She chattered at Bolan in Arabic.

Bolan stepped back. He cautioned her to lower her voice with a waved hand.

"Do you speak English?" he whispered.

"I do. Some," replied the girl quietly. "Who are you?"

"A friend. Tell me why you're here."

"This is our home. My father manages the inn of the village."

Bolan made his decision. He undid the ropes that bound them to the chairs.

"I'm looking for Kennedy." In a hushed voice he described the boss merc to her. "Did he come through here? Do you know where he went?"

The old man muttered something in Arabic. The only word Bolan could make out was "Kennedy."

"He is an evil man," said the girl. She rubbed the burn marks where the rope had chafed her wrists. "At first we thought he was from the villa."

"What are your names?" whispered Bolan. "Tell me what happened here. Quickly."

"I am called Fahima," she said. "This is my father, Bushir. The man you call Kennedy, he has kept us like this for two days now. He keeps us alive in case the owner of the villa should try to contact us."

"What is your employer's name?"

"We have never met him," said Fahima. "He is with an oil company. A Mr. Conrad. An American. A solicitor in Benghazi. He also owns the villa."

"His real name is Jericho," grunted Bolan under his breath. "Has he used this escape route often?"

"Once. Khaddafi's troops were in the area, searching for him." At the word Khaddafi, the old man began prattling angrily. "My family was dispossessed during the land reform," explained Fahima. "We are willing to help Mr. Conrad against a common enemy."

"You must trust me," said Bolan. "I'm getting you and your father out of this place. There's going to be killing here tonight. Do you know where Kennedy has gone?"

"He is in the building above. They closed the inn two days ago. We can hear them sometimes. I heard footsteps earlier tonight."

"Where in your inn would be a good place for a secret meeting?"

The girl thought for a moment. "One of two places. There is a dining room away from the lobby, as you approach from the corridor outside. And there is a private room on the floor above that."

"How many men does Kennedy have with him?"

"Only one, I believe. A guard on the door." She pointed at the door opposite to where Bolan had entered. It was massive, most likely of imported oak. Beyond it would be a route into the inn above.

"One last question," whispered Bolan. "Did Kennedy bring a woman with 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

The nightfighter palmed a fresh clip into the Browning. He unscrewed the low-watt bulb near the door. The hallway bisected the stone building. There had been noise tonight, from the Browning. But security at this level, deep beneath a secret meeting place, was spacious — sparse and unassuming like a secret itself.

At the opposite end, stairs led up to the main room of the structure where Bolan would find his primary targets. His concern, too, was to get Fahima and Bushir out of the killing zone.

Bolan inched the door inward a few inches. He scanned the narrow, rutted dirt street outside the doorway.

The scene was deserted, cloaked in darkness. The village of Bishabia dozed beneath the desert night.

Bolan could sense the tension of the father and daughter who stood close behind him.

He also sensed an electricity out there in the night. There was a crackle to the air. Bolan knew in his gut that others were roaming. On the kill. He did not know how many or who. But they were there.

He holstered the Browning and spun the Galil into readiness. He toed the door further open and stepped into the night like a shadow. A shadow in combat crouch.

He surveyed the scene: he saw nothing but the night.