Twisted Path te-121 Read online

  The prison guards weren't about to let them escape without opposition, now that they had had time to gather their forces.

  A sustained chattering began as the security force advanced in a strung-out skirmish line, firing their submachine guns in rapid bursts.

  The first three terrorists through the wall were the first victims, falling like rag dolls in bloody heaps, little dots of white oozing red on the dusty plain.

  The others went to ground immediately, recognising that there was little chance of survival for anyone exposed to the merciless wall of flying lead pumped out by the massed guns of the advancing guards.

  Their position was pretty grim. If they remained where they were, the line of advancing gunmen would overrun the escaping prisoners and they'd be slaughtered where they lay. Anyone who tried to flee would be chopped to bloody ribbons before they had gone ten feet.

  Bolan knew that there was no chance of surrender, even if he was to consider that option for more than a flickering moment. The troops held a special hatred for the Path. The last time there had been an uprising at Lurigancho by the Shining Path the government had sent in the Republican Army.

  Every one of the terrorist inmates at Lurigancho had been killed. The army and local prison staff even killed two hundred more of the terrorists in other Lima jails, most of whom were already unarmed.

  No quarter would be given in this war on either side.

  For the moment, Bolan was stuck with the Path as his temporary allies until he could use their trust to blow them away.

  He had no hesitation about dealing with the prison guards. In the short time he had been at the compound, he had observed firsthand that they were as corrupt and vicious as any of the prisoners. Rumor had spoken of murder and torture as common weapons in the guards' arsenal of repressive tactics, and Bolan had no doubt it was true.

  The Executioner threw down his now-empty rifle and tracked onto an advancing gunner with the Colt.

  Accurate as the Python was, he had to be careful to make every shot count. His ammo supply was severely limited, and he hoped he could make the guards back off and give the escaping prisoners room to run before they were overwhelmed. One determined rush by the heavily armed troops would finish the small party, which now numbered less than ten.

  Bolan focused chest high, the silhouette dim in the fading light. He squeezed once and shifted targets even as the big pistol bucked in his hand.

  The first victim had barely toppled to the ground before the Executioner picked his second mark, sending another heavy slug sprinting the short distance to smash ribs and tumble through soft organs.

  The warrior cored one more gunner before the troops realised what was happening. Several turned in his direction, peppering the ground with a torrent of flying metal.

  Bolan tried to ignore the manglers slamming all around him as he concentrated on reloading the swing-out cylinder of the Python. He could only keep his head down temporarily and count on the shallow pit he lay in to absorb the wave of death probing for him.

  The guards were still trying to brazen it out, obviously poorly trained, content to hold their position and riddle the ground around Bolan's hiding place with random shots. They seemed to be ignoring the remaining prisoners for the moment.

  Bullets kicked up spurts of dust in front of and beside the Executioner, clouding his vision as he sought his targets. Pretty warm work, Bolan thought, as beads of sweat crept down his forehead. Four slow shots ventilated four more guards before one of them turned to make a break for safety.

  Two of the troops turned to watch him go.

  An officer came from behind the wavering line of guards and stopped the fleeing man by swinging the barrel of his pistol into the running man's face. The wounded man crashed to all fours, hands clutched over his bleeding mouth, spitting remnants of his front teeth. The officer brandished his pistol at the remaining men, shouting commands.

  Suddenly the gunner at the far end of the line vanished in a cloud of flame and smoke, his body catapulted into the air on the tips of a dynamite explosion.

  A second guard disappeared, and small bits of burned flesh fell to the ground in a horrific rain.

  Path reinforcements had arrived, flinging sticks of dynamite among the gunmen once they had crept unseen into range. Bolan's firing had distracted the security squad enough that the new arrivals had closed the distance undetected.

  The shaky guardsmen gave up the fight and fled in panic toward their base, pursued by a creeping line of explosions as the Shining Path hurried them along their way.

