Twisted Path

Aggressive, primitive and violent, the Shining Path murders in the name of freedom. Fanatical terrorists who are trying to destroy Peru's government, the Path's "low budget" warfare has suddenly turned high tech — someone is selling them state-of-the-art weapons.

Mack Bolan infiltrates the secretive group and follows an illegal arms shment straight into hell. Framed for murder, locked in a Lima prison, the American warrior struggles to complete a mission that seems to be slipping out of his control.

But the Executioner has special treatment for killers whose only reality is a smoking gun — strong medicine in a dose that will leave the Shining Path choking on its own violent prescription.

Cameron McIntyre barged into Jake Sharp's office, flinging the door back hard against the wall.

He wore a Burberry topcoat and a deerstalker hat, affecting the manner of a Scottish laird from the moors of the old country.

"Get your coat, Sharp. We're taking a wee trip." He turned on his heel and started down the hall, leaving the young man scrambling to catch up with him.

Sharp was accustomed to the brusque demands of his employer. During the past six months as director of Internal Audit he had often been summoned abruptly for a spurof-the-moment meeting with managers and suppliers. Sharp always delivered perfect satisfaction. The FBI had worked hard to get him this position, and it would never do to be fired for incompetence.

The past few months had passed in silent, covert action as Sharp battled account books and computer files to force their secrets from them. On the surface the McIntyre Arms Corporation was perfectly legitimate. It manufactured assemblies for the M-16 and M-60 as well as acting as a certified arms dealer to foreign customers.

The FBI was convinced that below the veneer of corporate respectability, McIntyre was delving into the murky but profitable business of selling weapons to insurgents and terrorists worldwide.

Sharp had been following paper trails that led along twisted paths from one dummy company to another offshore subsidiary, then to yet more numbered fronts in a dozen countries. Every bit of corporate lair in existence was being used to cloak sordid, cutthroat deals as legitimate business.

Months of digging had brought Sharp to the point where he was almost ready to tie the loose ends of a thousand unraveled deals together. Then he could truss McIntyre like a Christmas turkey and deliver him squawking to a grand ury.

It was early evening and the executive floor was deserted. Sharp would have left long before if McIntyre hadn't asked him to stay late to assist him at an important meeting. They took a private elevator thirty-six stories down to the reserved section of the garage that held McIntyre's armored limousine.

Kovack, a hard-looking bruiser who doubled as a bodyguard, held the rear door open. Sharp suspected that he was mute since he had never heard the man utter a single sound.

Sharp and his employer rode in silence in the back of the stretch limo, traveling eastward from the gleaming downtown Los Angeles office tower.

McIntyre stared into the distance through the window, his chin propped on his hand. Sharp fidgeted, twisting his fingers together, forcing them apart by an act of will, only to have them join again almost of their own volition. The pressure of leading a double life was getting to him.

Normally a talkative, outgoing man, he was uncomfortable with McIntyre's ability to remain endlessly silent.

Clearing his throat, he ventured a question. "Where are we going?"

McIntyre regarded him closely, but maintained his silence.

Sharp felt like a bug under a microscope. He had always been intimidated by his superior's reticence, which was combined with a ruthless and explosive temper locked behind a seemingly granite exterior. Employees who screwed up didn't last long before McIntyre fired them in a withering blast of sarcastic ire.

"I know you've been anxious to learn more about the business, so I'm taking you to see one of my best customers. It'll be quite a meeting." McIntyre's flat brown eyes held a hint of an unfathomable emotion, which left Sharp puzzled.

McIntyre reached for the built-in bar and spilled an inch of Scotch into two crystal glasses, passing one to Sharp. "Have a nip to ward off the chill and protect us from evil." He turned again to the window.

The limo angled into a decrepit industrial park, where weeds had enveloped the rusting remnants of railway spurs. Hunks of formless metal lay abandoned to the elements. As the black car pulled up to the third warehouse, twelve-foothigh doors slid back with a rumble. The big vehicle passed through, and came to a halt as the doors closed behind it.

