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A Bolan left the chamber, a shiver of disgust running down his spine. People died, that was inevitable.
He had been behind the gun often enough himself. But the mentality that was required to perform such brutal acts, to do things to another human that were rooted in sick nightmares, was beyond his comprehension.
He didn't want to understand.
Bolan forced himself to become calm, to concentrate on staying alive, rather than on his revenge. Anything else risked disaster such as being gunned down by someone who had stayed frosty and had not let his emotions run wild.
The big man would have liked to ask Antonia some questions himself, since much of what he had endured since coming to Peru was the direct result of his visit to her boss's office. Now he might never know the answers.
Tough. He was just going to have to play out his hand the way it had been dealt to him. But that didn't mean that he couldn't try to stack the deck in his favor.
Bolan eased down the corridor, every sense attuned to his surroundings. Through an effort of will, he turned his mind from the bloody lump of flesh he had left, and tried to imagine where the best spot for a weapons depot would be.
He checked each room as he passed, not at all sure what he was looking for. Most were simply large empty squares.
The warrior was somewhat surprised that he hadn't seen much of the opposition so far. He guessed that the complex was probably lightly manned at the best of times, serving as a headquarters and a transit station for the terrorists.
Bolan kept moving forward. Since he didn't know where he was going, the safest route was straight ahead, making it easy for him to retrace his steps to the exit. As he moved farther into the complex, the fresh air and starlight of the outdoors seemed more like a distant and elusive memory.
A couple of doors down, he found a small man with a thin mustache scribbling at a desk made from boards piled on crates. This was definitely a low-budget revolution, Bolan thought. The man didn't notice the Executioner's stealthy approach until the big man's shadow eclipsed the terrorist's writing pad. The Peruvian looked up with a start and gaped at the stranger.
Bolan reached over the narrow desk, wrapped a callused hand around the other man's throat and jerked him out of his hard-backed chair.
"You've got two seconds to tell me where your leaders are before I crush your windpipe." He eased up the pressure a bit to let the other guy choke out an answer.
"Capitalist pig!" was all the response he listened to before he clamped down again.
"You don't hear very well, do you? I'll ask you one last time. Where are your leaders?"
"Yankee bastard! I will never tell..."
"You're right. You'll never tell anyone anything again." Bolan gripped the hardman's neck with both hands and pressed. The warrior released his hold and the dead man fell to the floor, his eyes glassing over, Bolan pulled the body behind the desk.
He was about to leave when an idea twigged in the back of his mind. The warrior paced across the room, picked up a small alarm clock and stuffed it in the sack he carried. He also stripped the dead terrorist of his cheap wristwatch.
Bolan continued his investigation, moving slowly and at all times trying to determine his location relative to the main exit. Getting lost in the rock-lined web would be all too easy and a potentially fatal mistake.
He wandered up and down corridors methodically, and passed more storerooms and an occasional empty office or bunk room before he found what he was searching for.
A large iron door signaled that something valuable was protected in the room behind.
Fortunately the terrorists didn't believe in locking doors. He pushed the heavy portal back and found himself in another storeroom.
The dim light from the bulb outside the entrance showed dozens of cases of dynamite piled floor to ceiling, leaving barely enough room to walk in the chamber.
Bolan gave a low whistle. It was hard to estimate the total stock kind of like guessing the number of jelly beans crammed into a jar but he figured there had to be at least a hundred thousand sticks jammed into the room.
Enough to reduce the fortress to smoking rubble.
He checked to make sure there were some blasting caps among the explosives, then went looking for more supplies. He had a plan in mind, but there were a couple of pieces that he still had to fit together.
Bolan padded along more dim corridors, avoiding those that were completely dark. He concentrated on constructing a mental map of the area, with the exit and the dynamite room firmly in mind.
As he moved forward in the shadows, sound from an intersection up ahead stopped him in his tracks.
He listened more closely. To his left, he heard the crackle of static and snatches of conversation.
He followed the racket, and in moments he was outside a radio room. The operator was writing a transmitted message and was oblivious to the Executioner's entry.
The butt of the AK-47 rocketed down on the radioman's spine with killing force. The technician dropped over his pad as his pen rolled onto the floor. The deadly blow was the last message he would ever receive.
The radio gave an outraged squeal as Bolan drove the butt of the Kalashnikov into the delicate machinery, cutting off the monotonous voice coming from the speaker. Then the warrior picked up a powerful battery and some wire from among the wreckage and began to retrace his steps to the explosives.
After a few minutes, he began to think that he had missed a turn. The-empty rooms and featureless corridors suddenly all looked the same.
Bolan had had a lifetime dose of being lost underground already. He had no desire to repeat the experience.
He told himself resolutely that he knew where he was going. Soon, he believed, since the areas he passed began to look familiar. Bolan thought grimly that he might be falling victim to his own imagination, to his growing sense of unease at being stuck underground.
But those were emotions that had to take a back seat to what he had set out to accomplish. He didn't have time to lose his cool.