  Bolan and the rest made the best of the lull, sprinting the last few hundred yards at a pace that made their lungs ache. The Path rear guard followed, dynamite in hand.

  The reduced band gathered among the trees. Many of the surviving terrorists had already left, beginning the long journey to rejoin their cells in various parts of the strifetorn country.

  Two battered vans waited, large enough to hold about ten people each. The drivers didn't look any friendlier than the rest of the Shining Path terrorists.

  Libertad motioned Bolan and Stone into the back of a dirty blue van. Half a dozen men climbed in with them, and they all sat silently on rough sacks as the truck bounced crazily along the poorly paved roads that led away from the prison. The first task was to clear the area before the police and army sealed the region to start an intensive search for the escapees.

  Bolan had time to reconsider his strategy as the vehicle jumped over the potholed back road.

  He was sorely tempted to abort the mission, to give these guys the slip and head home. This wasn't his war. He had already accomplished the main part of his mission by icing McIntyre. Why not leave the rest of the action to the people most concerned? The Peruvian government had created most of this mess by the repression and poverty of its citizens. Let it solve the problem on its own.

  But the idea just wouldn't go down.

  Bolan was constitutionally unable to walk away and wash his hands once he had made a decision to get involved. The Shining Path had become his problem, too. And the Executioner had determined that he was going to be part of the solution.

  He hadn't been imprisoned and beaten only to turn tail and run for cover. The Shining Path and he were locked together in a death grip, and Bolan would keep squeezing until something gave.

  He knew that the bad feeling existed on both sides. In spite of anything the terrorists might say to ease his distrust, he knew they would kill him without hesitation when the time was right.

  The warrior had to keep on top of the situation, stay one step ahead of his adversaries if he was going to make it out of Peru alive. The first objective was to get them to guide him to their base without giving up control of the arms shipment.

  The weapons were his ace, and might be the only thing that would keep him breathing long enough to wreak havoc with the Shining Path operations. Like any kind of insurance, it was most valuable if it didn't have to be used. So Bolan had to use the guns as the bait to lead the Path along the course that he had set for them until he could push them over the edge.

  Bolan had a plan. He only had to make Libertad and his henchmen buy it.

  After what seemed like an endless ride, the van shifted down and pulled slowly onto a secondary road, shaking brutally from side to side as the wheels climbed in and out of ruts in the dirt track. When the small truck drew to a halt the terrorist nearest the door swung it open, and everyone gratefully took the opportunity to stretch cramped and bruised limbs.

  They were parked in front of a single-story house not much larger than a peasant's hut. The smoke curling from a crude chimney told him that the house was occupied. Bolan presumed that they had arrived at a rural safehouse.

  Libertad was already waiting.

  "Now it is time to talk again about our arrangement, Blanski. I think that you must tell us where the guns are hidden."

  "You have a short memory, Libertad." Bolan was going to take a hard line. The only form of reaso
ning these people understood was simple power. Any concession would be assumed to be from weakness and would be followed by pressure for more and more compromises.

  Bolan would make them play by his rules.

  "You know that we agreed that I would lead you to the weapons when you sprung me. Only then do you get the goods, when I get my money, that is. Of course I'll give you a couple of freebies, as I promised. See what a sweet guy I am? You're lucky that I don't withdraw my offer as a reward for saving your miserable lives back at the prison."

  This angered the terrorist, who snapped back, "You did us no favors back there! You were only protecting your own worthless life. Our lives belong to Gonzalo. We were of no value to him in prison and if we had died, it would have made no difference. Dead, at least we would have been martyrs, feeding the legend of the truth and justice of our righteous cause without harming our fighting strength. Our blood would come to haunt the guilty and serve to bring forth strong new fighters. So stick to your word!"

  Bolan gained some valuable information from the tirade. This guy had a thin skin where his cause was concerned. A weakness to be filed away for later use. "Keep your cool, amigo. I just want to know that you'll play fair with me."

