Strakhov could be dead; the building Bolan saw him enter had been blown up, but Bolan would not believe what he could not see when it came to Greb Strakhov.
In any event there was not much left alive or standing down there, Bolan thought as he viewed the ruins. The jets had shrieked off to the south, leaving behind charred, demolished ruins, as if some angered god had wiped the place away with one angry huff.
Bolan crested the knoll and slapped his last magazine into the assault rifle. There were no more fleeing soldiers in sight but he knew they were all around the rocky terrain beneath the cobalt sky and merciless sun.
He came over the hill and saw the road.
And the Volvo that belonged to Zoraya.
Zoraya sat at the wheel, eyeing him anxiously.
Seeing her did something funny to Bolan, but he was not sure what.
"Mack! Hurry!" Bolan had intended to. He charged down that slope toward the Volvo.
When he got within twenty paces, Syrian soldiers appeared from two different directions: five men across the road, closing in on the other side of the Volvo, and two approaching at a run.
Bolan lifted the AK in the direction of the five men coming at Zoraya from the lower ground beyond the vehicle. He squeezed the trigger, braced to ride the weapon's recoil. Nothing happened.
The damn thing had jammed!
Bolan threw away the useless weapon and pawed for the AutoMag, knowing he would not have time to take out all these odds no matter how good he was.
Zoraya opened fire with an Uzi submachine gun from the passenger side of the Volvo.
The five troopers had been distracted by the sight of the combat figure in blacksuit and had momentarily forgotten the lady inside the car.
The Syrians toppled under a hail of Parabellum flesh-eaters seeking targets in one prolonged fifteen-second blast.
Bolan swung Big Thunder on the two who had almost reached the Volvo from behind. He fired once.
The guy on the left jerked backward off his feet, toppling into shrubbery along the road.
Bolan readjusted his mighty hand cannon from its upward recoil, but before he could waste soldier number two, that Syrian caught a single high-powered rifle shot from someone other than Bolan or Zoraya.
The soldier pitched forward, the back of his head blown away.
Bolan crouched, scanning the surroundings for the source of that helpful fire, but no one showed himself.
"We must hurry!" Zoraya called frantically from the car. "They are everywhere!"
"Right as usual," Bolan growled. He slid behind the steering wheel. "Hang on."
The Arab beauty braced herself for the ride, the Uzi ready.
The big guy popped the Volvo's clutch and kicked up a swirl of gravel, getting them away from there.
21
Bolan piloted the Volvo on two wheels and a prayer around the first bend in the road-right into the path of an oncoming deuce-and-a-half rushing reinforcements to what remained of the Syrian base at Zahle.
Bolan pumped the Volvo's brake pedal so hard he thought it would snap, twisting the heap into a skid. The grinding of the troop carrier's brakes and the blaring of the truck's horn drowned out the curse that escaped Bolan's lips as the Volvo slewed sideways onto the shoulder of the road.
The deuce-and-a-half shuddered to a stop, men pouring from the cab and the tarpaulin-covered tailgate to investigate.
Bolan tagged the two from the cab with .44 headbusters.
Zoraya squeezed off a tight blitz from the Uzi that riddled three soldiers attempting to climb from the rear of the carrier. But she missed the pair debarking from the other side, seeking cover behind a culvert alongside the road.
The shooting ceased.
"How will we get those two?" Zoraya whispered to Bolan when they were outside the Volvo.
Before Bolan could respond, two sharp reports crackled in the afternoon air, followed by the sounds of bodies toppling beyond sight of the drain.
Bolan scanned the countryside, trying to plot a possible trajectory for those kill shots. He gave up when he realized the shots could have come from anywhere. The terrain around the mountainside village was a sniper's paradise.
"We seem to have acquired a guardian angel," Bolan mused. "All right, lady. Ready to travel?"
"We have no choice," replied Zoraya. They returned to the Volvo, Bolan behind the wheel, and drove away from the truck and the road littered with sprawled bodies.
As Bolan wheeled the vehicle away from the site of carnage, many thoughts flashed through his mind with instant clarity. The realization had hit home the moment he saw Zoraya Khaled risking her life for him, trading shots with the enemy. An enemy would never have done that.
Bolan knew his first gut reaction to this special lady had been right all along.
Her voice, throaty and sense-intriguing as always, broke into his thoughts.
"You must forgive me, Mack." Zoraya avoided his eyes. She popped another magazine into the Uzi. "I... lost control for a moment when I first saw you. I was so afraid you had died in the air strike. I warned my sister who cooks for the troops at that base. Uri knows she is a key source of information and told me so I could tell her in time for her to escape. But I wanted to help you. I did not want you to end... like Chaim. I thought... if you needed me..."
"Which I did. Thank you, Zoraya, but I'm afraid I've got some bad news."
"About my uncle, yes. He sent me out for supplies. He thought since it was his business, he could better draw attention away from where you were hidden if anyone came looking. I saw the scum leaving who killed him. Our own kind. Druse gunmen. I... slaughtered them. When I returned to the garage a few moments later... you were gone. But what of now? I do not understand..."
"For starters I'd better get us out of this country," Bolan said. "My work here is done." He did not want to think of Strakhov. Not at the moment. He wondered if the KGB commander boss cannibal had been killed in that air strike. He had a hunch deep inside that he and Strakhov would confront each other again someday. But he saw no reason to lay that on the woman beside him who had already done so much.
"I have spent some time today arranging your withdrawal from Lebanon through my friends in the underground. Just in case your plans went astray." Zoraya smiled. "One cannot always anticipate the plans of Allah."
"You'll accompany me?" He thought he knew her answer to that but he had to ask, and her response told him he had been right about her, yeah. This was one very special lady.
She shook her head without taking her eyes from the countryside flashing past.
"My place is here, Mack. You can see from here how the fighting in Beirut has ceased. The artillery bombardment has ceased."
Bolan had noticed.
"So no one can say Chaim Herzi died in vain," he acknowledged. "His dream of peace may still come true. Maybe today."
"There is talk of the president's being forced to step down," said Zoraya. "Of negotiations for a new government to give more rights to Muslim citizens. My people must continue the struggle because we have no other choice and I must be part of that. I cannot leave my home." And that was when Bolan saw the guy standing in the middle of the road.
Bolan did not peg him as Syrian or Russian. He was wearing American threads, holding his ground in a gunner's crouch, a.45 automatic aimed at the windshield, at Bolan's head. He looked as if he would not give an inch, daring Bolan to run him down.
Bolan braked the Volvo into another abrupt sideways stop.
Zoraya's knuckles whitened on the Uzi.
"Do not stop! It is a trap!" Bolan had already stopped.
As he stepped out of the car to face the man in the road, he whispered back into the car to Zoraya.