When Bolan finally reached the dynamite storerooms, he hurriedly assembled a bomb trigger with the wire and alarm clock. He hesitated over setting the timer. If he allowed himself only an hour, that wouldn't give him much time to find Stone. If he left it much longer, there was the danger that someone might find his surprise and disarm it. He compromised on a two-hour delay, noting the time as he set the clock.
Minutes were precious now, as the seconds ticked down to destruction.
* * *
Libertad couldn't sleep. He lay alone on his hard bed, his mind juggling various factors as he wondered how he could turn them to his advantage. The council, General Palma, Antonia, the missing arms cache... all of these tumbled through his mind in myriad combinations.
The fighters of the Shining Path were not supposed to have any personal ambition. That might be true for the distant and almost mythical Gonzalo, but it apparently didn't apply to the present council members. Even in prison rumors had reached Libertad of factions and struggles for control within the senior ranks. The penalty for being on the wrong side of these rivalries might be death when one group finally gained the upper hand and began to purge opponents of the new terrorist regime.
Power was the elusive goal of every man in the higher echelons. Not only did power bring a measure of safety from the periodic waves of suspicion-fueled purges within the organisation, but whoever ruled the Shining Path could rule all of Peru when the group finally gained control of the country.
Libertad believed that Gonzalo was dead and that the council used the fiction of their founder's continued existence as a convenient rallying point. And to justify their own actions, of course.
Libertad was young and ambitious. He had once been a rising star within the organisation, propelled upward by his competence and his ruthlessness. Then for two years he had rotted in prison, ever since he was wounded in a bloody assault on a police barracks. He had had a lot of time to think a
nd plan for the day when he was free. Almost unexpectedly, that day had actually arrived.
Now that he had returned, he intended to gain a place in the hierarchy and, eventually, take control of the council. He could certainly be more effective than the useless old men who were now mishandling the Shining Path's campaign against the government.
In the meantime, he needed to distract himself.
Libertad decided to visit Antonia one more time.
He had left her in the company of the inquisitor, who was just finishing up in preparation for tomorrow's session. The terrorist didn't intend to brutalise the woman any further tonight. He planned only to disturb her sleep with stories of the exquisite tortures he had planned for the next day.
Psychological pain could be as frightful as physical pain, although in a very different way, and he would do his utmost to bring her any suffering he could.
Libertad opened the door to the interrogation room and snapped on a light. His eyes fixed on the shoes of the inquisitor, who looked as though he had fallen drunk in front of his furnace.
On closer inspection the squad leader was taken aback to discover that someone had beaten the man's head in, leaving only a seeping ruin flooding the ancient bricks.
Libertad rushed to the rack, wondering if Antonia could possibly have rallied and escaped her bonds. But she was still there, her feet bound and her arms stretched above her head, which was tilted to the side, resting on a shoulder.
The terrorist sensed that something was wrong. When he examined the scarred body, he could tell that his victim was no longer breathing. A small wound above the heart, hardly visible on her marred flesh, told him that a single thrust from a sharp blade had robbed him of any more pleasure from the former terrorist.
Libertad ran from the room, shouting an alarm at the top of his lungs. There was an intruder in the complex.
* * *
Bolan faded into the doorway as he heard the approaching men. He poked his head out slightly until he could see what was happening. Farther down the corridor four men were coming his way, carrying flashlights to supplement the dim bulbs strung intermittently throughout the gloom. Each man toted a rifle.
They were moving cautiously, shining their beams into each area they passed. From their wariness, Bolan guessed that this wasn't some routine security patrol making the rounds. Obviously someone had become aware of his presence.
He was faced with a difficult choice.
For thirty yards behind him there was nothing but a few more rooms similar to the one he was in right now, stone boxes that offered nowhere to hide.
And there was no way that he could leave his niche without risking a bullet in the back. Yet if he remained where he was, he would have to rely on not being spotted by the searchers a poor bet at best.
Since he couldn't hide and he couldn't run away, there was no option.
The Executioner slid the assault rifle from his shoulder, poked the barrel of the AK-47 through the doorway and squeezed off a series of 3-round bursts.
Two of the terrorists crumpled to the ground, cored by the tumbling slugs. The remaining two found cover in opposite rooms and returned fire, bullets chipping away at the stone near Bolan's face.
The warrior snapped at several bursts, conscious that he didn't have many spare clips. The hammering of the guns reverberated like nearby thunder in the confined space. He wondered how long it would be before the sounds of the firelight attracted reinforcements.
The Executioner had made up his mind to change position and zigzag toward the two gunners. That way he could force the action and improve his angle on the concealed men. He could also get himself killed, but there weren't any options. Time was against him. He glanced at his watch. In one hour and fifty-one minutes, the headquarters would be history.
As would Bolan unless he escaped by then.
The terrorists made their move first. One man charged Bolan, spraying a wall of flying metal ahead of him, while the second man sprinted in the opposite direction to summon more troops.
Bolan dropped the messenger first, then tracked onto the other rifleman and walked a line of parabellums from his chest up to his throat.
