Don Pendleton - Beirut Payback

Fouad Zakir, the Druse terrorist mastermind, appeared unable to grasp the simple fact of what had happened. He gazed from among the bodies, still shivering in death throes, and squinted through swirling gun smoke into the diamond-hard gaze of The Executioner. Because Bolan still wore a militia uniform, the Druse warlord felt something could be worked out.

The cannibal who sat in guarded safety to plan the massacres of so many now held a pistol, but checked tracking it upward. He dropped his pistol and he put on his best snake-oil smile and earnestly implored something of Bolan in Arabic.

The Executioner triggered another burst from the AK-47 and blew Fouad Zakir's oily face off the face of the earth.

Now for Strakhov.

Bolan retraced his steps out of the briefing room, halting only when half a dozen Syrian regulars charged up the stairs from the other end of the building. Bolan opened fire and some fell, the rest diving for cover.

Bolan started down the rubbled, half-destroyed stairs at this end of the building.

A jet, maybe two in tandem, thundered by low overhead, their whine magnified by the hole in the side of the building.

Two Russian attache's peered up from the bottom of the stairs, paused, confused for an instant at the sight of the man in Druse uniform. Bolan's AK chattered again and the flunkies toppled backward, leaving trails of body pieces that The Executioner avoided as he charged down the steps.

His single objective now was to cross the killground to that office annex where he hoped to find and finish the king of the savages.

He got thirty paces from the Syrian HQ building when a Mirage fighter swooped in out of nowhere, slamming down a string of heavy cannon fire that chopped up the earth into geysering explosions, ripping through lines of men and equipment and buildings, advancing jet-fast toward Bolan as the pilot strafed the base.

Bolan dodged to his right toward a sandbagged antiaircraft gun position, the occupants of which were fully riveted, returning the fire at the hurtling aircraft. Their rounds missed, but the explosion where Bolan had been an instant before missed him. He dived into that gun nest, yanking out his combat knife and whittling away at the three men. Blood spurted everywhere as the flashing blade bit deep into flesh, slicing into vital organs, leaving the surprised trio sprawled around The Executioner.

He looked over the edge of the sandbags in time to see, through the clouds of smoke that drifted across the compound, a direct hit on the annex that Strakhov had entered minutes ago.

The building blew outward: Bolan ducked as timber, mortar and the fury-atomized structure and what was left was blasted with missiles, exploding into an inferno. Screams of agony rose above the noisy compound as the blast fried those inside.

Another jet screamed by. Bolan felt as if he could read this pilot's mind. The big warrior evacuated the sandbagged gun nest at full speed toward the perimeter, along with a number of fleeing Syrian soldiers and a few Russians.

This Mirage unleashed a series of explosive blasts that shriveled the Syrian headquarters into collapsing rubble like a windblown house of cards.

What was left of the flaming structure wobbled and tumbled at the same instant Bolan made it through the bombed-out concertina-wired perimeter.

He climbed a knoll he knew would take him into view of the first curve in the road from Zahle after it passed the base.

He paused at the fence and spent a precious moment shedding his Druse militia uniform. A couple of passing Syrian regulars stopped to gape, then pulled up weapons. Bolan blew them away and continued over the rise, not knowing what the hell he would find. Bolan's heart hammered with the knowledge that he had accomplished at least one of the objectives of this mission. The terrorist infrastructure of the Soviet death dealers in this part of the world had been dismantled.

Strakhov could be dead; the building Bolan saw him enter had been blown up, but Bolan would not believe what he could not see when it came to Greb Strakhov.

In any event there was not much left alive or standing down there, Bolan thought as he viewed the ruins. The jets had shrieked off to the south, leaving behind charred, demolished ruins, as if some angered god had wiped the place away with one angry huff.

Bolan crested the knoll and slapped his last magazine into the assault rifle. There were no more fleeing soldiers in sight but he knew they were all around the rocky terrain beneath the cobalt sky and merciless sun.

He came over the hill and saw the road.

And the Volvo that belonged to Zoraya.

Zoraya sat at the wheel, eyeing him anxiously.

Seeing her did something funny to Bolan, but he was not sure what.

"Mack! Hurry!" Bolan had intended to. He charged down that slope toward the Volvo.

When he got within twenty paces, Syrian soldiers appeared from two different directions: five men across the road, closing in on the other side of the Volvo, and two approaching at a run.

Bolan lifted the AK in the direction of the five men coming at Zoraya from the lower ground beyond the vehicle. He squeezed the trigger, braced to ride the weapon's recoil. Nothing happened.

The damn thing had jammed!

Bolan threw away the useless weapon and pawed for the AutoMag, knowing he would not have time to take out all these odds no matter how good he was.

Zoraya opened fire with an Uzi submachine gun from the passenger side of the Volvo.

The five troopers had been distracted by the sight of the combat figure in blacksuit and had momentarily forgotten the lady inside the car.

The Syrians toppled under a hail of Parabellum flesh-eaters seeking targets in one prolonged fifteen-second blast.

Bolan swung Big Thunder on the two who had almost reached the Volvo from behind. He fired once.

The guy on the left jerked backward off his feet, toppling into shrubbery along the road.

Bolan readjusted his mighty hand cannon from its upward recoil, but before he could waste soldier number two, that Syrian caught a single high-powered rifle shot from someone other than Bolan or Zoraya.

The soldier pitched forward, the back of his head blown away.

Bolan crouched, scanning the surroundings for the source of that helpful fire, but no one showed himself.

"We must hurry!" Zoraya called frantically from the car. "They are everywhere!"

"Right as usual," Bolan growled. He slid behind the steering wheel. "Hang on."

The Arab beauty braced herself for the ride, the Uzi ready.

The big guy popped the Volvo's clutch and kicked up a swirl of gravel, getting them away from there.

Bolan piloted the Volvo on two wheels and a prayer around the first bend in the road-right into the path of an oncoming deuce-and-a-half rushing reinforcements to what remained of the Syrian base at Zahle.

Bolan pumped the Volvo's brake pedal so hard he thought it would snap, twisting the heap into a skid. The grinding of the troop carrier's brakes and the blaring of the truck's horn drowned out the curse that escaped Bolan's lips as the Volvo slewed sideways onto the shoulder of the road.

The deuce-and-a-half shuddered to a stop, men pouring from the cab and the tarpaulin-covered tailgate to investigate.

Bolan tagged the two from the cab with .44 headbusters.

Zoraya squeezed off a tight blitz from the Uzi that riddled three soldiers attempting to climb from the rear of the carrier. But she missed the pair debarking from the other side, seeking cover behind a culvert alongside the road.

The shooting ceased.

"How will we get those two?" Zoraya whispered to Bolan when they were outside the Volvo.

Before Bolan could respond, two sharp reports crackled in the afternoon air, followed by the sounds of bodies toppling beyond sight of the drain.