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.