Bolan paused momentarily to strip one of the bodies of a couple of spare clips. He slung the rifle and held the Uzi in a large hand as he trotted down the corridor. The big man had abandoned stealth in favor of speed, knowing that his priority was to hit hard. Then to get the hell out.
He knew more or less where he was headed, so he decided to take some time to look for Stone. However, there was no point in wasting too much time in the search, as it was likely that Libertad had murdered Stone long ago. The professor's body was probably lying at the bottom of some dark shaft in the labyrinth.
Bolan spotted more men in the near distance, intent on combing the underground passages. He took a right, planning to circle around them quickly.
"Blanski! Wait! Get me out of here!"
Bolan started in surprise. "Stone. I'm glad you made it this far." Bolan peered through the grate in the door of a tiny cell. "I see that you and Libertad have become great friends in my absence."
"So it really is you. I thought I might be hallucinating when I saw you go by. I was sure you were dead, fallen into the pit."
"We're not dead yet, Stone. Just let me take care of some business, and then I'll get you out. Hang in there."
"Where does he think I'll go?" Stone muttered to himself as Bolan returned the way he had come.
The warrior got the drop on the terrorists again and exploded from the side corridor, firing into the closely packed group of three moving down the passage. The Uzi spit round after round into the surprised troopers. When the warrior released the trigger, three ventilated bodies lay heaped together in the corridor.
He trotted back to Stone and concentrated on freeing the older man. There was no way of picking the lock, so Bolan ordered Stone to stand back as far as he could. After two bursts from the Uzi the door swung free.
Stone stumbled from the cell and fell on his face, groaning as his muscles spasmed. "Just leave me here, Blanski. Get yourself out. I can't move."
"We'll both get out," Bolan said, bending over to reach for Stone. The other man looked quite light, and the warrior wouldn't have any difficulty in carrying the small man the short distance to freedom.
A shot rang out, but Bolan didn't hear it as he pitched over on top of Stone.
* * *
Libertad lowered the rifle, thinking how lucky it was that he had been trailing his team.
They were dead and he had single-handedly killed the Yankee dog.
Stone was screaming hysterically, almost completely covered by the body of his companion. Libertad walked up to him and kicked him heavily in the side.
Stone shut up.
Bolan was still bleeding, a rivulet oozing from his scalp. The terrorist could see the arteries pulsing in the American's neck. So he wasn't dead yet.
Another patrol arrived attracted by the metallic sounds of gunshots. "Two live Americans? Let us kill them right now before they can cause any further trouble," the patrol leader said.
He swung his rifle toward the two prone men.
"No!" Libertad commanded, pushing the barrel of the assault gun aside. "They are my prisoners. I intend to keep them alive until the council orders otherwise. So do not interfere unless you want the council to wonder why you destroyed prisoners before they could be questioned."
The other squad leader got the point and clicked his safety on. "Then let us get them somewhere safe for now. This cell can no longer be used."
"I know just the place," Libertad replied with a smile.
* * *
When Bolan awoke, his head throbbed as though an NFL linebacker were inside trying to smash his way out. His hair was matted with dried blood, and more coated his cheek.
With a start, he realized where he was. His feet were bound and his hands were tied above him. An orange glow lit the room from the opposite end, while variou
s implements of torture were scattered on tables around him.
He was naked and tied to a rack, the same one that Antonia de Vincenzo had occupied a short while ago.
Stone was roped to a chair across the room, a gag stuffed in his mouth.
"Ah, Blanski, you are awake. I see that you recognize where you are." Libertad advanced from beside the furnace until he stood beside his prisoner. "I know that you were here not long ago. And so you recognize full well what goes on here, and you understand just what you can expect. Poor Antonia. She was so beautiful. No one would call you beautiful, Blanski, but if you ever escape from here you win frighten small children with your ugliness."
Bolan spoke, his voice sounding harsh and dry. His mouth felt as though it had been stuffed with cotton. "No matter what you do to me, you'll always be a damn sight uglier than me. Your ugliness comes from within."
Libertad struck Bolan across the cheek repeatedly. "Brave words, American. But I will see you whimpering for mercy soon. You will plead with me to kill you, but I won't. We will enjoy ourselves with you for a very long time. And then maybe, just maybe we will let you go, so that for the rest of your miserable life you will hate mirrors. But you will see yourself in the disgusted, pitying looks of everyone who turns away from the sight of you. And you will remember Libertad and the power of the Shining Path."
The terrorist strode toward the door and paused.
"My assistant here will acquaint you with some of our tools. Each has a different purpose and creates a new sensation. Just a sampling of what is to come over the next few days, when you will learn about their uses in great detail. Stone will keep you company. I'm sure that what he sees will persuade him of where his true loyalties should lie. In the meantime I shall tell our council about my brave recapture of the capitalist animals. You have done me a great favor." As Libertad turned to leave, Bolan noticed a second man in the chamber, who advanced toward him, a wide grin plastered across his face, a poker extended in front of him.
The tip was glowing white-hot and driving like a rocket directly at Bolan's right eye.
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