  Libertad was calm again, icily so. "Gringo, why don't you just tell us where the guns are and go about your business? Peru is not a safe place for you. We will arrange for payment, and then you will leave. You will hear from us about the next order."

  "Man, you must take me for some kind of fool!" Bolan laughed loudly for emphasis, maintaining his character as a money-grubbing arms merchant. "Do you really think that I'll walk and leave you the goods? I'll never see a penny that way. If you're so trusting, give me my money, and when I'm safely out of this rat hole I'll wire you the location of the arms. How about that for a deal?"

  Libertad waved, and two of the terrorists grabbed Stone by his arms and powered him over beside their leader.

  Libertad drew a long knife and placed the point under the older man's chin. Stone looked as if he was about to faint, and only the strong hands holding each arm prevented him from crumpling to the ground.

  "Unless you tell me now where the guns are, I will slit his throat and his blood will be at your feet."

  Bolan frowned. The terrorist had instinctively hit on one of his few weaknesses, apparently knowing that Bolan would not let any harm come to the ex-professor if he could somehow prevent it. Or maybe Libertad was only bluffing.

  "Go ahead. It still won't make me talk. But if you do, you'll be losing a valuable commodity someone who could patch you or your men up if we get into a jam. Besides, he was of some help to me in prison, so I'll trade you a case of M-16's for his life, insignificant as it is. So there's the deal. A case of guns if he lives, but absolutely nothing gained if he dies."

  Libertad appeared to consider the offer. "Three cases," he responded.

  "Two."

  "All right, Blanski, two it is." He nodded to his men, who shoved Stone forward to sprawl at his feet. Without another word the terrorists marched toward the cabin.

  "Are you okay, Stone?"

  Stone spoke in a low voice, conscious of the half dozen men observing them. The terrorists weren't making any moves, but the two Americans were under a watchful guard. "I'll live. For a short while, that is. We have to make a break soon. Once you deliver the guns we'll be dead. The Path trusts no one, and you already know too much about them. They'll never let you live. Instead they'll find someone else to supply the arms, someone they can keep at arm's length. We have to get out of here!"

  Bolan smiled grimly. "You're not telling me anything I don't already know. But we'll go when I'm ready. I have a surprise or two remaining."

  A surprise, sure.

  A nasty one.

  14

  The ancient truck chugged laboriously up the steep mountain slope, using every ounce of power remaining in its often-repaired engine.

  Bolan sat listlessly, watching the countryside pass through the slats that ringed the bed. He rolled back and forth in a double line with the other fifteen men, concentrating on not being sick.

  He was suffering the effects of soroche altitude sickness as the wheezing vehicle climbed the mountain pass that would eventually lead them to the broad valley that held Ayacucho, their destination.

  Illness was attacking on all fronts, including dizziness, a splitting headache, a fever and stomach-curdling nausea.

  The sickness had been alleviated somewhat by a soothing brew that Stone had made for him at the last stop. The tea had relieved his symptoms, yet had left him lethargic which was something of a blessing.

  It would be quite easy to get excited over the traveling conditions. The road was narrow and badly maintained. In many spots it was barely as wide as the truck. The scenery was spectacular, a breathtaking series of chiseled peaks and valleys of long, waving grass, viewed from a road that clung to the side of the cliff like a ribbon spiraling up around a tree trunk. Sometimes a white-flecked mountain stream or waterfall could be seen hundreds of feet below.

  The Peruvians were very possessive of their trucks and cars, and habitually gave them fancy names. This one was no exception, and the driver had named it "The Friend of Death." He and everyone else on the road drove in a manner that lived up to the name. It was not uncommon for the vehicle to rush head-on at another car or truck, until one or the other swung to the outside and the two vehicles passed together, one hugging the edge of the precipice.

  Small white crosses marked the route at points where some drivers hadn't been as careful or lucky.