A twin of McIntyre's car was parked twenty yards away. A pair of fourteen-foot Ryder trucks stood end on to the left. Two burly workmen leaned against the rear bumper of one truck, two more lounging by the warehouse doors. The old storehouse stretched the length of a football field, the far corners nearly invisible in the gloom. Supports for an overhead crane long since removed ran eighteen feet above. Shards of glass and scraps of wood and metal cluttered the floor, glittering in the headlights of the two stretch Lincolns.

McIntyre climbed out of the vehicle, motioning Sharp to follow. At the same time, four men in immaculate business suits poured from the other limo.

The shortest and roundest of the group advanced, his right hand outstretched, his left swinging a briefcase.

"Ah, Senor McIntyre, a pleasure to do business with you again." The soft accent and the dark features placed the visitor from somewhere south of the Rio Grande.

"Good to see you, Mr. Carrillo," McIntyre responded, taking the proffered hand. "This is Mr. Sharp. I thought he might help convince you of the value of your purchase." Carrillo looked blank for a moment and then roared with laughter.

"You are a good man to do business with, Senor McIntyre. You have such a wonderful sense of humor."

"I'm afraid that not everyone here will share it," McIntyre said, sending Carrillo into a fit once more.

Sharp wasn't sure what was going on.

Obviously there was some joke at his expense, but he couldn't see what the point was. All he knew was that a sense of impending disaster was creeping down his spine, chilling his insides.

McIntyre gestured to the men by the truck, who promptly rolled up the tailgate. One reached inside to grab a coil of thick nylon rope before they advanced leisurely toward McIntyre and Sharp.

"Did you really think I was such a fool as to not notice what you were doing?" McIntyre remarked casually to Sharp. "You were poking your nose into things that were no business of yours. I keep track of who looks at my confidential files, you see."

Sharp stood openmouthed, shocked into inaction. He had known that there was a chance he'd be discovered, but now that it had actually happened, coping was beyond his power.

His legs felt too weak to run.

"I can explain..." was he began, but broke off when McIntyre held up a hand.

By now the two thugs had reached him. One produced a set of handcuffs and clipped the agent's hands together behind his back. The second tied a neat bowline around the cuffs and threw the other end over a support beam fifteen feet off the floor.

"When I started to suspect that you weren't what you appeared to be, I had you followed. I had your phone tapped. You were watched all the time. I knew who you met with and who you spoke to. I knew every time you went to the bathroom. And I found out that you were passing my secrets to the FBI." McIntyre shook his head several times, as though he found what he was saying hard to believe. "I can never forgive an injury and certainly not treason against me. You took my money and sold my secrets."

"I'm an agent with the FBI. You will be in very serious trouble if any harm comes to me," Sharp retorted with more bravado than he felt. A sense of desperation washed over him, and his throat filled with bile. His boss at the Bureau had warned that he was pushing too hard, trying to crack the case too quickly.

McIntyre, stung by the opposition, exploded.

"Damn you and your arrogance! Damn you and your sneaking, prying ways!" The arms merchant screamed into his captive's face, his twisted features mere inches from Sharp's. "I'll take that chance. But you can't be allowed to expose any more of my private business." McIntyre turned his back on Sharp and walked off, icy calm once more, as though a vault door had opened and then shut again on his temper. "He's yours, Carrillo," he called over his shoulder.

Carrillo turned to his waiting men. "Pick three." He waved his hand to the two men from the truck. They pulled on the free end of the nylon, raising Sharp about eight feet above the cracked concrete surface, and secured the end to a ringbolt set in a girder.

The agent grunted as his full weight pulled on his shoulders, stretched unnaturally behind him. The pain made him feel as though his shoulders were going to dislocate at any moment. One of the hardmen reached up and gave his foot a savage yank. The sudden agony forced a scream from Sharp's lips.

McIntyre joined Carrillo. "As we agreed. Twenty cases of M-16's, ten cases of M-60 GPMG's and a hundred fifty cases of 7.62 mm ammunition."

"And I have exactly what you want right here," Carrillo said, tapping the black leather briefcase he hefted in his left hand.

The three gunmen approached, two with M-16's and the third carrying an M-60 with a short length of ammo belt looped over his arm.

They took positions facing Sharp, about thirty feet from his heaving chest. The FBI agent began to kick his legs frantically, a last desperate attempt to somehow escape the fate that stared at him from three unblinking metal eyes.

