Twisted Path te-121

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan walked a seemingly endless distance, feet aching in his poorly constructed prison shoes.

  He didn't notice any incline at all. The slope upward had to have been very shallow, with only a gradual rise to ground level.

  Suddenly the stream dipped underground into a hole too narrow to accommodate more than Bolan's head, leaving him without a guide. The path forked at this point, as he determined by groping a narrow column of rock that divided the tunnel. He paced a short way up each corridor before trying his luck. The left trail appeared to climb, while the track to the right continued straight ahead.

  After filling his water pouch Bolan chose the left fork, preferring to continue to climb. He wanted out as soon as possible, and the passageway to the right might continue for another hundred miles, for all he knew.

  He began to regret his decision when the corridor began to shrink. Soon he was ducking his head to avoid a low ceiling, while the width had narrowed to the point where the sides brushed his shoulders.

  A few minutes later, Bolan ran into another dead end. However, as he determined from feeling the area ahead of him, this was a very different tunnel end.

  The other corridor had simply stopped, unfinished, as though the workmen had quit for the day once upon a time, and had never returned to complete their tasks. This path ended in a fiat, smooth-finished surface.

  Bolan hammered a clenched fist on the wall.

  The vibrations didn't feel as though there were solid rock ahead. He shoved, hard. Nothing happened.

  He moved to the extreme left and tried again.

  With a groan from a hinge that probably hadn't budged in five hundred years, the rock moved two inches, swinging back like a door. He could see a faint light through the crack, although to his dilated pupils it seemed so dazzling that he had to shut them. Another energised push opened the rock wall a foot more, and Bolan squeezed through.

  He opened his eyes gradually, peering through narrow slits until he became accustomed to the light.

  Bolan observed that he was in the lower level of some tall structure, with a large opening like an atrium extending far above him. A stairway angled upward, folding back and forth on itself as it headed for an opening above. A soft amber tinged light streamed down, catching motes of dust and small flying insects in its beam.

  The ground was covered with pots of various sizes, some intact and some reduced to shards, which probably had contained gifts of some kind to the gods. Bolan tried to remember if the Incas had practiced human sacrifice the way the Aztecs to the north commonly had.

  For a brief moment he imagined this as the site of an ancient and barbaric ritual, captives stretched on an altar at the top of the pyramid, while priests cut open the victims' chests and ripped out the still beating hearts. Possibly the hearts had rested in those decayed jars.

  Bolan began to climb, anxious to reach the sunlight, careful of his footing on the disused stairway. He breathed deeply, savoring the fresh air after the stale and uncirculated air of the maze.

  The stairs turned several times before Bolan reached the final landing, where he found himself in a small rectangular structure open on one long side.

  Flaking paintings adorned each wall. He poked his head out cautiously.

  He was on the top of a high temple in the middle of a ruined city. A steep set of stairs led to the ground, with the top step flanked by two snarling stone jaguar heads. Several hundred yards away, another pyramid faced him, almost completely hidden beneath a green mantle of vines and mold. A level area between the two large structures was dotted with fallen columns and altars. All around the temple, stone houses stood open to the sky, thatched roofs long since withered into dust.

  Beyond the ruined village, a high ring of jagged hills encircled the valley. At one time, a road must have meandered over one of the clefts between the peaks, but the trail was invisible beneath the underbrush that had overgrown the site.

  The sun was setting to his left, but the rays were still strong enough to show several men standing by a cave mouth half a mile away. Several more openings pockmarked the hills in the same vicinity.

  Bolan had just found the lair of the Shining Path.

  It wouldn't be long before the scorpions hiding among the rocks got a surprise visit from the Executioner.

  It was going to be quite a party.

  * * *

  Libertad hurried from the interrogation chamber to report to the council on the latest information he had obtained from his victim. With the assistance of skilled torturers, he had been able to break Antonia's will.

  He felt a momentary pang for Antonia. Like any woman, she had been vain about her beauty.

  She had been the kind of woman who made heads turn, even among the brotherhood.

  No one would ever call her beautiful again.

  Marxist doctrine taught that torture was undignified both for the questioner, as well as the victim and that it should be done only as a last resort against the most unrepentant enemies of the people.

  But Libertad had to admit that he enjoyed it, and that every scream reinforced his own sense of power and strength. The more helpless the victim, the more savage the punishment, the greater the terror and pain, the more pleasure he felt.

  Antonia had given him immense satisfaction.

  He wondered if he had finally found his true calling.

  Libertad was ushered in immediately to see the council.

  He had the impression that none of them ever moved, since each time he had made a progress report, they were seated exactly as he had left them the time before.

  "Report," the chairman commanded.

  "Comrade, she has broken completely. She has already confessed that the ambush was set up to prevent the American, Blanski, from informing us that she had murdered her employer, Carrillo. We have now learned the motive behind the murder." Libertad paused theatrically, waiting to be prompted. Instead the councillors simply stared at him. "She has stated that she has been in contact with a high government official General Arturo Palma, chief commander of the Peruvian Military Police!"

  The council members exchanged puzzled glances.