  "This isn't as bad as it gets, Blanski," Stone had told him in an unsuccessful attempt to cheer him. "At some points on the other side of Ayacucho, the road is so narrow that the traffic passes in different directions depending on the day of the week. They use the same trails that were blazed in Inca times, narrow as they are."

  Almost every roadside wall or smooth rock surface was defaced by some sort of political slogan, many of them by the local Communist party calling for an armed struggle. Most were by the Path, demanding death to the imperialists and their lackeys.

  Even among the deserted highlands between the scattered villages, grim reminders of the constant political battles remained, fading gradually in the harsh sunlight.

  Libertad had been surprised when Bolan informed him that the arms had been moved into the mountainous Andean district.

  "What are you complaining about?" Bolan had responded when Libertad queried him. "It's a lot more convenient for you there than it would be in Lima. I know the score in your little war. Besides, I didn't want to hang around in Lima any longer than I had to. Some people I know there wouldn't have been too happy to see me, if you know what I mean."

  "I can certainly understand that, Blanski." The unexpected news that the weapons weren't in Lima had sparked the terrorist's suspicions once more. "Particularly since there's a rumor floating around the underground that you might have helped yourself to the arms."

  Bolan couldn't help being startled by this news.

  "Don't look so surprised we have very accurate sources of information."

  Bolan thought fast. He wasn't happy that the Peruvians had learned he was not exactly a well-established arms dealer. He also wondered at their source, since that information shouldn't have been available to anyone who wasn't familiar with the twisted relationship between McIntyre and Carrillo.

  And both of them were dead. So who was putting the pieces together, and how? It pointed once again to some outside source pulling the strings a source with connections to the Shining Path.

  "It doesn't matter how I got them. If I'm a thief, well, I'm your thief. I don't care about your politics, so don't you worry about my source of supply. All you have to know is that I can deliver what I promise and at a very competitive price."

  "We'll see what you're capable of when we get to Ayacucho, won't we, Blanski?"

  You don't know how right you are, pal, Bolan thought. "Right on, hombre. But I'
ve got one more piece of news for you. Before I give you so much as a rifle bullet, I want to see your boss."

  "That is out of the question. No one sees Gonzalo. You will have to deliver the arms as we agreed."

  "No way, buddy. I don't need to talk to the guy, but I sure want to talk to someone more important than you. I didn't come all this way to get turned off like a brush salesman. No way. I'll talk to your council, or somebody in charge, but I'm going to go away with another sale, a bigger and better one. You guys have got a lot of potential demand for my services, and I aim to make you good customers of mine." Bolan was playing his part to the hilt, since an aggressive pursuit of a dirty arms deal would provide a perfect cover to get a little closer to the heartland of the terrorist organisation.

  Libertad appeared to consider the proposition for a few moments and then relented. "It is highly unusual, but under the circumstances, I think an exception can be made. When we reach Ayacucho, I will make your request known to my superiors. Then we shall see."

  When Bolan had departed to prepare for the long ride through the Andes, one of the terrorists accosted Libertad. "Are you mad? You would let an outsider into our secret enclave? What if he is a government agent or a CIA spy? What then?"

  "It does not matter what he is, Pablo. Honest man, fool or traitor, he must die anyway. So let us do what we need to do to get the arms. Then we shall kill him. Very unpleasantly."

  * * *

  Ayacucho stood 8,500 feet above Lima's dry coastline. Stone explained to Bolan some of the contrasts between the rich urban metropolis and the interior, where many impoverished peasants still worked on large, almost feudal estates that had survived since the time of the Spanish conquest.

  The area was predominantly Indian, and the majority of the local population spoke nothing but the native Quechua. The majority lived as their forefathers had done. Their agricultural methods were primitive, relying on the ancient Inca foot prow. Nominally Catholic, the natives still mixed Inca practices with their ceremonies. Their staple diet was native potatoes and corn, and they drank chicha, a popular homemade beer considered especially delicious because women chew the corn before it is fermented.