Beirut Payback: MacK Bolan by Don Pendleton
Authors: Don Pendleton
Tags: Fiction, General, Action & Adventure, Men's Adventure, Non-Classifiable, det_action, Bolan; Mack (Fictitious character), Beirut (Lebanon)
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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.
The Executioner diverted his attention from Masudi and the others for an instant and triggered a short burst from the Czech Model 23. The volley stitched the two Iranians, stopping them forever.
The fighting had begun to taper off in the compound.
The Iranian Revolutionary Guards who were not strewn in lifeless disarray all over the base could be seen throwing down their weapons, raising arms in surrender to the Syrian troops who closed in.
Not far from the main house, at least forty surrendering Iranians were being herded together by rival cannibals.
Masudi and his guards reached the Syrian staff car.
One of the three men waiting there stepped into the light and Bolan felt a cold fist clench his gut.
The man could be none other than Major General Greb Strakhov of the KGB.
In person.
Bolan pedigreed the two with Strakhov as the local operatives of the Glavnoye Razvedyvatelnoye Upravleniye — GRU — the chief intelligence directorate of the Soviet military that shares overseas assignments with the KGB. The other man was a Syrian officer.
Jackpot.
Except that Bolan would have to move damn fast or this jackpot would slip through his fingers.
The Syrian troopers shoved General Masudi into the limo. Strakhov and the other two also climbed into the car.
Bolan turned and darted back down the hallway. He exited the house into the night via the back door, not slowing for the obstacle course of scattered corpses.
As he passed, Bolan snatched the suitcase with the attached timer device he'd left in the hallway. He charged from the house in the direction of the hole in the fence where he'd entered.
He had considered a direct hit on the group by the limo, but it had been too far from the house for accuracy with the machine gun and he still did not have the big picture.
Okay, review time. They were about to whisk Masudi away. Had the Iranian commander set
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.
The Executioner diverted his attention from Masudi and the others for an instant and triggered a short burst from the Czech Model 23. The volley stitched the two Iranians, stopping them forever.
The fighting had begun to taper off in the compound.
The Iranian Revolutionary Guards who were not strewn in lifeless disarray all over the base could be seen throwing down their weapons, raising arms in surrender to the Syrian troops who closed in.
Not far from the main house, at least forty surrendering Iranians were being herded together by rival cannibals.
Masudi and his guards reached the Syrian staff car.
One of the three men waiting there stepped into the light and Bolan felt a cold fist clench his gut.
The man could be none other than Major General Greb Strakhov of the KGB.
In person.
Bolan pedigreed the two with Strakhov as the local operatives of the Glavnoye Razvedyvatelnoye Upravleniye — GRU — the chief intelligence directorate of the Soviet military that shares overseas assignments with the KGB. The other man was a Syrian officer.
Jackpot.
Except that Bolan would have to move damn fast or this jackpot would slip through his fingers.
The Syrian troopers shoved General Masudi into the limo. Strakhov and the other two also climbed into the car.
Bolan turned and darted back down the hallway. He exited the house into the night via the back door, not slowing for the obstacle course of scattered corpses.
As he passed, Bolan snatched the suitcase with the attached timer device he'd left in the hallway. He charged from the house in the direction of the hole in the fence where he'd entered.
He had considered a direct hit on the group by the limo, but it had been too far from the house for accuracy with the machine gun and he still did not have the big picture.
Okay, review time. They were about to whisk Masudi away. Had the Iranian commander set
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