  It was known that Palma was an avowed enemy of the Shining Path. If Antonia had been passing secrets to him, why was this base still in operation?

  "Has she explained why?" the chairman inquired.

  "She claims that Palma's goals are the same as the Shining Path's in the short run. He wishes to destabilise the state so that he can seize power with a military coup. Only then will the General hunt us down. For now, he is content to aid our struggle through access to armaments and information."

  "And how much has she told him about our operations? How much has she revealed?" Libertad shrugged.

  "Nothing, she says. Supposedly the general was not interested in pumping her for information, since he had no intention of aiding his colleagues in smashing the movement."

  "She was questioned thoroughly?" another member asked.

  "Yes. Very thoroughly." Libertad smiled to himself at the memories.

  "Question her some more," the chairman decided. "Do not hurry, but make sure that you learn everything there is to know. And if she is still alive when you are finished, then kill her. Slowly. The Shining Path has no room for traitors."

  Libertad hurried away, anxious to obey.

  * * *

  When the sun had finally dipped below the hills, and the last traces of red were fading from the sky, Bolan began to move out. He crept cautiously down the back of the Inca pyramid, using hands and feet to keep from sliding down the slippery incline. He intended to start the action shortly after sunset, during the early evening hours when the guards would be relaxed.

  The warrior edged through the low underbrush that covered the ruined city, not pausing to look at any of the ancient stones covered with images of gods and demons that poked from among the weeds. It was eerie knowing that he was probably the first North American to walk through these forgotten monuments.

&n
bsp; Bolan chose an observation post in a ravaged home at the edge of the desolate city. There seemed to be activity at only one cave entrance.

  Possibly all the others were sealed. From here he could clearly see the guards talking and smoking on the cavern ledges. Each carried a rifle or machine gun, which made them the initial targets for the Executioner.

  As an uninvited guest, he didn't want to join the party empty-handed.

  He began his stalk when the sun was down, and the stars shone overhead. The thin mountain air made them glow with a brightness he had never seen in the grimy urban battlegrounds he often frequented. A chorus of soft animal sounds echoed all around him as he brushed stealthily through the tall grass covering the valley floor.

  Soon he lay near the mouth of the cave guarded by the terrorists. No light filtered from the cavern.

  Although the Shining Path had taken some precautions against discovery, the two guards weren't expecting any trouble. They chatted away noisily, undoubtedly bored with a routine assignment often repeated. Bolan suspected it was a rare occurrence for anyone to wander into the valley, given the size of the cliffs surrounding it.

  The warrior crawled undetected to within twenty feet of the two men. With a knife as his only weapon, Bolan decided to wait for a break. At some point, one of the guards would make a mistake, perhaps fall asleep, and then the Executioner would strike. He was in no hurry, since he wasn't following a timetable and had no specific plan of action once he got inside. He just planned to make things happen and cause maximum damage before he got the hell out of there.

  Bolan had to wait a long time before he got his chance. A half moon had climbed a handbreadth above a craggy pinnacle. A large army of small but hungry insects had discovered Bolan as he crouched in the grass, and he tried to ignore their stinging bites as he concentrated on the guards.

  One of them finally left, heading back inside.

  The door had barely closed before Bolan rose and drew back his knife. The blade flew straight and true at the man outlined in the moonlight, stabbing directly through the base of the throat.

  The terrorist dropped, his hands clutching at the knife hilt flush against his skin. His death throes gradually subsided until he lay still.

  Bolan sprinted to the cave mouth, ripping the AK-47 from the dead guard's hands.

  The warrior froze by the door, listening for sounds of activity beyond. The other guard would eventually return and if he came back to find his partner dead, the alarm would be given instantly. It would be better to hang tough for a while and eliminate this particular nest of vipers. Not only would he buy himself some time, but he would clear an escape route behind him.

  The waiting paid off. The second terrorist barreled through the door, shouting something incomprehensible to his watch mate.

  The words forewarned Bolan of the guy's arrival.

  As the hardman stepped through the doorframe, Bolan rocketed the butt of the assault rifle head high, connecting on the man's jaw. The newcomer dropped backward through the doorway, and the Executioner stepped after the falling body. One hard slam with the rifle finished the job, cracking the skull like a soft-shelled crab.

  He dragged the corpse into the brush and returned for the other body. When it, too, was concealed Bolan took the time to scuff away the signs of the struggle.

  It might only buy him a few seconds of grace, but in combat seconds were more precious than jewels.

  The Executioner slung the AK over his shoulder and grabbed the Uzi the other guy had toted, stuffing extra clips in his pockets. Then he eased the door back, his finger on the trigger of the Uzi.

  * * *

  Libertad left the interrogation chamber in search of fresh amusement. Antonia was beginning to wane as an attraction, remaining unconscious for longer periods of time. She wasn't responding to the questioning as well, either, seeming to be in a state of shock most of the time that protected her from realizing what was being done to her.

  He was afraid that the red-haired traitor was going to die on him. But it was much too soon for that.

  She had not yet come close to paying for the fear he had felt when crouched in the dark tunnel with bullets whining all around him.