Carrillo nodded, and the guns chattered just long enough to send two magazines and a short belt of slugs slamming into Special Agent Sharp. His body shuddered under the impact of the point-blank gunfire, shaking like a leaf in a gale as the rounds punched him.

When the last echoes of the drumming fire fell silent, Carrillo handed over the briefcase.

"Thank you for an excellent demonstration. I shall have another, larger order for you shortly."

McIntyre grunted in reply, his attention fixed on the dripping remnants of Sharp.

The gunrunners took to their vehicles, speeding out of the darkened warehouse while one hitter paused to chain and padlock the door.

Inside, the flies were beginning to settle.

It was early afternoon, and the fierce southern sun drove the pampered residents of Lima from one air-conditioned oasis to another. The humidity sapped the energy of the few citizens who dared to venture out at that hour, temporarily slowing the heart of Peru's great metropolis.

Four men huddled nervously in a narrow side street close to the Plaza de Toros de Acho, Lima's famous bullring. At their backs, the foothills of the Andes rose abruptly, dominating the city sprawled at their base. The nearest peak was surmounted by a giant cross, testament to the Catholic heritage of Peru ever since the Spanish conquistador Francisco Pizarro had destroyed the Inca empire and founded Lima in 1535.

The four men had come from the squatters' settlements that covered the slopes of the hills. The tar-paper shanties were a world apart from the wealth of the city, far from the riches of Lima's Camino Real, the royal road, lined with shops where the price of one dress was more than a year's salary for the impoverished peasants.

The men were almost indistinguishable at first glance.

High, prominent cheekbones, receding chins and leathery bronzed skin marked them as descendants of the Incas, who had ruled the country before the invasion of the Spaniards.

Now they were prepared to strike hard at their conquerors, to take a small step toward restoring Peru to its rightful owners and establishing a Marxist utopia.

Cautiously they crept onto the Avenida Abancay, a tenlane artery that cut through the heart of the city. Brightly colored ponchos concealed their weapons, while broad woven hats sat like inverted dishes to ward off the sun. Each man carried a razor-sharp machete and three sticks of dynamite. Julio Nunez, the leader, carried the prize, a cherished M-16 with a full clip and a spare, one of the few assault weapons his band possessed.

Julio didn't like the plan his unknown superiors had decreed. In theory it was to be a simple bank robbery to replenish the coffers of the organisation. But in this enormous city he felt exposed, naked to the eyes of the many strangers who crowded the broad sidewalk. He would rather have been preparing to strike at some sleepy village in the high Andes, near to Ayacucho where he had friends and a safe retreat.

However, from what little he knew, he was only a small part of a larger plan to show that they could strike at the very heart of the government, to show that no one was safe, anywhere, at any time.

Like a good soldier, he would obey his orders.

He glanced at the cheap Taiwanese watch he wore.

It was time for action.

At the foot of Avenida Abancay, three men waited with growing excitement. They were parked in a battered olive-drab jeep across from the Ministry of Education, a modern twenty-two-story tower. For the past ten minutes limousines had been arriving at the ministry, each accompanied by a swarm of motorcycle police.

This marked the weekly cabinet session, which they had observed from a distance for the past two months. The order of arrival was nearly always the same, with the least secure ministers pulling in first to stake out their territory and to be on hand to greet each of the later arrivals. The president made his appearance three minutes before meeting time. The last to show was always the Minister of the Interior. Controlling the police and the intelligence services, he made a point of demonstrating that he was powerful enough to be independent.

"Here is the president. It won't be long now."

The driver's words were unnecessary. His companions ignored him, eyes fixed on the activity across the street as the president was bundled into the ministry building, flanked by bodyguards.

"I still think that we should have gone for the president. Think of the stir that would have caused!"

"A lot of people inside and outside the government would have thanked us," the man in the passenger seat responded. "This will shake them just as much. Besides, we are not supposed to plan strategy, only carry out our orders. Now be quiet. Who knows if some spy is listening?"

As if to prove the superstition that naming an evil summoned it, a policeman wandered over to inspect the group of Indians he had noticed watching the arrivals so intently.

"What are you waiting for?" he demanded of the driver, a submachine gun cradled in his arms.

