"Twisted Path" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pendleton Don)

13

Antonia de Vincenzo paused outside the door leading into the Revolutionary Council chamber, rehearsing the answers to questions she was most likely to be asked.

She had left Lima two days ago for the mountain hideout near Ayacucho, high in the Andes. Her great beauty and apparent membership within the Peruvian upper strata had made her journey an easy one.

How strange that the very qualities the wealthy establishment admired in her were the ones that alienated her from her true people, the Indians.

Her arrival unannounced at the Shining Path's secret headquarters was bound to raise the suspicions of some of the party commissars. With a last deep breath she pushed into the meeting room.

The council members were ranged on hard-backed chairs around a simple trestle table. The aged and worn men looked more like farm workers discussing a harvest than the leaders of a secret terrorist movement.

"Tell us why you have returned, Antonia." How typical of the chairman. He didn't bother to waste time on pleasantries, and yet concealed a merciless ruthlessness behind a mild, almost fatherly manner.

Antonia was not fooled, having known the chairman since she was a child. Her father had been an academic along with Gonzalo when their glorious leader had only been a humble university professor, and had been one of the first to join the new movement. Her father was long dead, killed in an early skirmish, but the chairman had prospered.

"My employer was murdered by an American over some business matter. With the police conducting an investigation, it hardly seemed prudent to remain in Lima." She couldn't very well tell the council that she had been in secret communication with the notorious General Palma, the self-styled "Scourge of the Shining Path." Or that she had fled for her life, fearing that his smooth compliments were meant to lull her while he arranged for her death. To admit knowing him would be to invite the council to flay her alive for information, a fate she preferred not to think about.

The council believed that their weapons were funneled through Carrillo because of an arrangement she had made after she discovered the extent of his contacts. She would let them remain ignorant of the true situation, now and forever.

"We hear, Antonia, that you and several of our comrades have been very busy. Many of the most spectacular bombings and shootings have been conducted by your small band, without our authority. Is that so?"

Antonia nodded, startled and suddenly frightened at the abrupt change of topic, searching her mind for clues as to who might have informed the council about her clandestine activities.

"It must stop!" The chairman suddenly flared into one of his violent rages. Antonia knew that they often terminated in the execution of the object of his volcanic wrath. "Do you have any idea how badly our people in this area have suffered? The government has stepped up its repression tenfold. Hundreds have been murdered at random in reprisal. The result has been that our forces find it more difficult to secure the cooperation of the peasants and more difficult to obtain the supplies we require. All as a consequence of your unparalleled stupidity. I order you to cease at once!"

Antonia's own anger lashed out at the chairman, stung beyond fear for her own safety.

"What do you mean stop? Violence and death are the road to freedom for our nation, the path to a new and wondrous utopian state. A river of blood will wash away the money grubbers and dictators and bring power to the people. The ever-increasing savagery of the government is the whole point of our actions! The more we kill, the more they kill in return. Every peasant they martyour is another nail in the coffin that the capitalists build for themselves. The wheel of violence spirals upward, coating the country with a carpet of dead until, finally, the masses will bear it no longer and tear away the chains of their oppressors. So Gonzalo teaches, and so I believe!"

"This will be a long war, not won in a single violent campaign. It is up to the council to determine the strategy, and every loyal member is required to obey." The chairman stressed the word loyal faintly, but it was more than sufficient to convey the required message. Disloyalty was punishable by death. "This is not a matter that is open to debate. The council has commanded you to cease. You may go."

The lovely redhead stormed to the door, her cheeks blazing.

The voice of the chairman arrested her, his tone cool once more. "It is only because Gonzalo has a certain affection for you that the council allows you to live. Do not give us cause to regret our decision."

Antonia slammed the door against the wall as she left.

"You can come if you want to, Stone."

Bolan and Stone sat by a window overlooking the prison yard. Neither had spoken for a long while, each occupied with his thoughts, images of happier times far away from the ugliness of prison life. Bolan had revealed his escape plan to the ex-professor, feeling a measure of gratitude for the care the older man had given.

"I've thought of nothing else but escaping from here for years now," Stone said thoughtfully. "And yet, now that I have the chance, I wonder if I can do it. I'm not as strong or as brave as you are. And, I admit, I'm more frightened of the Shining Path than I am of Lurigancho prison. But I'll do it. Thank you for the chance. And if I die, it will be for a purpose, not just because I'm tired of living anymore."

A faint smile disturbed the stillness of Bolan's face. Stone was learning what living large meant. It wasn't dying or not dying that mattered, but whether you really lived at all that counted. And living meant a lot more to Bolan than just breathing foul prison air.

Bolan and Stone entered the Path compound between two silent guards shortly before sundown the next day. There was no sign of any unusual activity among the inmates, who mostly sat stonily in corners or worked away at menial tasks. Libertad apparently had not yet informed his fellow prisoners of the impending breakout.

