Beirut Payback: MacK Bolan by Don Pendleton Page A
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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up this hit on his own troops? From what Bolan had seen and heard of Hook Nose, it could go down that way.
Bolan had to determine where Strakhov intended to take Masudi, and why.
The Executioner had to fit this piece of the puzzle in with the others to make sure their whole scheme collapsed, and not only part of Strakhov's Lebanon scenario. He could hit Strakhov and Masudi now and terminate them, sure, but Bolan knew when the odds were against him.
Uh-uh. The way he saw it, any move now would needlessly endanger his life and that definitely did not fit in the picture for the night.
He had to follow that Syrian staff car when it left the base.
The limo could only take one route out of Biskinta and the Iranians' temporary compound to get to the main roads to either Zahle or Beirut: the same road off which Bolan had left Zoraya and little Selim waiting in the concealed Volvo. The chauffeured car with Strakhov and Masudi would have to pass the spot where Bolan had left the Druse woman and the little Arab boy.
He could make the distance to the Volvo on foot if nothing slowed him. Then he could take a chance on following the limo with his lights off.
Bolan was halfway to the fenced perimeter of the compound, angling away from the opposite side of the house from the limo when he heard a shout to halt. It came from the Syrian soldiers herding IRG prisoners near the house.
Bolan paused, set the timer device on the suitcase for five seconds, then heaved the suitcase. Even as the container left his hand, the Executioner put on a burst of speed, continuing his withdrawal.
The terrorist package from the Disciples of Allah zeroed right into that crowd of Iranians, who had protected and supplied terrorists, and anti-American Syrians who thought it fun to shoot down U.S. reconnaissance planes, to kill and capture U.S. pilots.
The incredible blast of the dynamite-loaded suitcase sent shock waves that pushed the warrior along from behind like a huge hot hand. It started drizzling blood and dull thumps sounded in the night as body parts fell all around him.
Something hollow sounding landed in Bolan's path and he jogged past the wide-eyed, openmouthed features of a bearded man's freshly decapitated head.
He reached the fenced perimeter and on through the hole. He almost made the track that led to the car when he heard movement in the darkness to his left, just before the trail began. He swung sideways low and loose, fanning that flank with the machine gun.
In the starlight, combat-honed night vision discerned two crouched figures: disheveled young men in IRG uniforms, their AK assault rifles tossed to the ground. Bolan judged them to be not much past their teens.
When the Executioner stopped they shook their heads and waved their hands frantically, beseeching Bolan in a language he did not understand. But he read it clear enough; these two sought refuge there from the slaughter in the camp.
That was okay with Bolan.
The Executioner granted them a "white flag." Sergeant Mercy continued on his withdrawal.
He covered a dozen paces before warning tremors that had never let him down started battling for acknowledgment at the base of his spine.
It only took the teenage soldiers a moment to consider wasting the blacksuiter, to turn their cowardice into heroism for dropping the penetrator.
Before the AK-47'S even left the ground Bolan spun, brought up the Model 23 and triggered the SMG.
Nothing happened.
The damn thing had jammed!
The IRG punks tracked on Bolan, who tossed away the useless weapon and dived for cover.
Each soldier got off one round. One projectile splintered the trunk of the tree Bolan dived behind. The other 7.62mm projectile screamed off harmlessly into the night.
Then Big Thunder spoke loud and deadly and both Revolutionary Guards flew backward with faces transformed into smears as black as the night.
"Idiots," Bolan grumbled.
He jogged back onto the trail with one last glance at the Iranian base.
The
Bolan had to determine where Strakhov intended to take Masudi, and why.
The Executioner had to fit this piece of the puzzle in with the others to make sure their whole scheme collapsed, and not only part of Strakhov's Lebanon scenario. He could hit Strakhov and Masudi now and terminate them, sure, but Bolan knew when the odds were against him.
Uh-uh. The way he saw it, any move now would needlessly endanger his life and that definitely did not fit in the picture for the night.
He had to follow that Syrian staff car when it left the base.
The limo could only take one route out of Biskinta and the Iranians' temporary compound to get to the main roads to either Zahle or Beirut: the same road off which Bolan had left Zoraya and little Selim waiting in the concealed Volvo. The chauffeured car with Strakhov and Masudi would have to pass the spot where Bolan had left the Druse woman and the little Arab boy.
He could make the distance to the Volvo on foot if nothing slowed him. Then he could take a chance on following the limo with his lights off.
Bolan was halfway to the fenced perimeter of the compound, angling away from the opposite side of the house from the limo when he heard a shout to halt. It came from the Syrian soldiers herding IRG prisoners near the house.
Bolan paused, set the timer device on the suitcase for five seconds, then heaved the suitcase. Even as the container left his hand, the Executioner put on a burst of speed, continuing his withdrawal.
The terrorist package from the Disciples of Allah zeroed right into that crowd of Iranians, who had protected and supplied terrorists, and anti-American Syrians who thought it fun to shoot down U.S. reconnaissance planes, to kill and capture U.S. pilots.
The incredible blast of the dynamite-loaded suitcase sent shock waves that pushed the warrior along from behind like a huge hot hand. It started drizzling blood and dull thumps sounded in the night as body parts fell all around him.
Something hollow sounding landed in Bolan's path and he jogged past the wide-eyed, openmouthed features of a bearded man's freshly decapitated head.
He reached the fenced perimeter and on through the hole. He almost made the track that led to the car when he heard movement in the darkness to his left, just before the trail began. He swung sideways low and loose, fanning that flank with the machine gun.
In the starlight, combat-honed night vision discerned two crouched figures: disheveled young men in IRG uniforms, their AK assault rifles tossed to the ground. Bolan judged them to be not much past their teens.
When the Executioner stopped they shook their heads and waved their hands frantically, beseeching Bolan in a language he did not understand. But he read it clear enough; these two sought refuge there from the slaughter in the camp.
That was okay with Bolan.
The Executioner granted them a "white flag." Sergeant Mercy continued on his withdrawal.
He covered a dozen paces before warning tremors that had never let him down started battling for acknowledgment at the base of his spine.
It only took the teenage soldiers a moment to consider wasting the blacksuiter, to turn their cowardice into heroism for dropping the penetrator.
Before the AK-47'S even left the ground Bolan spun, brought up the Model 23 and triggered the SMG.
Nothing happened.
The damn thing had jammed!
The IRG punks tracked on Bolan, who tossed away the useless weapon and dived for cover.
Each soldier got off one round. One projectile splintered the trunk of the tree Bolan dived behind. The other 7.62mm projectile screamed off harmlessly into the night.
Then Big Thunder spoke loud and deadly and both Revolutionary Guards flew backward with faces transformed into smears as black as the night.
"Idiots," Bolan grumbled.
He jogged back onto the trail with one last glance at the Iranian base.
The
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