The Syrian warlords in Damascus played the situation with a hope of making Syria the center of the Arab world. Real power, yeah, but not an easy task for a country with nearly no oil and only ten million people.

Damascus already had the PLO under its thumb.

Control over the terrorist network gave Syria sinister leverage over moderate pro-Western oil producers who were exceedingly vulnerable to terrorism.

The Russian "advisors," of course, played for the big stakes. They wanted this corner of the world-a key to the world slave state their leaders had always envisioned.

The Executioner had a shot tonight at cutting these savages off at the knees.

But first he had to find Strakhov.

Why had the KGB top cannibal risked it all to come to this hellground?

Did the answer wait in Biskinta?

Only one thing for sure, thought Bolan. The Disciples of Allah are next.

The slimebags who sent a truck bomb to massacre sleeping peacekeepers.

Bolan kept his combat-cool objectivity intact as he drove, but anger tightened his fists around the Volvo's steering wheel until his knuckles shone bone white.

The Disciples of Allah.

Craziest of the crazies, not giving a damn if they died, as long as they took plenty of the enemy with them.

The Shiite fanatics were the most dangerous foe of all on the battlefield, because they believed they had nothing to lose.

The desire for martyrdom is rooted deeply in Shiism, which in turn is rooted in Iran. The very word assassin comes from hashshashin after the gang of hashish-smoking hit men, directed by an eleventh century Persian cannibal named Hasan ibn al-Sabbah, who often sacrificed their own lives for his cause.

Less than ten percent of the world's five hundred million Muslims are Shiites, their zeal for martyrdom fanned by their Ayatollah in Tehran, encouraged by the mullahs.

During the Iranian revolution, anti-Shah marchers wore white burial clothes to indicate their willingness to die for the struggle.

Thousands of Iranian youths wearing red "martyour" bandannas and small "keys to heaven" around their necks volunteered for certain death in the Iran-Iraq war. Children as young as six had been sent to the front with Korans in their hands to clear minefields for the Iranian army.

To die in a Jihad offers a direct passport to Allah and Ali, the revered son-in-law and cousin of the prophet Mohammed.

To kill large numbers of infidels in the process is only a greater glory.

Some enemies, yeah, for one warrior to take on, but Bolan saw no other way.

Some enemies are worth following into Hell.

The Executioner would find Strakhov.

Tonight.

Assassination.

Bolan would find the truth and destroy whatever the KGB terror merchant hoped to feed on from the suffering of this war-torn land.

He glanced sideways and saw the little Arab boy again asleep in Zoraya's embrace.

"Anything?"

"Our little one's name is Selim. I do not think he knows where his parents are, if they are alive or dead. It is all too much for him to comprehend." Bolan grunted.

"I know how he feels."

"We must do everything we can to find his people when we return to Beirut," said Zoraya, "unless it is already too late." And a tear the size of a pearl appeared in the corner of one eye and rolled down her cheek. There were no more tears. But Bolan knew they were there inside for the man she had loved and lost to war and for the child in her arms. And if she felt anything like the icy-eyed warrior beside her, she shed a tear for the awful dark side of human beings.

"How far to the town?" Bolan asked, to change the tone and keep the lady tough.

They had driven for ten minutes since the checkpoint, climbing steadily as the road twisted into the hills.

"Very soon," Zoraya replied. "In the next quarter mile there is a trail. It will take you to a promontory overlooking Biskinta." That suited Bolan just fine.

It was time for action.

Time for The Executioner to strike.

The provincial village was tiered across the slope of a mountain. The cluster of look-alike one-story structures was interrupted only by a minaret towering from the mosque from which the muezzins would call the villagers to prayer. The settlement nestled beneath the starlit bowl of the purple sky did not stir.

At the southwestern edge of town was the barbedwire-enclosed force of the Iranian Revolutionary Guards.

From his position 250 yards to the higheaground from the eight-foot-high fence, Bolan could observe, with little chance of detection, the base where the Iranians hosted the Disciples of Allah.

Before moving this close, the nightpenetrator had ascertained that the detachment of Iranians had no roving guard patrols beyond their perimeter.

The base was a rectangle, 250 yards by 200 yards. A heavily guarded gate at the far corner of the compound from where Bolan sat appeared to be the only road in.

The perimeter was well patrolled on the inside by three-man units toting assault rifles.

A row of tents had to be the troops' sleeping quarters, mess and latrines.

The big shots could only be quartered and operating out of the squat two-story building in the center of the compound.

The Executioner knew that was where he would find the suicide commandos.

He made a final check of his gear and weapons.

He had applied a black facial goo that completed the blacksuit effect, making The Executioner all but invisible this moonless night.

Time: 0300 hours.

Bolan moved out, negotiating the descending terrain in a zigzag course from gnarled tree trunks to inky shadows of wild vegetation.

Zoraya waited with Selim in the Volvo, parked hidden from sight of the main road a quarter mile behind Bolan.

The lady hellgrounder had wanted to accompany him.

"I may be of assistance if you are stopped and questioned," she had reasoned in a low whisper before they parted.

"If I'm stopped, I'll be dead," Bolan had whispered back.

According to Zoraya's intel, Strakhov was on the prowl tonight with an armored Syrian force, and Bolan had little doubt they were in the area, possibly waiting for him with the Iranians at the base.

He would find out.

Alone.

"But I feel so helpless with nothing to do but wait," Zoraya had pressed. "If I am doing something, I... I will not dwell on Chaim... on the emptiness that tries to consume me."

"Another reason I won't cake you along," Bolan had said. "You'd be killed in a firefight tonight, Zoraya. I don't need that kind of help. And there's Selim. That little character is every bit as important as anything I do tonight. We've got to get him home, and safe." She had considered that with a glance at the soundly sleeping boy in the back seat of the Volvo.

"You're right, of course." She had appraised Bolan with a frankness he found vaguely disconcerting. "I have the feeling you are right about most things. You are... a very impressive man, Mack Bolan." He had started out of the car.

"Thirty minutes," he had reminded her. "Unless you and Selim find yourselves in danger."

"I will not run out on you."

"Don't worry about me. I want the child safe, and you. Promise me, Zoraya. That kid needs us and I'm not going to let him down."

"I understand. I promise. I shall keep the little one safe."

"Then I'm gone." Zoraya had leaned over before he closed the car door. She touched his arm.

"Remember, Ib Masudi, the commander of the Iranian Guards... his cruelty... he is feared more than respected by those in his command. Do not give him quarter under any condition. You are one man taking on incredible odds this night."

"That's the one advantage we've got," had been the soldier's grim parting shot.