Guards.
From his position 250 yards to the higheaground from the eight-foot-high fence, Bolan could observe, with little chance of detection, the base where the Iranians hosted the Disciples of Allah.
Before moving this close, the nightpenetrator had ascertained that the detachment of Iranians had no roving guard patrols beyond their perimeter.
The base was a rectangle, 250 yards by 200 yards. A heavily guarded gate at the far corner of the compound from where Bolan sat appeared to be the only road in.
The perimeter was well patrolled on the inside by three-man units toting assault rifles.
A row of tents had to be the troops' sleeping quarters, mess and latrines.
The big shots could only be quartered and operating out of the squat two-story building in the center of the compound.
The Executioner knew that was where he would find the suicide commandos.
He made a final check of his gear and weapons.
He had applied a black facial goo that completed the blacksuit effect, making The Executioner all but invisible this moonless night.
Time: 0300 hours.
Bolan moved out, negotiating the descending terrain in a zigzag course from gnarled tree trunks to inky shadows of wild vegetation.
Zoraya waited with Selim in the Volvo, parked hidden from sight of the main road a quarter mile behind Bolan.
The lady hellgrounder had wanted to accompany him.
'I may be of assistance if you are stopped and questioned,' she had reasoned in a low whisper before they parted.
'If I'm stopped, I'll be dead,' Bolan had whispered back.
According to Zoraya's intel, Strakhov was on the prowl tonight with an armored Syrian force, and Bolan had little doubt they were in the area, possibly waiting for him with the Iranians at the base.
He would find out.
Alone.
'But I feel so helpless with nothing to do but wait,' Zoraya had pressed. 'If I am doing something, I... I will not dwell on Chaim... on the emptiness that tries to consume me.'
'Another reason I won't cake you along,' Bolan had said. 'You'd be killed in a firefight tonight, Zoraya. I don't need that kind of help. And there's Selim. That little character is every bit as important as anything I do tonight. We've got to get him home, and safe.' She had considered that with a glance at the soundly sleeping boy in the back seat of the Volvo.
'You're right, of course.' She had appraised Bolan with a frankness he found vaguely disconcerting. 'I have the feeling you are right about most things. You are... a very impressive man, Mack Bolan.' He had started out of the car.
'Thirty minutes,' he had reminded her. 'Unless you and Selim find yourselves in danger.'
'I will not run out on you.'
'Don't worry about me. I want the child safe, and you. Promise me, Zoraya. That kid needs us and I'm not going to let him down.'
'I understand. I promise. I shall keep the little one safe.'
'Then I'm gone.' Zoraya had leaned over before he closed the car door. She touched his arm.
'Remember, Ib Masudi, the commander of the Iranian Guards... his cruelty... he is feared more than respected by those in his command. Do not give him quarter under any condition. You are one man taking on incredible odds this night.'
'That's the one advantage we've got,' had been the soldier's grim parting shot.
The Executioner had turned away and disappeared into the gloom.
The nightfighter had not heard the lady's parting shot, whispered soft as a kiss after him.
'May Allah guide you, angel of death. You deliver His vengeance.'
Bolan intended to play this penetration soft until he could isolate the commander, Masudi, and do all the damage possible before pulling out and leaving the Revolutionary Guards in total confusion. He had faith that such a hit by one man against such a sizable force had a damn good chance of succeeding, considering the hour.
He could see lights on in the building, but except for the sentries at the gates and foot patrols along the perimeter, no one stirred at the base. The guards would not be at their best at this hour.
And, of course, Bolan had faith in himself.
He had been doing this type of thing for nearly twenty years in one capacity or another from Vietnam to the present.
He understood the risks, the vagaries of such an audacious hit at the heart of the enemy. Talk about vagaries: the Disciples of Allah; an Iranian sadist; something about an assassination; and a KGB boss somewhere in the night with an armored column of Syrians.
Nothing could be planned on a hit such as the one Bolan now contemplated.
He clutched the silenced Beretta in his right fist and came in low at the wire fence, crouching to the base of it. He chose the darkest point between two of the nearest spotlights mounted atop a line of poles evenly spaced along the inside of the perimeter.
He tapped the fence lightly, tentatively. It wasn't electrified. Good.
From a pocket of the blacksuit he produced a miniature set of wire cutters made of a special alloy. He snipped a passage through the fence in seconds.
During his recon he had timed the movement of the sentry patrols. He gave himself another ninety seconds to cross to the back wall of the building.
He hustled the distance, taking his biggest chance, but he met no interference. Along the way he skirted a blacktop tarmac crowded with weaponry, armored personnel carriers, tanks, multiple rocket launchers mounted in the beds of camou — striped trucks — Russian hardware shipped from North Korea by way of Syria to Lebanon as 'farm implements.' He briefly considered the advisability of planting some plastique amid all this war machinery. But he could not discount the possibility that he might accomplish all he wanted and still withdraw undetected until his work was discovered in the morning. That would be ideal if Strakhov wasn't here and the track led somewhere else.
He almost made the shadows at the back wall of the headquarters building when three bearded soldiers in Iranian Revolutionary Guard uniform of hooded parka, knit hat and camou fatigues stepped from the back door of the building toting assault rifles. The Executioner figured they were sentries on their way to relieve one of the foot patrols.
Bolan saw them well before the Shiite fanatics saw his shadow emerge at them from the night. Then three sets of eyes widened in panicky reaction, and three mouths started to curse or shout something.
But before their rifles could swing up, Bolan knelt in a two-handed shooting crouch and the Beretta quietly sneezed its 9mm death buzzers.
The 3-round death burst sent the trio tumbling off their feet, piling lifelessly into one another.
Bolan continued past without slowing, gaining the door the three men had just stepped from. As he opened the door he realized he could save the play if he moved fast enough.
He found himself in a hallway leading to the front foyer of what appeared to have been a private home before the cannibals moved in and commandeered the building from its owners.
An IRG member stepped into the hallway inquiringly, drawn by the sounds of the commotion outside in the early-morning silence.
The soldier met Bolan eye to eye.
Bolan didn't stop for this one, either. His left hand grabbed the guy's throat, and he rammed the man's head backward against the doorframe hard enough to kill him.
The soldier collapsed, blood trickling from his ears and matted hair to the wood behind him.
Bolan extended his right arm through the doorway of the Orderly Room. As he sailed past he drilled two sleepy-eyed soldiers who started to get up but plopped right back down with tunnels cored through their heads.
