Twisted Path (17 page)

Bolan slumped to the floor, exhausted. He took a short swallow of water, shook the bag and discovered it was almost empty.

The warrior fought a desperate struggle with a black depression that threatened to creep over him, sap his spirit and immobilise him where he lay.

It wasn't purely muscle that powered the big man on. It was his indomitable spirit that drove him, and if that cracked, he knew he was as good as dead.

Once he had wrestled down the black waves lapping at his soul, he sat back to take stock of his situation.

Somewhere in the far distance, just at the edge of perception, Bolan heard the first natural sound that he had detected since he had entered the tunnels the tinkling noise of running water.

Libertad was ushered in to see the Revolutionary Council after a short wait.

Stone was pushed in behind him. Nine impassive men sat quietly around an ordinary kitchen table, dressed no differently than he was.

"What is this news of treason that you bring us?" demanded one whom Libertad knew as the council chairman, a middle-aged man with a beak nose who reminded Libertad of a predatory bird.

"First, comrades, before I discuss our confidential business, what do you wish done with this American? He was a companion to the arms dealer, Blanski, and I did not wish to kill him without your permission."

Stone, trapped between two guards, blanched as he realized that he might not leave the room alive.

"Is the Yankee devil of any value?" one of the councilmen asked in a bored voice, not in the least interested in whether Stone lived or died.

"I think he may be of use, since he is familiar with many herbs and their medicinal properties. He sometimes treated our people in prison. I think he should be kept alive for a while to judge his usefulness."

A councillor who gave a strong impression of authority glanced from one face to another around the table. "Make it so, then. Just let him be guarded well. If he escapes, Libertad... Let me just say that it will be held against you." The terrorist knew all too well what that meant a bullet in the brain.

Stone was removed, finally daring to breathe again.

"Now, tell us about these serious charges you have brought against some unknown party. But remember, causing internal strife among our brotherhood is a serious crime and will be punished. So speak, but know that we will judge you, as well as your words."

Libertad told the story of the underground ambush, feeling carefully for the right words, conscious of the cold eyes fixed on him. He relayed how the other prisoner had escaped and had apparently been lost in the pit.

"Did you find the body?" one of the listeners interrupted.

"No, we did not. Our lights could not illuminate the bottom of the shaft, and we had no rope to climb down."

"This is worrisome," the questioner said to the other councillors. "What if he is alive and roaming through our complex? He might escape and take word of our base to the government troops."

"Relax," said the chairman. "You know that no one who has fallen into the pits has ever been seen alive again. Continue, Libertad."

Libertad finished quickly, emphasising that the death of his men had been the result of treachery, possibly of a spy.

"Strong words, Libertad, and a very dramatic story. But how do we know that any of this is true? Maybe this lost American killed your men and escaped, and to cover your incompetence from our just wrath you have concocted this fable. Where is your proof?"

Libertad licked his lips, relieved that he had prepared for this eventuality. He gestured to one of his men.

The man reached into his sack and withdrew a crudeb severed head by the hair. He placed it on the table, where the protruding tongue appeared to mock the solemn council.

"This is one of the two gunmen I told you about."

The councillors contemplated the grisly trophy in silence, as though a head on the table were a daily occurrence.

"I believe I recognize this man," one commented. "It is Federico."

"But why would he do such a thing? He was a loyal soldier, if not very smart."

"Loyal to whom?" the chairman rumbled, his hawk eyes blazing. "There is only one person who might have swayed him from the true path of the movement. A childhood friend who held great influence over him and his friend Paulo. Summon Antonia!" He shouted this last command at a guard, who then disappeared. The chairman gestured to Libertad to hide the head.

Libertad held the evidence behind his back, as they waited for the woman to be brought.

Antonia was not particularly concerned to be brought before the council. She had been working on several projects since her recent arrival, and it was natural that the council would wish a report.

Federico and Paulo were not likely to return for several hours, so this meeting couldn't be about their activities. She certainly hoped not.

When she entered the council chamber there were three men in the room whom she didn't recognize.

Each looked dirty and dusty, as though recently arrived from a long journey. She didn't find their presence comforting.

"Antonia, when did you last see Federico? He appears to be missing." The chairman began without preamble, watching her face for a reaction to the name.

"I have not seen him since yesterday, comrade. I have no idea where he might be." Antonia believed that her voice had remained level, although she had been disconcerted at the mention of the name. She knew that she was fighting for her life now, and the least mistake would cost her dearly.

The chairman paused for a few seconds, lengthening the silence between them. When he was sure that she had no more to say, he resumed. "In that case, I don't suppose that you can explain how Federico has come to be at this meeting." He looked at Libertad, who immediately drew the bloodstreaked head from behind his back. The dead eyes stared accusingly at the beautiful Spanish woman.

Antonia's hands flew to her eyes to hide the grisly sight. From the look of the painful grimace etched into his face she had sent her childhood playmate to a horrible death.

Looking between her fingers, she searched the faces of the others. From their grim expressions, she was convinced that they knew who was responsible for the attack that had killed Federico.

She had to escape. Now.

Antonia bolted for the door, but was intercepted by two guards. In a desperate move she wrenched an arm free and pulled a knife from one man. She slashed him across the midriff, and he collapsed shrieking, his guts leaking from the wound.

She drove the knife toward the second man's throat, but he reacted faster than his dying companion, catching Antonia's wrist in a powerful grip and backhanding her across the temple.

The red-haired woman collapsed like an ivory doll thrown to the floor by an angry child.

The chairman gazed angrily at the fallen woman. "Take her to the interrogation room. Make sure that she tells everything she knows." Stupid woman, he thought to himself as Antonia was carried from the room. She should have used the knife on herself while she could.

Soon she would be begging for a chance to cut her own throat.

Bolan hiked along with renewed energy, knowing that his immediate problem, a water supply, was almost solved.

He searched for another hour, guiding himself by his acute sense of hearing. Occasionally he had to retrace his steps when the soft gurgling sound grew fainter, before he found his way to the small stream that had beckoned him.

The tinkling came from a small drainage ditch, a narrow channel beside a broad corridor, as Bolan discovered when he put his foot into it. He dropped to his knees and cautiously sampled the water, relieved to find it sweet and pure.

The big man drank his fill and started on his way again, this time following the small rivulet upstream. He guessed that if he found the source of the water, he might very well find a way out of the labyrinth.

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.

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.