The driver's right hand crept to the machete hidden between the seats, preparing for a swift stroke, his dark eyes flickering between the policeman's eyes and the throbbing jugular vein where the machete would bite.

"We have never been to Lima before. We want to see everything."

The policeman hesitated. A nervous prickling tickled his neck. These three looked more surly than was usual. But the impassive Indians were so hard to read. This group looked as worthless and grubby as the rest of their kind. He was only surprised that they had enough money for a car.

Finally he decided that there was nothing to be gained by hassling a few peasants and stalked off with a grunt.

All three tried to keep the relief they felt from showing on their faces.

Two minutes later, another limousine approached the Ministry of Education.

"Time," the driver said, as his two passengers reached for rough-woven sacks on the floor.

Things began to go wrong the moment the four Indians pushed through the doors of a branch of the Banco Comercial del Peru.

Possibly some glint of metal showed through their ponchos. Perhaps it was the grim expressions on their faces. Or maybe the guard just didn't like Indians. Whatever the reason, the security man's eyes flickered to the four men, and he immediately reached for his holstered pistol.

The carefully prepared plan was abandoned on the spot. The closest man reacted instantly, launching himself at the guard. The two tumbled to the ground, the half-drawn gun skittering across the marble floor. The second man drew his machete from its sheath and arced a chopping blow at the guard's forehead, splitting it like a ripe coconut. The third intruder scooped up the dead man's pistol and stuck it in his belt.

Pandemonium exploded among the dozen or so customers and staff, and they stampeded toward the rear of the bank, pushing through the hinged opening in the barricade that separated the public and private sections of the branch. They retreated as far as possible from the Indians, and those who could, took shelter behind the few flimsy pressboard desks behind the counter.

Brandishing the M-16, Julio strode to the counter and ordered everyone to lie on the floor. The terrified hostages collapsed to the tile, kicking and clawing one another, trying to find a place where they would be protected from the robbers, even if only by another body.

A door slammed to Julio's right. He gestured to his men to start filling the sacks they had brought as he stormed to an office marked Loans.

He kicked the door above the handle, shattering the soft wood and bouncing the door against the wall.

Inside a young man in a dark suit was shouting rapidly into a phone. It was a brave gesture, but foolish. A single round from the M-16 caught him in the neck, changing the shouts into an incoherent gurgle as the dark blood spilled from his shattered throat onto the receiver.

There was no time to lose. Julio rejoined his men, urging them to hurry. He glanced occasionally at the huddled prisoners but reserved most of his attention for the sidewalk outside.

One man had finished rifling the cash drawers and came to Julio's side, a bulging sack across his shoulder. The other two robbers were still cleaning out the vault.

Julio cursed loudly as two police cars pulled up outside, the officers springing from their vehicles to take positions on each side of the doors. The terrorist fired through the plate glass, sending shards flying as one of the doors exploded.

Two quick rounds from the rifle drilled one policeman, sprawling him half in and half out of the passenger seat.

The remaining three cops took up positions behind their cars, spraying the bank interior with random gunfire. The glass in the second door tinkled to the floor, pulverized by flying metal. A hail of.38 slugs caught one of the terrorists as he hurried out of the vault, ripping into his belly and leaving him writhing from the pain of shredded intestines.

Julio and his companion were anxious to conserve their meager supply of ammo, and returned fire only sporadically. They knew they were certain to lose a waiting game, as reinforcements were probably only minutes away. They lay prone behind the body of the guard, which had already absorbed a couple of stray bullets. The third terrorist crouched slightly to their rear.

Julio turned to him and snapped a command. The man nodded, fished in the bottom of his money-filled sack and withdrew three sticks of dynamite. He cut a short fuse on one, lit it and tossed the explosive through the shattered door.

The nearest police car exploded into a pyramid of flame a moment later; the cop hiding behind the vehicle was blown into the air in the midst of the fireball. Hot debris rained in all directions.

This was the robbers' best chance for escape, maybe their only chance. Julio pointed to the right, back the way they had come. Neither the police nor the army could dig them out of the endless nest of rat holes and alleys that comprised the barrio.

"Now!" His two companions broke into a run, while Julio stood and blasted a 3-round burst at the only surviving cop. Luck, finally. The last uniform collapsed behind his protective door, his left temple streaming blood.

