Beirut Payback te-67 Read online

  Other men of the bodyguard force had been knocked to the floor and appeared stunned, a moment behind Bolan in reorienting themselves.

  He targeted his first burst at those who had missed the intensity of the blast, the ones who now turned to face him, not sure if he was friend or foe. They death-jigged and toppled under the ha of automatic fire.

  Then Bolan mowed down the ones who were just now realizing they were already dying. He took out three PLO hardguys with a stitching blast as they came through the open doorway of the meeting room where Strakhov's summit of death merchants had fallen apart into bedlam.

  Bolan fed a fresh clip into the AK-47 and stalked into that room to deliver some long overdue tabs. With interest.

  The savages in there had been in the hurried process of breaking camp, trying to escape the devastating air strike that seemed to gobble up the whole world outside the windows.

  The rats were abandoning ship, all of them and their surviving bodyguards already on their feet and racing toward the door. But they checked their progress, reaching for hardware after hearing sounds of The Executioner at work in the hallway.

  Bolan triggered the AK-47 before he came all the way through the doorway.

  He remembered this as the office he had crossed in the dark that morning during his first penetration of this base. They were all standing in various attitudes around the table, lined up like targets in a gallery, pulling guns.

  The PLO man caught a row of flesh-exploders across his chest and toppled sideways into a Shiite. The slugs missed the Muslim militia chieftain's gut, but they tore apart his head and shoulders instead. Both men collapsed, crashing into the table together, spreading puddles of blood as the AK-47 spit more death.

  A volley of projectiles nearly ripped apart the IRG member at abdomen level, severing his head from his body when he doubled over.

  General Abdel's successor, as commander of this base, forgot about his pistol and tried to shriek an order or entreaty to the doom-bringer in the doorway, but a burst from the AK silenced the Syrian savage rudely and permanently, and the officer fell atop the other bodies.

  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.

  21

  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.

  Bolan scanned the countryside, trying to plot a possible trajectory for those kill shots. He gave up when he realized the shots could have come from anywhere. The terrain around the mountainside village was a sniper's paradise.

  "We seem to have acquired a guardian angel," Bolan mused. "All right, lady. Ready to travel?"

  "We have no choice," replied Zoraya. They returned to the Volvo, Bolan behind the wheel, and drove away from the truck and the road littered with sprawled bodies.

  As Bolan wheeled the vehicle away from the site of carnage, many thoughts flashed through his mind with instant clarity. The realization had hit home the moment he saw Zoraya Khaled risking her life for him, trading shots with the enemy. An enemy would never have done that.

  Bolan knew his first gut reaction to this special lady had been right all along.

  Her voice, throaty and sense-intriguing as always, broke into his thoughts.

  "You must forgive me, Mack." Zoraya avoided his eyes. She popped another magazine into the Uzi. "I... lost control for a moment when I first saw you. I was so afraid you had died in the air strike. I warned my sister who cooks for the troops at that base. Uri knows she is a key source of information and told me so I could tell her in time for her to escape. But I wanted to help you. I did not want you to end... like Chaim. I thought... if you needed me..."

  "Which I did. Thank you, Zoraya, but I'm afraid I've got some bad news."

  "About my uncle, yes. He sent me out for supplies. He thought since it was his business, he could better draw attention away from where you were hidden if anyone came looking. I saw the scum leaving who killed him. Our own kind. Druse gunmen. I... slaughtered them. When I returned to the garage a few moments later... you were gone. But what of now? I do not understand..."

  "For starters I'd better get us out of this country," Bolan said. "My work here is done." He did not want to think of Strakhov. Not at the moment. He wondered if the KGB commander boss cannibal had been killed in that air strike. He had a hunch deep inside that he and Strakhov would confront each other again someday. But he saw no reason to lay that on the woman beside him who had already done so much.

  "I have spent some time today arranging your withdrawal from Lebanon through my friends in the underground. Just in case your plans went astray." Zoraya smiled. "One cannot always anticipate the plans of Allah."

  "You'll accompany me?" He thought he knew her answer to that but he had to ask, and her response told him he had been right about her, yeah. This was one very special lady.

  She shook her head without taking her eyes from the countryside flashing past.

  "My place is here, Mack. You can see from here how the fighting in Beirut has ceased. The artillery bombardment has ceased."

  Bolan had noticed.

  "So no one can say Chaim Herzi died in vain," he acknowledged. "His dream of peace may still come true. Maybe today."

  "There is talk of the president's being forced to step down," said Zoraya. "Of negotiations for a new government to give more rights to Muslim citizens. My people must continue the struggle because we have no other choice and I must be part of that. I cannot leave my home." And that was when Bolan saw the guy standing in the middle of the road.