Libertad approached from inside the terrorist quarters, and did not appear happy to see Stone.

"Listen, Blanski, I will not endanger my men to protect Stone. He is of no value to us. Is that clear?"

"You're all heart, buddy. But don't worry. I'll take care of both of us."

Libertad grunted in reply and stalked off to brief his lieutenants.

"What happens now?" Stone asked nervously.

"Now we wait," Bolan replied.

It was clear that the Path would have to breach the wall somehow. Unless the prisoners had explosives, which seemed unlikely, there would have to be plenty of outside help. There were three guard towers along the southern wall, which formed one side of the small exercise yard in the Path compound. Two of them directly overlooked the prison yard used by the Shining Path, while the third was farther down the wall and dominated the main yard. Each of them contained several heavily armed guards and a searchlight, ready to pick off anyone who made a move to B over the wall.

The terrorists began to move inside the main quarters individually, called in by their commanders for instructions. When they emerged, they resumed their former activities, trying to look nonchalant. The only change was that no one was venturing near the south wall.

Libertad beckoned to the Americans from a doorway. When they entered, he instructed them to stay close to him and ignore everything else that happened.

He glanced repeatedly at his watch as they waited in silence.

"What will happen? What can we expect?" Stone's anxiety was getting the better of him.

The terrorist suppressed an urge to tell the man to shut up. It didn't matter now, and besides, Stone would be less likely to get anyone else killed if he could act on his own. The big American, Blanski, had already shown that he could look after himself very well.

"Last night our people planted dynamite along the wall. It will destroy the towers and blow a hole for our escape. There will be a party waiting to take us to safety. That is all you need to know."

"How much dynamite, and how soon?" Bolan asked.

"The dynamite?" Libertad shrugged expressively. "We will see. Perhaps too much, or maybe not enough. We will know in..." he paused briefly as he checked his black plastic watch, "...less than two minutes."

Several more terrorists drifted inside, seeking shelter, leaving a few to take their chances in the yard in order to lend an air of normalcy to the area.

Two minutes passed, then three. At the end of ten minutes of watching the shadows deepen slowly in the yard, the Americans were becoming impatient.

"I thought you said..." Stone began.

And then the ground shook, followed by the rushing sound of crumbling masonry as a part of the wall disintegrated.

The terrorists and Americans rushed outside, just as several prison sirens began to wail.

Bolan breathed in a double lungful of concrete dust as he sprinted for the shattered wall after Libertad. Stone was behind, followed by more of the Path.

Several of the terrorists were ahead, running interference.

A gap four feet wide had been blown in the base of the wall. There was no sign of the tower that had stood to the far left, while the tower in the middle of the wall had fallen into the Path's compound. To the right, the third guard post leaned drunkenly, but had not toppled.

The Path had taken casualties already. One torso lay in the middle of the yard, the head sheared away by flying masonry as completely as though struck by a cannonball. A second body was partly visible, only a pair of legs sticking from under the guard tower.

Bolan took a detour toward the ruined guard post that lay in the yard. Where there were watchmen there might still be usable weapons. It was worth a look.

There were two dead prison guards among the wreckage. One blood-covered body had been slashed a thousand times when he had fallen into the lens of the searchlight. The second looked as though it had been dropped from a third-story window, with splinters of broken bones sticking through the lacerated flesh. Bolan found the sharpshooter's rifle when he rolled the dead guard over, and he unbuckled a holster that contained a .357 Colt Python. He strapped it on quickly before drawing the weapon.

The entire search had taken only thirty seconds, but he was already late for the party.

Stone, Libertad and several of the terrorists waited on top of the rubble that formed a gentle slope by the breached wall. "Souvenir hunting, Blanski?" Libertad sneered as Bolan approached at a run.

Bolan ignored the remark and cast a quick glance at the terrain outside the wall. The ground was flat and featureless up to a ragged tree line more than three hundred yards away. To the left, less than a third of that distance from their position, was a low barracks. Riot-equipped guards poured from the building to join a line of at least a dozen men forming in front of the squat building.

Three bodies sprawled between the wall and the trees, while several more terrorists raced for the safety of the trees beyond. Night was falling rapidly, but not quickly enough to cloak their escape. As Bolan watched, a rifle chattered briefly from the teetering tower, stitching a line of bullets in the dust before climbing the back of the man who brought up the rear.

"If those guards set up, we're dead. Let's move." Bolan followed his own advice and scrambled over the broken concrete, taking a short drop to ground level and rolling.

He had attracted the attention of the remaining tower guard, and rounds slammed into the dirt beside him. The warrior was up and running, zigzagging toward the tree line while the gunner tried to line him in his sight.