Julio poked his head into the blazing sunlight, with the ingrained caution learned from years of hit-and-run missions. His men were thirty yards down the sidewalk, picking up speed as they sprinted for safety. A sudden staccato hammering announced the arrival of the reinforcements.

Three more cruisers burst onto the scene, automatic weapons chattering 9 mm death from the open windows. The two terrorists stumbled and spun to the sidewalk, sliding in their own blood, which poured from a dozen punctures.

Julio dived frantically for the safety of the bank, just eluding a barrage of bullets that chipped away at the doorframe and the brickwork.

A flurry of slamming doors was followed by a moment of silence, presumably while the reinforcements crept into new firing positions.

There would be no opportunity to surrender.

This was the end of the line.

The terrorist leader knew that he had one final task, one final action to make sure that the government remembered this day with horror, as a promise of what was to come until his people were free.

As he grabbed the two remaining sticks of dynamite and lit the fuses, he was proud that his hand shook only a little. Shots were peppering the doorway again as the police prepared for an all-out assault.

The hostages had remained on the floor, some sobbing, some wrapping their arms around their heads in futile protection. The fuses were burning down, with only seconds to go. One after the other, Julio flung the sticks among the prone captives. They shied away from the hissing objects as if they were deadly snakes, scrambling over one another on hands and knees, sobs turning to shrieks of terror.

Julio Nunez grabbed the rifle and, shouting, "Gonzalo!" at the top of his lungs, he burst from the bank, firing from the hip. And ran straight into a wall of lead. Suddenly he found himself flat on his back, his lifeblood seeping from myriad wounds. He barely heard the explosion that detonated behind him.

The three men in the jeep sprang into action. Fernando Montero unwrapped an M-60, with the ammunition threaded from a canister into the firing chamber. His brother, Raul, pulled out a futuristic-looking fifty-two-inch Kevlar-wound tube, a Stingshot, which was a shoulder-fired antitank weapon. Capable of penetrating tank armor or seven feet of concrete, it would slice through the minister's armored car like scissors through paper.

It was an anxious moment. None of the attackers had actually fired the weapon before. Stingshots were too expensive to waste on target practice. That was partly why the ambushers had chosen such a dangerously exposed position. From here, visible as they were, they were within forty yards of their target, well within the rocket launcher's effective range.

"Don't miss, Raul," the driver cautioned.

Raul didn't bother to reply; his attention was focused on keeping the target steady in his sights.

Just as the minister's limo rolled to a stop, he twisted the rocket's tail. The projectile streaked forward, covering the distance in the blink of an eye.

One and a half pounds of high explosive turned the minister's car and the minister into a blazing fireball. Fragments of disintegrated metal scythed like shrapnel through the surrounding crowd, transforming nearby police and government workers into shredded meat.

The terrorists watched, stupefied for a moment by the result. This was far better, much more horrific than they had hoped.

One policeman had recovered his wits more quickly than the rest. He scanned the vicinity, his eyes lighting on the three openmouthed Indians with a strange, smoking weapon in the back of their jeep.

He rushed toward them, clawing at his pistol in its holster.

Fernando elbowed the driver in the side, urging him to get them out of there. He levered the M 60 onto the edge of the door and loosed a burst at the cop, stitching a line from groin to chin.

The jeep's gears engaged, throwing them against the cushions in a sudden surge of acceleration. The driver swung left, speeding for the outskirts of town and a waiting safehouse.

Fernando held down the trigger in a sustained burst, the M-60 chewing through the ammo belt at 550 rounds a minute. Death flew at the onlookers, smashing into flesh and bone.

The jeep powered down the broad avenue, weaving in and out of the traffic. Jewelry stores, furriers, expensive clothing shops and arcades lined the street. Whenever the machine gunner saw a small crowd of well-dressed strollers, he would squeeze off a burst, toppling the gaily dressed shoppers into ragged, oozing heaps. Raul had gotten into the act as well, throwing sticks of dynamite like firecrackers along both sides of the street, leaving a trail of devastation in his wake. This was the enemy, the privileged class. All wealth was theft, Marx had said, and as far as the Indians were concerned, there were no civilians and no truce in their war of liberation.