prey in the jungle and leapt gracefully onto another branch, then worked its way down to the ground before loping off into the foliage.

  Exhaling a sigh of relief, Gordon resumed his push down the path, more than aware that the gunmen were still hot on his tail. He estimated by the sound of the last shots that they were a quarter mile or more away, but he wanted that to be several miles by dawn if he could manage it. As long as the dog didn’t pick up his scent again, it was achievable, provided he didn’t bleed to death or get eaten.

  As he eased down the hill, he entered a thick layer of ground fog that hung like a cloak over the valley below. He had a rough idea of where he was, but after having been moved from where he and Doug had been captured, it was only approximate. A handheld GPS would have come in handy.

  Cries from up the hill, followed by a bark, told him everything he needed to know. The dog had caught the smell of blood on the wind and was leading the men straight to him again. The baying of the hound seemed to grow louder with each passing minute. Gordon clenched his jaw and pushed on, picking up his pace to a flat-out run.

  A trailing vine tripped him, and he tumbled, rolling down the slope, gathering speed as he slid down the slick side of the muddy hill. He reached out with both hands trying to slow his fall, but it was no good. Gravity had the best of him, and the rain made the surface as slippery as an ice rink.

  He thudded into the base of a tree, abruptly stopping his descent, and felt something in his chest snap. At least one, possibly two, broken ribs, he guessed. The simple assignment had now become an ordeal that he doubted he would escape with his life. Blood continued to leak from his head, and his hands were shredded into hamburger. The only good news was that his slide had taken him at least another hundred yards down a steep section of the hill, which no sane follower would attempt. If he could find another trail and maintain any kind of speed, he might have a chance.