Twisted Path (19 page)

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 various 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.

Libertad walked down the corridor, considering what he would tell the council. He realized that his success in capturing the intruder was tempered with a certain element of responsibility for the American's actions.

His concern was to distance himself from the damage this dangerous Yankee had caused. He was shown in to the Revolutionary Council immediately.

The atmosphere in the room was electric. The glances directed his way by the council members were baleful and full of suspicion. Libertad realized that he was in for a rough ride.

"Tell us, comrade, how this has come to be. An American, whom you claim to be dead, shows up in our most secret complex, killing many of our people." The chairman spoke in a low voice, barely above a whisper.

Libertad had to strain to pick up the words above the minute noises the other members made. The terrorist knew that the quiet tone was a sign of extreme anger.

"Comrade, I truly thought that the American was dead. His appearance here is as much a surprise to me as it is to you. Fortunately I recaptured him and he is now being held for questioning. I will soon find out everything we needed to know." Libertad tried to keep his voice from quavering.

"Yes, find out how he was able to make his way unassisted through the tunnels and what his purpose was in coming here. Maybe he was guided by another traitor. Maybe he has come to destroy the council. What do you think, Libertad?"

The ambitious young man was sweating now. He could see where this line of questioning might lead him in front of a Revolutionary Tribunal or, worse, the inquisitor.

"I had nothing to do with his escape from the pits or his coming here. Nothing at all."

"Why so defensive, Libertad?" The chairman's eyes sparkled with the evil light of a cobra ready to strike. "Is it because it was your idea to bring this Blanski here?"

"It was with your approval," Libertad protested.

"Yes, on your recommendation," the chairman shot back.

"Soon I will have all the answers you require." Libertad had run out of comebacks. The facts, twisted as they were, made him look pretty bad. Blanski would have to sing another song, and sing it loud.

Libertad would make sure the Yankee sang any song the terrorist requested.

The chairman seemed to sense what Libertad was thinking. "Come, comrades," he said, as he pushed back his chair. "Let us see what this American has to say for himself."

The council left for the interrogation room, with Libertad reluctantly following. Who knew what the American would say just to exact his revenge against the man who captured him?

The hot poker halted two inches from Bolan's eye. He could feel the searing heat of the metal tickling the orb.

The sadist threw back his head and laughed, his noxious breath washing over Bolan. "Capitalist pig! We will not begin so quickly. One day we will poke your eyes out with a burning rod, but until then, you will have that to look forward to. Today will be just a small sample of everything we have planned for the days to come. Where shall we begin?" Bolan's tormentor began to slowly wave the hot rod over the length of his prisoner's body, letting his victim anticipate the moment when the white-hot tip would come to rest on his skin.

A tremor coursed down the big man's spine he was angry. He exerted every last ounce of strength he could on the manacles binding his hands. His head throbbed and a red mist swam in front of his eyes as his muscles strained the iron chains.

The terrorist chuckled as he saw the muscles bulging. "Save your energy for screaming, American dog. No one has ever escaped."

The bolts popped from the wall with a screech of torn metal. The startled terrorist reacted quickly, swinging the poker like a bat at Bolan's forehead.

Although his arms felt as if they were on fire, the warrior reached up to grab the bar, keeping his hands well away from the glowing tip. He seized it with both fists and pulled.

The terrorist didn't let go. Instead he dropped on the prisoner, shifting his grip so that he now grasped the branding iron near each end. The torturer pushed down with his weight behind him, slowly forcing the tip toward Bolan's cheek.

The Executioner took a deep breath and exerted a pulsing surge of power through his right arm. The iron bar pivoted back and caught the terrorist in the left side. Bolan thought he heard the crack of breaking bone.

The man fell away, dropping the hot poker.

He got up again with a snarl, his left arm grasping his side. He grabbed a long pole off the wall, a metal spear that tapered in a fine point. It was more than long enough to spit Bolan where he sat, trapped by the chains securing his ankles.

