He eased down the stairs toward the shadows at its base. The air was dead and cold. It penetrated his bones. He could hear nothing.
The man he was tracking seemed to be long gone. Seemed to be.
When he reached the second-from-the-bottom stair, Bolan paused again, his pistol up. He stole a look around the corner of the stone wall.
He could see no beginning nor end to the tunnel that stretched away in either direction.
More light bulbs had been installed here, but long distances apart so that patches of stygian gloom gave the passageway an eerie, menacing reality.
Bolan slid around the corner and kept low. He started off down the tunnel to his right.
A cool but barely discernible draft brushed the hairs on his arms. It originated from far up ahead.
He held the slung Galil assault rifle in close against his body to prevent noise from the weapon bouncing against him.
The curved stone ceiling of the passage barely accommodated his 6'3" height. After several hundred yards, the tunnel made a sharp incline. Deeper still.
Then Bolan saw light, faint light, coming from the cracks of an ill-fitting door some ten yards ahead. Surely this was the source of the moving air he had noticed.
He pressed himself against the curving stone of the tunnel. He paused when he was still several feet from the door. He listened intently. There was a room of some sort beyond that wooden door, but it would be empty — Bolan heard no sounds from within. Or... it could be a trap.
He stood against the wall at the very edge of the doorframe. He extended his right foot and gave the door a slight nudge. The door was unlatched. It swung inward.
Bolan looked inside cautiously. The Browning hi-power panned the room, simultaneously with his eyes.
The floor was earthen. It was a storage room, with a door on the opposite wall. A candle emitted the light that had drawn Bolan.
Two people were in the room. Libyan civilians: an old man and a young woman. They were tied to kitchen chairs. Tied and gagged. They were alone in the room. Their eyes watched with puzzlement — and fear — as Bolan stepped toward them.
The man could have been fifty or a hundred years old. He wore a dark robe and white headcloth. The snowy white of his beard was in stark contrast to the dark of his Arabian skin.
The woman was a girl. Bolan judged her to be sixteen, if that. But she was already budding with the sensual-eyed, lush beauty that Bolan knew to be the birthright of the sisterhood of Islam.
He ungagged the girl, then the man.
The girl was fooled by the leathery brown of Bolan's skin hue, which had been acquired over an adulthood of missions to every hotspot under the sun.
She chattered at Bolan in Arabic.
Bolan stepped back. He cautioned her to lower her voice with a waved hand.
"Do you speak English?" he whispered.
"I do. Some," replied the girl quietly. "Who are you?"
"A friend. Tell me why you're here."
"This is our home. My father manages the inn of the village."
Bolan made his decision. He undid the ropes that bound them to the chairs.
"I'm looking for Kennedy." In a hushed voice he described the boss merc to her. "Did he come through here? Do you know where he went?"
The old man muttered something in Arabic. The only word Bolan could make out was "Kennedy."
"He is an evil man," said the girl. She rubbed the burn marks where the rope had chafed her wrists. "At first we thought he was from the villa."
"What are your names?" whispered Bolan. "Tell me what happened here. Quickly."
"I am called Fahima," she said. "This is my father, Bushir. The man you call Kennedy, he has kept us like this for two days now. He keeps us alive in case the owner of the villa should try to contact us."
"What is your employer's name?"
"We have never met him," said Fahima. "He is with an oil company. A Mr. Conrad. An American. A solicitor in Benghazi. He also owns the villa."
"His real name is Jericho," grunted Bolan under his breath. "Has he used this escape route often?"
"Once. Khaddafi's troops were in the area, searching for him." At the word Khaddafi, the old man began prattling angrily. "My family was dispossessed during the land reform," explained Fahima. "We are willing to help Mr. Conrad against a common enemy."
"You must trust me," said Bolan. "I'm getting you and your father out of this place. There's going to be killing here tonight. Do you know where Kennedy has gone?"
"He is in the building above. They closed the inn two days ago. We can hear them sometimes. I heard footsteps earlier tonight."
"Where in your inn would be a good place for a secret meeting?"
The girl thought for a moment. "One of two places. There is a dining room away from the lobby, as you approach from the corridor outside. And there is a private room on the floor above that."
"How many men does Kennedy have with him?"
"Only one, I believe. A guard on the door." She pointed at the door opposite to where Bolan had entered. It was massive, most likely of imported oak. Beyond it would be a route into the inn above.
"One last question," whispered Bolan. "Did Kennedy bring a woman with him?"
Fahima shook her head. "No woman. No one. Only the one you call Kennedy, and the man outside."
Bolan started toward the door.
"Let's go," he muttered to the man and his daughter. "Keep low. Do as I say. When you see a chance, run for the nearest cover."
Fahima studied him with soulful, unblinking eyes.
"I understand," she said. She had a surprisingly gentle voice. "You are a brave man for helping us."
The Executioner yanked the heavy door open with one hand, gripping his Browning hi-power in the other.
The Bolan Effect had arrived.
Fahima Dohmi watched the big American as he prepared to dispatch to oblivion the sentry in the corridor, who stood with his back to the doorway.
Fahima thought that she had never seen a man move with such grace and determination as the big American. He radiated animal ferocity and strength worthy of a son of the desert.
She had watched as he pulled the door recklessly open.
Now she saw the sentry spin around, reaching for a side arm.
She saw the American warrior grab the sentry around the throat with his forearm before the guard could complete his turn.
A quick snap punch to the temple with a raised pistol and the man slumped to the floor, his skull cracked. She saw blood dribble from one ear.
The big man led the way out of the room, stepping across the corpse that blocked the doorway.
Like a son of the desert, she thought again.
Bolan heard movement from around a corner in the hallway. He motioned a halt.
Fahima and Bushir froze in their tracks. It was too late for any of them to backtrack now.
Three men came around the corner. They were heavyset black men in African military uniforms.
Bolan could not identify their political origin in the instant that eyeball recognition was made on both sides.
The three Africans toted AK-47s by slung shoulder straps. The troopers had evidently been headed toward the room where the father and daughter had been held. There was purpose in their marching stride.
When they saw Bolan and the others, the three of them registered identical surprise. They fell away from each other and fought to sling their weapons around in a race for survival. The movements provoked grunts, a curse.
The pistol in Bolan's fist chugged a death cough. Hot millimeters of parabellum lead lanced through space.