  Bolan did not peg him as Syrian or Russian. He was wearing American threads, holding his ground in a gunner's crouch, a.45 automatic aimed at the windshield, at Bolan's head. He looked as if he would not give an inch, daring Bolan to run him down.

  Bolan braked the Volvo into another abrupt sideways stop.

  Zoraya's knuckles whitened on the Uzi.

  "Do not stop! It is a trap!" Bolan had already stopped.

  As he stepped out of the car to face the man in the road, he whispered back into the car to Zoraya.

  "He's mine. Don't shoot. Don't do anything."

  "Mack..." Bolan moved away from the car, out of earshot of her plea, to approach the man aiming the .45 at him. Bolan kept his pace steady, his empty hands well away from his holstered weapons. He stopped when he got close enough to discern the sheen of sweat across the American's forehead. He locked eyes with the man. "CIA?"

  The man nodded. The .45 did not waver from between Bolan's eyes, the gunner's crouch tense, like an animal ready to spring. "Collins. You're Mack Bolan."

  "That's a fact," Bolan replied in a monotone. "So what are you going to do about it, Collins? Do you know what I just did back there?"

  "At Zahle? I saw the whole thing and you did good. But orders on you are to Terminate on Sight, buddy boy. I lost a friend today. I saw him blown to bits, and you're a part of the goddamn problem."

  "I'm the solution to the problem," Bolan corrected. "I'm sorry about your pal. I've lost some along the way, too. It's that kind of war. But we're on the same side, guy. I've never fired on a comrade in arms. I won't fire on you and I won't have this lady fire, either. But if you saw what I did down there... I can do it again and keep on doing it where it counts until the vultures stop me, if they can. Or you can stop me right here and now and let them score the point. You know that's the truth, Collins. You decide the future."

  The .45 drew its unwavering bead for another moment. Then Bob Collins lowered the pistol. "You're right, you know that. I guess the heat... all the killing, it got to me." Collins holstered the.45 and stepped from the middle of the road. "Okay, Bolan. Next time it won't be like this, if we eyeball each other again, but yeah, I saw what you did. This one's for Also Randolph. Okay, go do it again somewhere."

  Bolan returned a curt nod to that, returned to the Volvo and drove past and away from the Company man without looking back.

  The woman beside him touched Bolan's arm with feather-light fingertips, a look of concern from those smoldering eyes. "You take great chances."

  "I have a guardian angel," Bolan reminded her, scanning the receding terrain behind them reflected in the Volvo's rearview mirror, seeing nothing but Bob Collins returning on foot to his vehicle. Bolan felt weary, but he felt good, too. He felt strong, stronger than ever in his belief in a better world as long as there were people like Zoraya in it; a reaffirmation of his dedication to the everlasting war of
a soldier's life. "Now then," he said to the lovely beside him as they rounded a breathtaking panorama of the Mediterranean stretched out to the horizon far below, "what was that you said about getting me out of here?"

  * * *

  Yakov Katzenelenbogen lowered the rifle from its target, no longer telescoped with the cross hairs centered on Collins's head. Katz had witnessed the brief scene between Bolan and the CIA man, who now climbed into a sedan and drove off in the opposite direction taken by Bolan and the woman in the Volvo. A fresh breeze blew in from the sea, whisking away the clouds of war and letting the sun shine in on the city far below, battered but still standing, like its people.

  Survivors with hope. Katz watched the Volvo drive around the bend in the mountain road leading to the sea, and when the car disappeared he decided he would not follow it farther. The helping hand he'd given the Executioner and the woman had seen them far enough for the warrior in blacksuit to carry it for the touchdown. Katz had worked his way across the Israel-Lebanon border using his knowledge of security along the frontier. Intel from the same sources about Strakhov's summit at Zahle had brought him here. He hoofed over to his hidden vehicle parked nearby. He had his own withdrawal from "Paris of the Med" already mapped out and was not overly concerned with Mossad for the events at the farmhouse where they had tried to detain him. He had far too much dirt on his former colleagues stored away, waiting for release to the media, stuff that could topple governments east and west, ready to go out if they got to him. Katz had gotten out of far worse scrapes than having Mossad angry with him.

  And with Hal Brognola, Stony Man Farm's White House liaison, batting for him, once he heard the Bolan side of the story, Katz knew he was already home clear. He would be ready for his next Phoenix Force mission by the time he reached the States. As for worn, torn Lebanon, maybe things would work out for this beleaguered little nation, maybe not, but Katz figured Bolan and his country's military presence had done all they could. The Executioner had defanged the cannibals of both sides, cooling an abyss within Hell itself where maybe reason could now rule the day. As for the stunning woman glimpsed beside Bolan in the Volvo, both already long gone down that winding mountain road, Katz did not shed much concern. Katz knew Mack Bolan. The Executioner could take care of himself. And always would. Damn right.