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 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 fighting down there had ceased, all of Masudi's command either dead or captured.

The chauffeur-driven Syrian staff car left the compound, traveling the rutted road leading from Biskinta, and disappeared from Bolan's view around the far side of the mountain.

It would be a matter of three to four minutes before it would pass the point where Bolan had left Zoraya and the child in the hidden Volvo.

Bolan jogged faster, not bolstering the AutoMag.

He met no further interference.

Too many people had died already this night — good people like Chaim Herzi and uncounted, anonymous innocents and others caught in the cross fire of rampant savagery — for Bolan to let this vital thread slip through his fingers.

His view of this mission had altered in the hours he'd been in the country.

He had originally come with the sole objective of locating and terminating Greb Strakhov. He now realized he could not leave Beirut without doing something decisive to attempt to restore some course of stability in Lebanon.

It could be done. Bolan wasn't sure just how yet. That's why he could not afford to let the staff car escape.