  The coldhearted sadist had many more vicious experiments in mind.

  It was not at all satisfying. He supposed the woman would have to rest until she was able to be aware of what was being done to her. In the meantime, he decided to pay a visit to Stone.

  The American crouched in a cleverly designed cell. The ceiling wasn't high enough to permit a prisoner to stand upright, nor was the cell wide enough at any point for the prisoner to sit with any degree of comfort. There was no water, there were no sanitary facilities, and the only light and air came through a small grate in the iron door.

  Libertad watched Stone for a moment. He looked perfectly miserable. It had been the squad leader's idea to subject the American to this indignity and discomfort until his spirit was broken.

  Only then would he be a reliable captive.

  "Stone, do you hear me?"

  The American stirred, rousing himself from a pain-filled stupor.

  "Are you ready to be given your parole, American? Will you become a loyal servant of the great Republic of New Democracy? Will you renounce the capitalist lies and embrace the teachings of the wise Gonzalo?"

  Stone was fully awake now and full of vinegar.

  "You miserable son of a slug. What makes you think I would ever become part of what Gonzalo plans for Peru? I hope that he rots in hell!"

  Libertad was tempted to shoot Stone on the spot. The barrel of his Uzi was jammed through the grate before he realized through a hate-filled haze that Stone was goading him into doing just that. He lowered the subgun.

  "It is not wise to insult your captors. Very foolish indeed, Stone. If you wish to die of starvation, be our guest. Or be wise and join us. Live or die, it's your choice." Libertad stalked off while he still had the last word, not at all pleased by the encounter.

  As the footsteps faded into the distance, Stone wondered why he was being so stubborn. It was not at all like him. But every time he thought of giving in, Blanski came to mind. Somehow, he knew instinctively that the big man would rather die than surrender, and he felt inadequate doing anything less. But still, he felt sorry for himself.

  Sometimes dying was a lot easier than living.

  * * *

  Bolan crept down a broad corridor. Now that he was inside, he had three objectives: to find some weakness in the organisation and exploit it, to find Stone if he was still living and rescue him and to make it out alive.

  He had been traveling down deserted halls, peering into each room he passed. He had checked several dozen storerooms and thus far had seen nothing of interest, just heaps of innocuous boxes, sacks of tobacco and mounds of other things necessary to keep a guerrilla force fighting. Everything except weapons and dynamite, the two things he sought.

  The corridors were similar to those he had traversed underground, relics of the ancient Incas.

  This complex appeared to be primarily a storehouse for the town beyond, with lots of small rooms off a web of passages. The main difference was that the halls were lit by crude strings of electric lights powered by some hidden generator.

  The next room had a wooden door, which immediately aroused the warrior's suspicions, as none of the others had been secured. Apparently the Incas and the Path usually didn't believe in doors. He opened it silently and found himself in a large, shadow-filled room, staring at the back of a man who was tending what looked to be a small forge. This would be an excellent opportunity to gather some intelligence.

  The Executioner slipped inside, closing the door softly behind him. The terrorist by the fire was so intent on his work that it was easy for Bolan to creep up behind him unnoticed.

  The warrior lashed out with his forearm, catching the hardguy around the neck. He squeezed, but not hard enough to cut off the air supply.

  The man's hands clawed at
Bolan's arm.

  "Stop it," Bolan commanded in Spanish, his mouth near the guy's ear. "Any more trouble and I'll break your neck."

  The resistance stopped instantly.

  "Now tell me, where is Gonzalo? Is he here?"

  The terrorist shook his head as hard as he was able.

  The big man eased off a little at the throat.

  "No, he is not here. He has never been here. I have never seen him. It is true!" As the warrior digested the words he admitted to himself that it jibed with what Brognola had told him. Gonzalo was more of a legend than a leader.

  Unless this guy was completely ignorant or a better actor than Bolan gave him credit for the Executioner wouldn't be able to settle any score with the big boss in this valley.

  As Bolan considered his next move, his gaze moved around the room and fastened on an object in a far-corner.

  Someone was tied to a rack, the signs of torture visible even across the chamber. And now that Bolan looked more closely, what he had taken for a forge for working metal was a small furnace, with an array of irons and pincers glowing red-hot on the burning coals.

  It reminded Bolan of some of the worst times in his Mafia hunts, the times when he had come across the tortured remnants of what had once been men and women.

  Bolan's rage reached fever pitch and erupted, a fierce volcano that washed over the man in his grasp, a red tide of anger that flowed through his body. He jerked his muscled forearm, cutting off the hapless man's wind. When the warrior's wrath abated, he dropped the lifeless corpse to the ground. He wasn't going to get any more information from the guy, but at the moment Bolan didn't care.

  He walked over to the rack, and with a shock, Bolan recognized its occupant as the radiant beauty who had approached and spoken to him in the restaurant, Carrillo's secretary.

  His stomach churned as he looked at the damage, and he had to turn away, bile rising in his throat. His eyes fixed on an array of rusty, blood-stained knives and other implements heaped on a low table. He picked up the sharpest-looking one.

  He would do what had to be done.