He hit the ground once more, rolling into a slight depression that he had spotted. The Executioner sighted his captured rifle and squeezed the trigger.

The first round gouged chips from the tower wall; the second penetrated an inch below the guard's hairline, flinging the top of his skull over the side of the tower as the body sunk out of sight.

Bolan gave the thumbs-up sign to the others, who were now crouched by the base of the wall. They made their break, quickly stringing into a line with Stone, the oldest and least fit puffing away at the rear.

The prison guards weren't about to let them escape without opposition, now that they had had time to gather their forces.

A sustained chattering began as the security force advanced in a strung-out skirmish line, firing their submachine guns in rapid bursts.

The first three terrorists through the wall were the first victims, falling like rag dolls in bloody heaps, little dots of white oozing red on the dusty plain.

The others went to ground immediately, recognising that there was little chance of survival for anyone exposed to the merciless wall of flying lead pumped out by the massed guns of the advancing guards.

Their position was pretty grim. If they remained where they were, the line of advancing gunmen would overrun the escaping prisoners and they'd be slaughtered where they lay. Anyone who tried to flee would be chopped to bloody ribbons before they had gone ten feet.

Bolan knew that there was no chance of surrender, even if he was to consider that option for more than a flickering moment. The troops held a special hatred for the Path. The last time there had been an uprising at Lurigancho by the Shining Path the government had sent in the Republican Army.

Every one of the terrorist inmates at Lurigancho had been killed. The army and local prison staff even killed two hundred more of the terrorists in other Lima jails, most of whom were already unarmed.

No quarter would be given in this war on either side.

For the moment, Bolan was stuck with the Path as his temporary allies until he could use their trust to blow them away.

He had no hesitation about dealing with the prison guards. In the short time he had been at the compound, he had observed firsthand that they were as corrupt and vicious as any of the prisoners. Rumor had spoken of murder and torture as common weapons in the guards' arsenal of repressive tactics, and Bolan had no doubt it was true.

The Executioner threw down his now-empty rifle and tracked onto an advancing gunner with the Colt.

Accurate as the Python was, he had to be careful to make every shot count. His ammo supply was severely limited, and he hoped he could make the guards back off and give the escaping prisoners room to run before they were overwhelmed. One determined rush by the heavily armed troops would finish the small party, which now numbered less than ten.

Bolan focused chest high, the silhouette dim in the fading light. He squeezed once and shifted targets even as the big pistol bucked in his hand.

The first victim had barely toppled to the ground before the Executioner picked his second mark, sending another heavy slug sprinting the short distance to smash ribs and tumble through soft organs.

The warrior cored one more gunner before the troops realised what was happening. Several turned in his direction, peppering the ground with a torrent of flying metal.

Bolan tried to ignore the manglers slamming all around him as he concentrated on reloading the swing-out cylinder of the Python. He could only keep his head down temporarily and count on the shallow pit he lay in to absorb the wave of death probing for him.

The guards were still trying to brazen it out, obviously poorly trained, content to hold their position and riddle the ground around Bolan's hiding place with random shots. They seemed to be ignoring the remaining prisoners for the moment.

Bullets kicked up spurts of dust in front of and beside the Executioner, clouding his vision as he sought his targets. Pretty warm work, Bolan thought, as beads of sweat crept down his forehead. Four slow shots ventilated four more guards before one of them turned to make a break for safety.

Two of the troops turned to watch him go.

An officer came from behind the wavering line of guards and stopped the fleeing man by swinging the barrel of his pistol into the running man's face. The wounded man crashed to all fours, hands clutched over his bleeding mouth, spitting remnants of his front teeth. The officer brandished his pistol at the remaining men, shouting commands.

Suddenly the gunner at the far end of the line vanished in a cloud of flame and smoke, his body catapulted into the air on the tips of a dynamite explosion.

A second guard disappeared, and small bits of burned flesh fell to the ground in a horrific rain.

Path reinforcements had arrived, flinging sticks of dynamite among the gunmen once they had crept unseen into range. Bolan's firing had distracted the security squad enough that the new arrivals had closed the distance undetected.

The shaky guardsmen gave up the fight and fled in panic toward their base, pursued by a creeping line of explosions as the Shining Path hurried them along their way.

Bolan and the rest made the best of the lull, sprinting the last few hundred yards at a pace that made their lungs ache. The Path rear guard followed, dynamite in hand.

The reduced band gathered among the trees. Many of the surviving terrorists had already left, beginning the long journey to rejoin their cells in various parts of the strifetorn country.

Two battered vans waited, large enough to hold about ten people each. The drivers didn't look any friendlier than the rest of the Shining Path terrorists.

Libertad motioned Bolan and Stone into the back of a dirty blue van. Half a dozen men climbed in with them, and they all sat silently on rough sacks as the truck bounced crazily along the poorly paved roads that led away from the prison. The first task was to clear the area before the police and army sealed the region to start an intensive search for the escapees.

