The Libya Connection by Don Pendleton Page A

him?"
    Fahima shook her head. "No woman. No one. Only the one you call Kennedy, and the man outside."
    Bolan started toward the door.
    "Let's go," he muttered to the man and his daughter. "Keep low. Do as I say. When you see a chance, run for the nearest cover."
    Fahima studied him with soulful, unblinking eyes.
    "I understand," she said. She had a surprisingly gentle voice. "You are a brave man for helping us."
    The Executioner yanked the heavy door open with one hand, gripping his Browning hi-power in the other.
    The Bolan Effect had arrived.
    Fahima Dohmi watched the big American as he prepared to dispatch to oblivion the sentry in the corridor, who stood with his back to the doorway.
    Fahima thought that she had never seen a man move with such grace and determination as the big American. He radiated animal ferocity and strength worthy of a son of the desert.
    She had watched as he pulled the door recklessly open.
    Now she saw the sentry spin around, reaching for a side arm.
    She saw the American warrior grab the sentry around the throat with his forearm before the guard could complete his turn.
    A quick snap punch to the temple with a raised pistol and the man slumped to the floor, his skull cracked. She saw blood dribble from one ear.
    The big man led the way out of the room, stepping across the corpse that blocked the doorway.
    Like a son of the desert, she thought again.
    Bolan heard movement from around a corner in the hallway. He motioned a halt.
    Fahima and Bushir froze in their tracks. It was too late for any of them to backtrack now.
    Three men came around the corner. They were heavyset black men in African military uniforms.
    Bolan could not identify their political origin in the instant that eyeball recognition was made on both sides.
    The three Africans toted AK-47s by slung shoulder straps. The troopers had evidently been headed toward the room where the father and daughter had been held. There was purpose in their marching stride.
    When they saw Bolan and the others, the three of them registered identical surprise. They fell away from each other and fought to sling their weapons around in a race for survival. The movements provoked grunts, a curse.
    The pistol in Bolan's fist chugged a death cough. Hot millimeters of parabellum lead lanced through space.
    The soldier on Bolan's left caught a round that smashed his head sharply backward against the wall, splashing the wall with bloody brains. The dead cock slid down the wall into a heap, the AK spilling useless alongside him.
    Of the other two soldiers, the one directly before Bolan was the immediate threat. The trooper's big hands guided his rifle into a smooth underhand arc, pulling aim on Bolan.
    The Browning had already spat. Twice this time. Two head shots. The soldier never completed target acquisition. He was kicked instead into Infinity in a backward halo of exploding head.
    Bolan crouched and twisted, one movement, as he swung the kill piece around and at the lone remaining soldier.
    This last soldier had a firm grip on his AK. He too was bringing it around with commendable speed toward Bolan.
    The soldier's movement was halted by a whirling short-bladed knife that whistled through the air to Bolan's right. It embedded itself to the hilt in the soldier's throat.
    The man gagged frantically, released the rifle, started to grab his ravaged throat. Blood bubbled from the mouth. The knees buckled. The corpse collapsed to the floor.
    "Allah wa-akbar!"
intoned old Bushir.
    A ubiquitous Muslim phrase that Bolan recognized. God is great. Yeah. Bolan understood that.
    Fahima's father had pulled the military knife from the equipment belt of the dead sentry who had been the first to die. Mack Bolan need not have purchased his.
    Bolan flashed an appreciative smile. The old man returned it.
    The Executioner led the two Libyans along the hallway toward a doorway leading outside.
    The killing here had only just begun

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    The nightfighter palmed a fresh clip into the