Bolan wound up and threw the poker just as the terrorist began his charge. The rod sailed through the air like an iron arrow and buried itself in the guy's belly.

The man began to scream hysterically as the hot metal burned his flesh, giving him a taste of the agony that he had eagerly dealt his helpless victims.

He stumbled a few more steps and crumpled to the floor beside the rack, his hands working feebly at the heated rod. Bolan reached over and extracted a set a keys from the guy's belt, and in a moment he was free from his shackles.

He moved quickly to Stone and cut his bonds.

"Let's get the hell out of here. We don't have much time." Less than fifteen minutes remained until zero hour.

Before they quit the chamber the warrior dressed himself with his torn clothes and picked up the Uzi and the AK-47, which Libertad had conveniently dumped in a corner. He handed the assault rifle to Stone. "Use this."

"How?" the academic protested. "I've never fired a gun in my life."

"Simple. The safety's off. Point at the bad guys and pull the trigger. Stop when they all fall down. Now let's move." Bolan fisted the Uzi and pushed the door open.

The way to the exit was clear. But twenty yards ahead a dozen men filled the passage and were marching toward the interrogation room.

The Executioner opened fire with the SMG, concentrating on the two point men. A stream of 9 mm death punched the men to the ground, jets of blood spurting onto the uniforms of their surprised comrades.

The survivors began a stampede to the rear, kicking and clawing on the now slippery stones in an effort to escape.

Bolan dropped one last man, practically tearing the terrorist's head from his body with a burst to the neck before the lucky few survivors vanished out of sight around a corner.

Libertad slunk back around the corner after a long wait, when he was sure the coast was clear. The rest of the council members were still running, heading for the deep underground refuges.

He examined the heaped bodies of the Path's leaders, looking for survivors. There were none. He found the chairman near the front of the pack. The hawk eyes that had pinned Libertad minutes earlier were no longer there. They, along with the rest of his features, had been smashed by the force of several bullets that had scrambled the chairman's keen brain before bursting through his face.

Well, that was one less rival. Still, Libertad thought, in spite of the chaos, perhaps he could turn this disaster to his advantage.

He grabbed a rifle and walked cautiously down the passage leading to the exit. It was an M-16. How appropriate that he should kill the American with a weapon manufactured by his own countrymen. In the distance, he heard the hammering sound of a firelight in progress. The terrorist flattened himself in a shadow, waiting for the telltale signs of violence to fade away. The American was a very dangerous man.

This time Libertad wasn't taking prisoners.

There wasn't time to mop up, so Bolan headed for the exit at a trot, reloading on the run. Stone brought up the rear. The warrior was certain that the guards at the gate would have been replaced, and he was right. Two men stood by the inner gates, facing down the corridor, weapons drawn.

They made the fatal mistake of shouting a challenge at the approaching men.

Bolan fired first, spraying the guards chest high, knocking them back against the heavy wooden door as he stitched a lengthwise figure eight back and forth over the gunners. Blotchy red patches peppered the wood behind them like a scarlet abstract painting.

The warrior traded weapons with Stone. He gripped the Kalashnikov, commanding the professor to watch their back. He stepped over one of the leaking bodies and shoved the door inward. The space between the two sets of doors was empty.

Bolan could almost visualise the gunmen crouched outside, rifles trained on the exit, waiting for him to step through.

The Executioner dropped to the floor, aimed the assault rifle and fired low, tracking a line of heavy metal through the thin wood and back again, sighting just above ground level on the second pass.

Splinters flew as the slugs bored through to the darkness beyond.

Bolan released the trigger and listened. Nothing seemed to be moving outside. He stood and opened the rear door and motioned Stone inside, instructing him in what he wanted done.

At his signal, Stone flung the door wide and Bolan popped through, landing in a roll from the tumble.

He found himself eyeball to eyeball with a dead man, a small hole in his forehead leaking a trickle of blood into the heavy eyebrows. The second ambusher sprawled motionless at the side of the exit.

