"He's mine. Don't shoot. Don't do anything."
"Mack..." Bolan moved away from the car, out of earshot of her plea, to approach the man aiming the .45 at him. Bolan kept his pace steady, his empty hands well away from his holstered weapons. He stopped when he got close enough to discern the sheen of sweat across the American's forehead. He locked eyes with the man. "CIA?"
The man nodded. The .45 did not waver from between Bolan's eyes, the gunner's crouch tense, like an animal ready to spring. "Collins. You're Mack Bolan."
"That's a fact," Bolan replied in a monotone. "So what are you going to do about it, Collins? Do you know what I just did back there?"
"At Zahle? I saw the whole thing and you did good. But orders on you are to Terminate on Sight, buddy boy. I lost a friend today. I saw him blown to bits, and you're a part of the goddamn problem."
"I'm the solution to the problem," Bolan corrected. "I'm sorry about your pal. I've lost some along the way, too. It's that kind of war. But we're on the same side, guy. I've never fired on a comrade in arms. I won't fire on you and I won't have this lady fire, either. But if you saw what I did down there... I can do it again and keep on doing it where it counts until the vultures stop me, if they can. Or you can stop me right here and now and let them score the point. You know that's the truth, Collins. You decide the future."
The .45 drew its unwavering bead for another moment. Then Bob Collins lowered the pistol. "You're right, you know that. I guess the heat... all the killing, it got to me." Collins holstered the.45 and stepped from the middle of the road. "Okay, Bolan. Next time it won't be like this, if we eyeball each other again, but yeah, I saw what you did. This one's for Also Randolph. Okay, go do it again somewhere."
Bolan returned a curt nod to that, returned to the Volvo and drove past and away from the Company man without looking back.
The woman beside him touched Bolan's arm with feather-light fingertips, a look of concern from those smoldering eyes. "You take great chances."
"I have a guardian angel," Bolan reminded her, scanning the receding terrain behind them reflected in the Volvo's rearview mirror, seeing nothing but Bob Collins returning on foot to his vehicle. Bolan felt weary, but he felt good, too. He felt strong, stronger than ever in his belief in a better world as long as there were people like Zoraya in it; a reaffirmation of his dedication to the everlasting war of a soldier's life. "Now then," he said to the lovely beside him as they rounded a breathtaking panorama of the Mediterranean stretched out to the horizon far below, "what was that you said about getting me out of here?"
Yakov Katzenelenbogen lowered the rifle from its target, no longer telescoped with the cross hairs centered on Collins's head. Katz had witnessed the brief scene between Bolan and the CIA man, who now climbed into a sedan and drove off in the opposite direction taken by Bolan and the woman in the Volvo. A fresh breeze blew in from the sea, whisking away the clouds of war and letting the sun shine in on the city far below, battered but still standing, like its people.
Survivors with hope. Katz watched the Volvo drive around the bend in the mountain road leading to the sea, and when the car disappeared he decided he would not follow it farther. The helping hand he'd given the Executioner and the woman had seen them far enough for the warrior in blacksuit to carry it for the touchdown. Katz had worked his way across the Israel-Lebanon border using his knowledge of security along the frontier. Intel from the same sources about Strakhov's summit at Zahle had brought him here. He hoofed over to his hidden vehicle parked nearby. He had his own withdrawal from "Paris of the Med" already mapped out and was not overly concerned with Mossad for the events at the farmhouse where they had tried to detain him. He had far too much dirt on his former colleagues stored away, waiting for release to the media, stuff that could topple governments east and west, ready to go out if they got to him. Katz had gotten out of far worse scrapes than having Mossad angry with him.
And with Hal Brognola, Stony Man Farm's White House liaison, batting for him, once he heard the Bolan side of the story, Katz knew he was already home clear. He would be ready for his next Phoenix Force mission by the time he reached the States. As for worn, torn Lebanon, maybe things would work out for this beleaguered little nation, maybe not, but Katz figured Bolan and his country's military presence had done all they could. The Executioner had defanged the cannibals of both sides, cooling an abyss within Hell itself where maybe reason could now rule the day. As for the stunning woman glimpsed beside Bolan in the Volvo, both already long gone down that winding mountain road, Katz did not shed much concern. Katz knew Mack Bolan. The Executioner could take care of himself. And always would. Damn right.