Bolan's survival instincts flared too late at the rustle of attacking movement from behind. He knew this Beirut hit could end for him before it had even begun. The sniper down below him was in his sights, sure, but The Executioner had been outflanked with no time to turn.

A 3-shot stutter erupted from Captain Herzi's Uzi from the shadowy clearing across the road.

Two more Shiite bandits tumbled into death sprawls: the last Muslim fanatic, who was carrying the grenade launcher that blasted the Fiat, and a street fighter coming in behind Bolan, stopped forever by the burst from the Mossad agent.

Bolan and the Israeli joined up moments later to survey the now useless Fiat surrounded by the fresh dead and rapidly widening pools of blood.

"I owe you one, Captain. Let's move out." They jogged away from the scene, traveling parallel to the road for a while in the direction of the buildings on the outskirts of Beirut, a half mile away.

"This far from the fighting, those men could only have been out for themselves," Herzi opined.

"Kill crazy," snapped Bolan.

2

There appeared to be a lull in the shelling of the city.

Beirut pulsed with the panic of its civilian population in the fires and devastation that assaulted the senses wherever one looked. Small-arms fire and the grumble of tank fire continued here and there.

A flare arced, partially blotted out by thick clouds of smoke from a fire somewhere nearby, but it cast enough light for Chaim Herzi to openly appraise the American in blacksuit as the two of them jogged along.

"As you can see, my friend, you will not stand out moving through the streets of Beirut tonight in your combat suit and weaponry. Tonight belongs to Death."