"Get out here, Stone," Bolan called. "Let's head for the hills."

"It seems like weeks since I was last in the fresh air. You lose all sense of time underground."

"Speaking of time, we don't have much of it to waste. Let's get moving."

"Why? Is something going on that I should know about?"

"You'll know when it happens."

They trudged over the broken ground, stumbling among the protruding stones and ancient ruins that poked through the dust. The moon had moved halfway across the sky. Bolan found it difficult to believe that only a few hours had passed since he'd entered the Shining Path headquarters.

They had trekked a few hundred yards and were about to enter the desolate village when they heard a dull roar behind them. A faint tremor vibrated beneath their feet.

The cave mouth exploded with a spout of flame, spewing a mixture of pulverized rock and dust.

The mountain above appeared to settle, as a portion was sucked down to fill the collapsing interior chambers.

Bolan paused a moment, thinking about the men trapped inside the mountain. A fitting end for murderers who ruthlessly butchered their fellow man.

Two bodies littered the ground near the exit. Libertad cursed. Idiots, all of them. They had had a perfect opportunity to destroy the invaders and had let them get away.

They had paid for their stupidity, and their failure would only make his success the more brilliant by comparison.

He stepped into the underbrush, confident of his ability to track and kill the American monsters.

This was a game that he had practiced for years, hunting the government pigs in the wilds of the mountains. He had always been victorious. Soon Blanski's head would be in his sights.

Libertad had moved only a few dozen yards from the exit when he was knocked to the ground by a gale-force wind. He felt the ground heave under him, and heard a grinding rumble from behind.

He knew immediately what had happened. "The dynamite," he moaned. Libertad hated to think what a blow this was to the organisation. Most of their supplies including weapons, dynamite, food and money had been scattered in underground chambers. The terrorist doubted that even a bent nail could be recovered now.

Many of the movement's great leaders had died this day.

He had lost his torture chamber, but he would still make the American pay.

He moved out, noticing for the first time how much his back hurt. The explosion had peppered him with rock chips it was almost like being blasted with a load of buckshot.

Libertad would attend to that later, after he had destroyed the Americans.

He crept forward in the darkness, and it was almost as if his feet remembered the ground beneath him from the many times he had walked it in the past. Ahead, he heard the jabbering of the foolish academic, Stone.

The terrorist gave a guttural snarl and picked up his pace.

Bolan and Stone were in the middle of the plaza between the temples. The former professor was indulging his interest in the ruins and was explaining his theories to Bolan.

"Listen, Stone, if you want to stay and explore, fine. I'm leaving." Bolan stalked off across the square.

Stone hurried to catch up. "All right. But I don't see why you are being so objectionable. With the Shining Path destroyed, there probably isn't another human being within ten miles. So what's the hurry?"

Bolan wasn't sure. His finely honed combat sense told him they weren't alone. There was someone on their trail, and he meant to find out who it was.

He signaled to Stone to go to ground at the base of a statue of an ancient reclining god and shifted off to the left, doubling back.

He waited behind a tumbled column, hardly breathing, until a faint shadow appeared and disappeared between two monuments. From the way the shadow moved, Bolan had been spotted, and the hunter was trying to turn his flank.

Bolan had learned that trick years ago. He watched the shadow weave and duck one more time. The guy was good, not giving Bolan a clear shot as he moved.

The next time the invader shifted position, Bolan moved stealthily to a stone obelisk farther left. When the hunter moved again, it was evident that he hadn't seen Bolan change cover.

The mystery man didn't know it, but the hunter had become the hunted. His next move would be his last.

When the shadow broke cover again, Bolan cut loose with the AK-47. The tracker screamed and toppled, thrashing, to the ground.

The Executioner stepped warily forward, the barrel pointed at the wounded man's chest. He stopped three feet away from the sprawled figure, who was moaning in the moonlight.