He was ready and willing to risk it all on the line one more time.

And Bolan the realist did not kid himself for a single instant that this could not well be the last time, considering the odds.

But, yeah, call it personal. All the way.

A shabby five-year-old Fiat with one headlight approached Bolan's position. The car braked off to the side of the road five hundred feet away and across from the grove of jasmine and olive. The driver killed the engine and headlight and waited.

Bolan paused in his withdrawal, remaining in deep shadow, and unleathered the AutoMag. Man and weapon probed the night for danger.

In the near distance, the noisy bombardment of Beirut continued unabated, as it had for hours. The ground trembled with the fury of war, even out here beyond the suburbs.

Nothing moved. Bolan and the car had the stretch of country road to themselves. Or so it seemed.

The nightfighter approached the vehicle with all the noise of a specter.

The driver concentrated on a point several hundred yards up the road from the grove where Bolan had waited.

The nightblitzer had not intended to meet his contact as planned. Too much danger of a trap. While the man at the steering wheel watched the point where Bolan should have been, the specter reached the driver's side of the car and pressed the muzzle of the awesome AutoMag against the man's left temple.

"There are two ways to die," Bolan growled.

The man registered no outward reaction. He continued to stare straight ahead, beaded sweat pearled along his hairline, but it could have been the warm night. The guy looked like a seasoned pro.