The combat outside increased in intensity.
Screams from the wounded rose above the roar of weapons. Bolan heard more explosions. Another one rocked the building.
He had to get Masudi.
The Iranian commander could be the next link in the chain leading to Strakhov, though Bolan had a hunch it could be Strakhov's Syrian force attacking the base.
Only seconds had passed since the Iranian general had disappeared around the archway.
Bolan moved over to the mullah's body, reloading and holstering the Beretta and AutoMag. He picked up the mullah's SMG and fished three extra clips from inside the old man's robe.
The Executioner stepped over the corpse and moved toward the hallway. He could hear running footfalls and the clunking of military gear outside this room. He paused at the smashed table where the men had stood when Bolan first appeared.
Bolan stooped without slowing and grabbed the blueprints that had been the obvious subject of this briefing.
A blessing from the mullah before these Disciples of Allah left Biskinta for... what?
The nightwarrior paused and looked around. He spotted the object someone had pushed behind some chairs.
A suitcase.
With a timer attached to it, ready to be set.
He had no time to further consider suitcases with explosives. He had to get Masudi.
He crumpled the blueprints against his chest and stuffed them beneath the blacksuit. Then he grabbed the suitcase in his left hand.
The archway filled with Iranian Revolutionary Guards, three of them toting AK'S ready for action. They charged in, but only one man got off a shot that plowed into the ceiling. A burst from the Czech machine gun in Bolan's right fist stuttered like an angry jackhammer, making the IRG invaders perform a death dance like marionettes gone wild in an epileptic puppeteer's hand.
Bolan charged over their bodies after Masudi.
All of the activity since the general slipped the scene had taken less than a minute. But Bolan knew his numbers were almost gone if he hoped to nail Masudi for what he knew and still pull out of this action intact.
He fed a fresh clip into the machine gun and peered into the hallway.
No one.
The house seemed deserted.
The battle continued outside the building. A tank rumbled again. Crumbling plaster rained from the ceiling.
Bolan dashed toward the stairs. He thought it was the only route Masudi could have taken unless the Iranian had not left the building at all, which Bolan doubted. He made the landing and started down.
Masudi had looked like a man on the run to save his ass. Sacrificing that terrorist's life to give himself cover proved that.
Bolan doubted Masudi would wait around.
The front door of the house was swinging back shut, indicating the general had just gone through.
Bolan hit the bottom step and paused before leaving cover of the doorway for outside.
Three figures charged in through the back door behind Bolan at the other end of the hall downstairs: Syrian uniforms.
The instant they saw him, the trigger-happy Syrians opened fire on Bolan, their assault rifles on full-auto. Dodging the onslaught, Bolan shoved the suitcase safely away and aimed the Model 23.
Hot lead scorched the air near him, one projectile zinging close enough past Bolan's ear for him to feel the heat.
Then the SMG bucked in his fists, spitting flame and bullets.
The two Syrians in front screamed and jitterbugged under the hail that shredded flesh and sprayed blood onto the third soldier. Panicking, he started to turn and scream even as pursuing slugs pureed his brains from behind. The three dead tumbled into a heap in the back doorway and Bolan returned his attention to the front, hoping he hadn't been diverted long enough for Masudi to escape.
The Executioner crouched back at the doorway, paused to slam another magazine into the Model 23, then peered out at the turmoil.
The presence of the Syrians he'd just killed prepared the nightscorcher for what he saw.
The Iranian base was now brilliantly illuminated by piercing spotlights and headlights of Syrian tanks and personnel carriers that had already penetrated into the center of the compound. Orange-red flames licked the night sky from the area of tents where the main fighting was taking place.
Syrian and Iranian soldiers ran shooting at each other everywhere Bolan looked.
Bolan saw General Masudi.
Six Syrian soldiers stood around the Iranian officer. The soldiers to a man had their rifles aimed at Masudi's head.
The commander of the Iranian Revolutionary Guards stood with head bowed, his hands handcuffed behind his back. His uniform looked scuffed and dirty.
The general and his guards walked toward three men who stood waiting next to a limo that Bolan knew would be armor plated.
Syrian army markings designated it a staff car.
Two Iranian regulars wearing only the trousers of their uniforms with civilian tunics came running around the corner of the headquarters building in Bolan's direction, their rifles ready but not ready enough.
The Executioner diverted his attention from Masudi and the others for an instant and triggered a short burst from the Czech Model 23. The volley stitched the two Iranians, stopping them forever.
The fighting had begun to taper off in the compound.
The Iranian Revolutionary Guards who were not strewn in lifeless disarray all over the base could be seen throwing down their weapons, raising arms in surrender to the Syrian troops who closed in.
Not far from the main house, at least forty surrendering Iranians were being herded together by rival cannibals.
Masudi and his guards reached the Syrian staff car.
One of the three men waiting there stepped into the light and Bolan felt a cold fist clench his gut.
The man could be none other than Major General Greb Strakhov of the KGB.
In person.
Bolan pedigreed the two with Strakhov as the local operatives of the Glavnoye Razvedyvatelnoye Upravleniye — GRU — the chief intelligence directorate of the Soviet military that shares overseas assignments with the KGB. The other man was a Syrian officer.
Jackpot.
Except that Bolan would have to move damn fast or this jackpot would slip through his fingers.
The Syrian troopers shoved General Masudi into the limo. Strakhov and the other two also climbed into the car.
Bolan turned and darted back down the hallway. He exited the house into the night via the back door, not slowing for the obstacle course of scattered corpses.
As he passed, Bolan snatched the suitcase with the attached timer device he'd left in the hallway. He charged from the house in the direction of the hole in the fence where he'd entered.
He had considered a direct hit on the group by the limo, but it had been too far from the house for accuracy with the machine gun and he still did not have the big picture.
Okay, review time. They were about to whisk Masudi away. Had the Iranian commander set up this hit on his own troops? From what Bolan had seen and heard of Hook Nose, it could go down that way.
Bolan had to determine where Strakhov intended to take Masudi, and why.
The Executioner had to fit this piece of the puzzle in with the others to make sure their whole scheme collapsed, and not only part of Strakhov's Lebanon scenario. He could hit Strakhov and Masudi now and terminate them, sure, but Bolan knew when the odds were against him.
