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.

The next generation, the real future of this troubled land, must have the opportunity to grow in a stable society, free of the threat of war. Then, perhaps, the population could strive to reach full potential instead of slaughtering each other until the gaps of hate and difference become unbreachable. Direct, positive action could do it, applied with proper control and audacity.

Bolan-style.

3

The Executioner knew that his present was immutably severed from his past.