I have arrived in Hell, Bolan thought.
The farther they penetrated via the network of alleys, the worse it became.
A frightened family rushed past them on foot, heading in the opposite direction. The father watched the two armed men dash by and muttered a warning in Arabic that Bolan could not understand. Then Bolan and the Israeli passed the family, cutting toward another side street.
"He says we are crazy," Herzi explained, "and perhaps he is right. But our luck is holding out." At that moment they left the cover of the alley in a beeline through the darkness toward an opposite alley that bisected the first block. They were in a neighborhood of Beirut's distinctive multileveled limestone housing projects, many punctured here and there by gaping holes from the artillery bombardment.
Bolan and the Israeli each scanned a different direction up the side street before leaving cover of the alley, as they had done at each cross street during their penetration of the war zone.
The street looked empty enough. Two bodies of dead soldiers were sprawled down the way nothing more.
The Executioner and Herzi hotfooted across that street and were caught in the open by the abrupt tramp of dozens of running feet from one end of the block as a group of men in the garb of Druse militia charged into view.
At the opposite end of the block a jeep screeched to a stop.
Bolan saw a.50-caliber machine gun mounted on a swivel in the rear of the jeep, manned by a bearded Phalangist soldier.
Bolan and Herzi readied themselves as they ran for the safety of the mouth of the alley across the street.
Bolan thought they would make it.
Then he caught movement several feet away and a small shadow took form.
"A child," Bolan grunted.
He dived toward a little five-year-old in rags who had somehow wandered from nowhere into this killground. Bolan reached the dirt-smudged bundle and fell across the child as a human shield.
The machine gunner in the jeep opened fire on the Druse in the street. The heavy reports hammered Bolan's eardrums and almost smothered the screams and shouts of the dying as .50-caliber slugs leveled the Muslim militiamen like a scythe chopping wheat. The bullets zinged well over Bolan and the child he protected.
There was a lull in the firing. The screaming stopped.
Bolan scrambled for the alley, carrying the boy.
The Executioner only caught a glimpse of the slaughter splashed across the Beirut street amid a swirling cloud of gunsmoke from the machine gun.
Clutching the Uzi, Herzi stepped out from the shadows to better cover Bolan and the boy.
The Phalangists did not see the big warrior in blacksuit in the gloom.
Bolan heard them good-naturedly congratulating themselves.
Then more movement came from the opposite corner of the block. At least a dozen Muslim fighters and other combat uniforms Bolan recognized as PLO charged the Lebanese army jeep, raining fire on the Phalangists as they ran.
Herzi turned to track his Uzi on the new danger when the machine gunner in the jeep opened fire, spraying the alley in a stitching cross fire.
Bolan heard the thwack of bursting flesh and a scream. Instinctively he knew what had happened even before he turned around. Herzi had caught a round in the chest. The nightwarrior continued to shield the kid from gunfire as he watched the Israeli stumble.
Bolan raced to the fallen Israeli and grabbed his shirt collar. The hell-blitzer pulled all three of them, the Mossad man and the Arab child-out of the line of fire.
Herzi collapsed against a wall in the alley.
Bolan looked at the guy, whose chest was a bubbling dark horror. Herzi coughed blood and lifted his eyes to Bolan, who crouched beside him, cradling the boy in his left arm. The three figures huddled in the narrow street while the battle raged around them between the crazed factions.
Bolan clenched his teeth in anger as he palmed the AutoMag. A good man lay dying and Bolan could not do a goddamn thing to save him. No one could with a wound like that.
"Y-you will have to carry on alone." The mortally wounded Israeli's voice could barely be heard above the fighting. "Zoraya... trust her..."
Bolan's gut constricted with rage and a pain of regret. He had brought this young man to die out here tonight.
"Chaim, dammit." The man on the ground coughed more blood, darker this time, as he struggled to touch Bolan's shoulder. "You are not to blame... I understand the importance of your mission... T-tell my uncle..." And Chaim Herzi died.
The fighting in the street became more intense.
A rush of movement came from the alley entrance a few feet away. A street fighter with PLO insignia, toting a smoking AK-47, charged headlong for the opposite end of the alley to outflank the Phalangists. Then he saw Bolan and the child and the dead man in the shadows. The guerrilla paused in midstride with a grunt of surprise and started to swing the AK in Bolan's direction.
From where he knelt beside the slain Mossad agent, Bolan twisted slightly, not releasing the child, and tracked up the AutoMag to trigger a round.
The PLO killer's skull exploded in a dark cloud and the terrorist reeled backward.
Two Phalangist militiamen appeared in the dimness at the opposite end of the alley. They also had the bright idea of outflanking their enemy. When they detected movement and shooting in the gloom around Bolan, they opened fire immediately with U.S. supplied M-16 assault rifles.
Bolan propelled himself and his young Arab charge, still clutched tight against his chest, away from the target area.
Projectiles razored the space occupied by Bolan only seconds before, the heavy-caliber slugs pulverizing the walls, spraying the alley with a cloud of chips. The lifeless body of Chaim Herzi shuddered from the burst.
Bolan fired two more rounds, evenly spaced, accurate enough to blow away the two Phalangists, who flopped over as if yanked from their feet by invisible wires. These two would massacre no more refugees.
Bolan made a dash for safe ground. He passed the sprawled militiamen and leaned against the wall at a cross street, slamming a fresh clip of 240-grain headbusters into the butt of the AutoMag.
The impressive handgun came as close to a rifle as any handgun could, the ammunition produced by marrying a .44 revolver bullet to a cut-down 7.62mm NATO rifle cartridge case, capable of enough velocity to tear through the solid metal of an automobileengine block. When the hand cannon roared, the enemy stayed down.
After reloading the AutoMag, Bolan put his arm around the boy once more.
He remained remarkably quiet, probably too exhausted, in shock, but now the little guy lifted a smudged face to the man who held him and cried out something plaintive in Arabic.
Bolan knew how the kid felt. He felt like crying out in anguish himself.
The misery had to stop.
Bolan held the future of this country in his armspart of the future. He hugged the scared little child tighter and murmured comforting sounds, close to the small tousled head, with paternal strength. The child uttered a few more Arabic words and by the gaunt took of his cheeks, Bolan guessed that he was hungry.
Then the little tyke closed his eyes and drifted back into an exhausted half sleep, quiet as could be. Something closed around Bolan's heart as he looked at the kid's troubled features. Even at this tender age the boy knew how to stay the pangs of hunger-sleep.
The nightfighter leaned around the corner of the alley. He saw some activity at the far end of the block, but on this side the night and The Executioner had the street to themselves.
The firefight tapered off in the next street over, the .50-caliber gun silenced. Bolan heard short bursts of small-arms fire every few moments, then nothing from that direction. He took a deep breath, the acrid smell of gun smoke stinging his nostrils.
Diplomacy had obviously failed in Lebanon. Too many had suffered for too long: innocents like the homeless waif that Bolan rescued; Arab Christian and Muslim alike, exploited by power brokers who sacrificed the lives of others for their own obsessive greed; and now his friend Yakov joined the ranks of the suffering, bereaved of his nephew. It had to stop.