Don Pendleton - Beirut Payback

The Shiite terrorist graybeard ranked with Masudi as an equal threat to Bolan. Graybeard pointed his piece, tracking on Bolan.

Masudi did the same. The three other Disciples of Allah weren't exactly discussing the weather, either.

Bolan dived into a roll away from the archway as gunfire exploded, magnified in the confinement of the room, drowning out the battle roar from outside.

Bolan came out of the roll.

The religion-drugged fanatics were still trying to get a lead on him, firing as they did. But the rounds plinked into the walls and prayer table, missing Bolan.

His first targets had to be Masudi and the graybeard. He shifted the Beretta to his left hand, flicking it to auto and unleathering Big Thunder in one continuous movement, raking death from both hands.

The AutoMag sheared off Graybeard's skull from the eyes up, and below that the head became a beard of flowing red atop a collapsing corpse.

Bolan tried to sight again on Masudi, but the hooknosed general moved deceptively fast, grabbing one of the Shiite terrorists and jerking the Disciple of Allah in front of him for cover.

Masudi scrambled backward like a scurrying spider toward the archway, dragging the startled young terrorist with him.

Bolan triggered a 3-shot stutter from the 93-R. A row of slugs sizzled into the terrorist in front of Masudi and the human shield went from startled to dead. But that did not stop the Iranian officer.

He tossed the body aside and disappeared in a rush down the corridor out of sight of Bolan, who still had his hands full.

The two remaining Disciples toting AK-47'S separated to opposite sides of the room. Both terrorists opened fire on Bolan, the blazing weapons spitting heavy projectiles at him.

The penetrator in blacksuit hit the floor in a forward sprawl and took both of the creeps out before they could adjust their aim.

The terrorist on the left caught a 3-shot burst of 9mms in the heart area and tumbled over sideways, crushing the prayer table on the way down. The other opened his mouth to yell but a .44-caliber headbuster cored the man's eye socket like hot metal through butter, spraying the wall behind bright crimson.

Bolan thought for an instant that he had finished there and started to get up, when he saw a flurry of movement from a far corner of the room.

The ancient mullah flipped away the folds of his holy robe and lifted a Czech Model 23 submachine gun. He screeched something about Allah and kept on screeching, but the words were drowned out by the chatter of the killer song in his hands. The wily old-timer rode the recoil like a pro, but Bolan had already hit the floor again. A pulverizing volley of screaming lead tattooed the wall where The Executioner had been only seconds before. Bolan stroked the AutoMag's trigger once more, blowing away the holy man. His prayers were answered, all right. But the wrong people had died.

The combat outside increased in intensity.

Screams from the wounded rose above the roar of weapons. Bolan heard more explosions. Another one rocked the building.

He had to get Masudi.

The Iranian commander could be the next link in the chain leading to Strakhov, though Bolan had a hunch it could be Strakhov's Syrian force attacking the base.

Only seconds had passed since the Iranian general had disappeared around the archway.

Bolan moved over to the mullah's body, reloading and holstering the Beretta and AutoMag. He picked up the mullah's SMG and fished three extra clips from inside the old man's robe.

The Executioner stepped over the corpse and moved toward the hallway. He could hear running footfalls and the clunking of military gear outside this room. He paused at the smashed table where the men had stood when Bolan first appeared.

Bolan stooped without slowing and grabbed the blueprints that had been the obvious subject of this briefing.

A blessing from the mullah before these Disciples of Allah left Biskinta for... what?

The nightwarrior paused and looked around. He spotted the object someone had pushed behind some chairs.

A suitcase.

With a timer attached to it, ready to be set.

He had no time to further consider suitcases with explosives. He had to get Masudi.

He crumpled the blueprints against his chest and stuffed them beneath the blacksuit. Then he grabbed the suitcase in his left hand.

The archway filled with Iranian Revolutionary Guards, three of them toting AK'S ready for action. They charged in, but only one man got off a shot that plowed into the ceiling. A burst from the Czech machine gun in Bolan's right fist stuttered like an angry jackhammer, making the IRG invaders perform a death dance like marionettes gone wild in an epileptic puppeteer's hand.

Bolan charged over their bodies after Masudi.

All of the activity since the general slipped the scene had taken less than a minute. But Bolan knew his numbers were almost gone if he hoped to nail Masudi for what he knew and still pull out of this action intact.

He fed a fresh clip into the machine gun and peered into the hallway.

No one.

The house seemed deserted.

The battle continued outside the building. A tank rumbled again. Crumbling plaster rained from the ceiling.

Bolan dashed toward the stairs. He thought it was the only route Masudi could have taken unless the Iranian had not left the building at all, which Bolan doubted. He made the landing and started down.

Masudi had looked like a man on the run to save his ass. Sacrificing that terrorist's life to give himself cover proved that.

Bolan doubted Masudi would wait around.

The front door of the house was swinging back shut, indicating the general had just gone through.

Bolan hit the bottom step and paused before leaving cover of the doorway for outside.

Three figures charged in through the back door behind Bolan at the other end of the hall downstairs: Syrian uniforms.

The instant they saw him, the trigger-happy Syrians opened fire on Bolan, their assault rifles on full-auto. Dodging the onslaught, Bolan shoved the suitcase safely away and aimed the Model 23.

Hot lead scorched the air near him, one projectile zinging close enough past Bolan's ear for him to feel the heat.

Then the SMG bucked in his fists, spitting flame and bullets.

The two Syrians in front screamed and jitterbugged under the hail that shredded flesh and sprayed blood onto the third soldier. Panicking, he started to turn and scream even as pursuing slugs pureed his brains from behind. The three dead tumbled into a heap in the back doorway and Bolan returned his attention to the front, hoping he hadn't been diverted long enough for Masudi to escape.

The Executioner crouched back at the doorway, paused to slam another magazine into the Model 23, then peered out at the turmoil.

The presence of the Syrians he'd just killed prepared the nightscorcher for what he saw.

The Iranian base was now brilliantly illuminated by piercing spotlights and headlights of Syrian tanks and personnel carriers that had already penetrated into the center of the compound. Orange-red flames licked the night sky from the area of tents where the main fighting was taking place.

Syrian and Iranian soldiers ran shooting at each other everywhere Bolan looked.

Bolan saw General Masudi.

Six Syrian soldiers stood around the Iranian officer. The soldiers to a man had their rifles aimed at Masudi's head.

The commander of the Iranian Revolutionary Guards stood with head bowed, his hands handcuffed behind his back. His uniform looked scuffed and dirty.

The general and his guards walked toward three men who stood waiting next to a limo that Bolan knew would be armor plated.

Syrian army markings designated it a staff car.

Two Iranian regulars wearing only the trousers of their uniforms with civilian tunics came running around the corner of the headquarters building in Bolan's direction, their rifles ready but not ready enough.