Beirut Payback: MacK Bolan Read Online Free PDF Page A

"Because you loved him?"
    "Not at first. Love... came later. I had two brothers. I am Druse. I can see by your eyes that you did not know this. My brothers volunteered for the militia to fight the Israelis and the Lebanese army. Do you know the injustices we Druse have suffered at the hands of this government, and yours?"
    "And yet you inform for Mossad. You fell in love with one of their agents."
    "Aziz and Adli were slain not by the Israelis or the army," the woman told him. "A Maronite spy was discovered in the squad in which my brothers fought. My brother's officers suspected someone in the squad had arranged it. A ridiculous charge. My brothers were devout servants of Allah and the Druse cause. They were summarily executed, as were the others in the squad. At first, I informed out of anger. Then I began to understand Chaim and what he believed. I understood there were other ways to bring peace. I do not inform to hinder the Druse cause, but to further it. I have never passed information that would result in the wholesale death of my people. I only want to help diffuse this tension. Chaim understood."
    "I understand, too. But from what I've seen tonight, Zoraya, you're not doing too well."
    "There is no hope," she said with quiet desperation. "Chaim is dead. The dogs of war run wild."
    "Strakhov," Bolan prodded gently. "What have you learned about him?"
    "Yes, of course. I'm sorry. It is something very high level. Security makes it all very vague. The major general is billeted with the Syrian army at Zahle, less than thirty miles from here. This knowledge in itself is enough to get one killed."
    "Chaim mentioned an assassination."
    "He told you that? I had not made the connection."
    "Zoraya, if it's supposed to happen tonight, perhaps I can stop it."
    "I know none of the details. It has all come to me in a very roundabout way, you understand. Something overheard in a crowd, repeated many times before it reached me. You know of the Disciples of Allah?"
    "Shiite fanatics," Bolan growled.
    "Broke off from the militia because the Amal weren't killing Christians fast enough." The Disciples had been one of two Shiite groups to claim responsibility for the truck-bomb massacre of U.S. Marines at the airport.
    "The Disciples of Allah operate from Biskinta, about twenty miles northeast of Beirut," said Zoraya.
    Bolan recalled intel from his briefing by an Israeli army officer at the airfield across the border five hours before Bolan penetrated Lebanon.
    "Biskinta. The Iranians control that area."
    Zoraya nodded.
    "The Iranian Revolutionary Guards. Volunteers in the war against Israel. The Iranians are sworn to fight and die for their oppressed Shiite brethren around the world. Fanatics, yes. The Iranians supplied the Disciples with the explosives that killed your Marines."
    The little Arab boy had finished wolfing down his meal.
    Bolan crossed the room for another look out the window while Zoraya got a blanket from a closet and wrapped the child in it.
    Nothing moved in the darkness of the street.
    Bolan heard Zoraya ask the boy some questions in Arabic in a tender, motherly tone, but the little guy's eyelids drooped shut before his tousled head touched the arm of the couch.
    Zoraya returned to the man in the blacksuit.
    "I fear our little one is still too afraid to speak. I cannot get him to tell me his name. But he should sleep for hours."
    "Thanks for your help."
    "I could not do otherwise. But now... there is your mission." Bolan found himself pacing, itching for action.
    "I've got Shiite fanatics, Biskinta and an assassination. What else, Zoraya? Whose assassination? The president of Lebanon?"
    "I do not know. I am sorry."
    The warrior forced himself to stop pacing. He thought aloud, trying pieces of the puzzle for size.
    "I can see why you didn't make a connection between Strakhov and the Disciples of Allah or the Revolutionary Guards. The Russians and the Iranians don't get along. But something big could change that. A common