Read Online Beirut Payback: MacK Bolan by Don Pendleton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Don Pendleton
Tags: Fiction, General, Action & Adventure, Men's Adventure, Non-Classifiable, det_action, Bolan; Mack (Fictitious character), Beirut (Lebanon)
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staff car, directly in front of the end barrack of a row of similar squat structures twenty yards south of the HQ.
He reasoned that the Syrian command would have its own security in the head shed where Strakhov appeared to be taking Masudi. The men in the back of the truck would be weary from the fighting in Biskinta and, Bolan hoped, anxious to grab sack time on their return here. Their presence had only been required on the drive from Biskinta.
The blacksuit hustled away from the truck when it stopped, well before any of the Syrian troops debarked from beneath the tarp. Let them sort out the puzzle of the missing driver and his shotgun rider.
Bolan gained the far side of the headquarters building. He hurried along the back wall to a row of windows, all dark at this hour. He found one left open against the heat of the day, forgotten when the workday ended.
He used both hands to lift the window and it slid up soundlessly. Bolan moved over the sill.
He had been lucky so far not to be spotted by any of the two-man sentry patrols he had seen walking the base. Though what kind of luck was it was to be inside an enemy camp, about to lose cover of night was debatable.
He found himself in a deserted office. He unleathered the Beretta and padded stealthily between the inky forms of furniture to the door of the room. He turned the door handle and it emitted a soft squeak that sounded deafening to Bolan. He paused, motionless, but detected no response from the other side. The headquarters building reminded him of a massive tomb.
He hoped it wouldn't be his.
The hour: 0410 hours.
Tomorrow would be a big day for the battalions quartered here, if Bolan's gut instincts about this thing were right. The base would be coming to life within the next twenty minutes.
He cracked the office door inward and peered into an unlighted hallway.
He heard activity, the sounds of voices in Arabic down at the far end of the building: probably an officer giving orders to the night-duty staff.
Then footsteps headed upstairs to the second level of the building, leaving security tight on what they thought to be the only entrance in.
Bolan glanced in the other direction of the corridor and saw another unlighted stairway closer to his position. He moved swiftly, gaining those stairs and starting up without notice of the soldiers in their Orderly Room at the other end of the long corridor. He raced upstairs, the Beretta 93-R on 3-shot mode, ready to spit death. He reached the top landing and looked down this hallway just in time to see a door slam shut. The rest of this level felt more tomblike than downstairs.
The Syrian CO'S office would be up here.
That's where they took Masudi.
Bolan expected to find Strakhov here, too.
The target.
The execution.
And the job would be done.
He poised, ready, to make sure no one from below followed the party up here, then he eased around the corner, five quick paces to the door next to the one where they had taken the Iranian.
This door was locked and Bolan extracted a tiny tool from his penetration gear. He was almost through picking the lock when he heard footfalls on the stairs behind him. He finished his illegal entry, then slipped into the room, leaving the door slightly ajar.
A lone Syrian sentry made it to the landing where silent death waited ready for him. The guy didn't hear or see his executioner until this dark apparition confronted him. Before the man had time to react or scream, combat-hardened fingers were slicing the air toward his throat. The punishing thrust ruptured the guy's windpipe, and the man uttered only a muted gurgle before he stopped breathing forever.
Bolan grabbed the sentry before his dead fall could alert those downstairs or beyond the door through which they had taken Masudi.
The Executioner hauled the body and rifle over the threshold.
Bolan placed the dead man and his rifle on the floor and relocked the door.
Then he looked around.
An office.
Chances were good that
He reasoned that the Syrian command would have its own security in the head shed where Strakhov appeared to be taking Masudi. The men in the back of the truck would be weary from the fighting in Biskinta and, Bolan hoped, anxious to grab sack time on their return here. Their presence had only been required on the drive from Biskinta.
The blacksuit hustled away from the truck when it stopped, well before any of the Syrian troops debarked from beneath the tarp. Let them sort out the puzzle of the missing driver and his shotgun rider.
Bolan gained the far side of the headquarters building. He hurried along the back wall to a row of windows, all dark at this hour. He found one left open against the heat of the day, forgotten when the workday ended.
He used both hands to lift the window and it slid up soundlessly. Bolan moved over the sill.
He had been lucky so far not to be spotted by any of the two-man sentry patrols he had seen walking the base. Though what kind of luck was it was to be inside an enemy camp, about to lose cover of night was debatable.
He found himself in a deserted office. He unleathered the Beretta and padded stealthily between the inky forms of furniture to the door of the room. He turned the door handle and it emitted a soft squeak that sounded deafening to Bolan. He paused, motionless, but detected no response from the other side. The headquarters building reminded him of a massive tomb.
He hoped it wouldn't be his.
The hour: 0410 hours.
Tomorrow would be a big day for the battalions quartered here, if Bolan's gut instincts about this thing were right. The base would be coming to life within the next twenty minutes.
He cracked the office door inward and peered into an unlighted hallway.
He heard activity, the sounds of voices in Arabic down at the far end of the building: probably an officer giving orders to the night-duty staff.
Then footsteps headed upstairs to the second level of the building, leaving security tight on what they thought to be the only entrance in.
Bolan glanced in the other direction of the corridor and saw another unlighted stairway closer to his position. He moved swiftly, gaining those stairs and starting up without notice of the soldiers in their Orderly Room at the other end of the long corridor. He raced upstairs, the Beretta 93-R on 3-shot mode, ready to spit death. He reached the top landing and looked down this hallway just in time to see a door slam shut. The rest of this level felt more tomblike than downstairs.
The Syrian CO'S office would be up here.
That's where they took Masudi.
Bolan expected to find Strakhov here, too.
The target.
The execution.
And the job would be done.
He poised, ready, to make sure no one from below followed the party up here, then he eased around the corner, five quick paces to the door next to the one where they had taken the Iranian.
This door was locked and Bolan extracted a tiny tool from his penetration gear. He was almost through picking the lock when he heard footfalls on the stairs behind him. He finished his illegal entry, then slipped into the room, leaving the door slightly ajar.
A lone Syrian sentry made it to the landing where silent death waited ready for him. The guy didn't hear or see his executioner until this dark apparition confronted him. Before the man had time to react or scream, combat-hardened fingers were slicing the air toward his throat. The punishing thrust ruptured the guy's windpipe, and the man uttered only a muted gurgle before he stopped breathing forever.
Bolan grabbed the sentry before his dead fall could alert those downstairs or beyond the door through which they had taken Masudi.
The Executioner hauled the body and rifle over the threshold.
Bolan placed the dead man and his rifle on the floor and relocked the door.
Then he looked around.
An office.
Chances were good that
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