Bolan had time to reconsider his strategy as the vehicle jumped over the potholed back road.

He was sorely tempted to abort the mission, to give these guys the slip and head home. This wasn't his war. He had already accomplished the main part of his mission by icing McIntyre. Why not leave the rest of the action to the people most concerned? The Peruvian government had created most of this mess by the repression and poverty of its citizens. Let it solve the problem on its own.

But the idea just wouldn't go down.

Bolan was constitutionally unable to walk away and wash his hands once he had made a decision to get involved. The Shining Path had become his problem, too. And the Executioner had determined that he was going to be part of the solution.

He hadn't been imprisoned and beaten only to turn tail and run for cover. The Shining Path and he were locked together in a death grip, and Bolan would keep squeezing until something gave.

He knew that the bad feeling existed on both sides. In spite of anything the terrorists might say to ease his distrust, he knew they would kill him without hesitation when the time was right.

The warrior had to keep on top of the situation, stay one step ahead of his adversaries if he was going to make it out of Peru alive. The first objective was to get them to guide him to their base without giving up control of the arms shipment.

The weapons were his ace, and might be the only thing that would keep him breathing long enough to wreak havoc with the Shining Path operations. Like any kind of insurance, it was most valuable if it didn't have to be used. So Bolan had to use the guns as the bait to lead the Path along the course that he had set for them until he could push them over the edge.

Bolan had a plan. He only had to make Libertad and his henchmen buy it.

After what seemed like an endless ride, the van shifted down and pulled slowly onto a secondary road, shaking brutally from side to side as the wheels climbed in and out of ruts in the dirt track. When the small truck drew to a halt the terrorist nearest the door swung it open, and everyone gratefully took the opportunity to stretch cramped and bruised limbs.

They were parked in front of a single-story house not much larger than a peasant's hut. The smoke curling from a crude chimney told him that the house was occupied. Bolan presumed that they had arrived at a rural safehouse.

Libertad was already waiting.

"Now it is time to talk again about our arrangement, Blanski. I think that you must tell us where the guns are hidden."

"You have a short memory, Libertad." Bolan was going to take a hard line. The only form of reasoning these people understood was simple power. Any concession would be assumed to be from weakness and would be followed by pressure for more and more compromises.

Bolan would make them play by his rules.

"You know that we agreed that I would lead you to the weapons when you sprung me. Only then do you get the goods, when I get my money, that is. Of course I'll give you a couple of freebies, as I promised. See what a sweet guy I am? You're lucky that I don't withdraw my offer as a reward for saving your miserable lives back at the prison."

This angered the terrorist, who snapped back, "You did us no favors back there! You were only protecting your own worthless life. Our lives belong to Gonzalo. We were of no value to him in prison and if we had died, it would have made no difference. Dead, at least we would have been martyrs, feeding the legend of the truth and justice of our righteous cause without harming our fighting strength. Our blood would come to haunt the guilty and serve to bring forth strong new fighters. So stick to your word!"

Bolan gained some valuable information from the tirade. This guy had a thin skin where his cause was concerned. A weakness to be filed away for later use. "Keep your cool, amigo. I just want to know that you'll play fair with me."

Libertad was calm again, icily so. "Gringo, why don't you just tell us where the guns are and go about your business? Peru is not a safe place for you. We will arrange for payment, and then you will leave. You will hear from us about the next order."

"Man, you must take me for some kind of fool!" Bolan laughed loudly for emphasis, maintaining his character as a money-grubbing arms merchant. "Do you really think that I'll walk and leave you the goods? I'll never see a penny that way. If you're so trusting, give me my money, and when I'm safely out of this rat hole I'll wire you the location of the arms. How about that for a deal?"

Libertad waved, and two of the terrorists grabbed Stone by his arms and powered him over beside their leader.

Libertad drew a long knife and placed the point under the older man's chin. Stone looked as if he was about to faint, and only the strong hands holding each arm prevented him from crumpling to the ground.

"Unless you tell me now where the guns are, I will slit his throat and his blood will be at your feet."

Bolan frowned. The terrorist had instinctively hit on one of his few weaknesses, apparently knowing that Bolan would not let any harm come to the ex-professor if he could somehow prevent it. Or maybe Libertad was only bluffing.

"Go ahead. It still won't make me talk. But if you do, you'll be losing a valuable commodity someone who could patch you or your men up if we get into a jam. Besides, he was of some help to me in prison, so I'll trade you a case of M-16's for his life, insignificant as it is. So there's the deal. A case of guns if he lives, but absolutely nothing gained if he dies."

Libertad appeared to consider the offer. "Three cases," he responded.

"Two."

"All right, Blanski, two it is." He nodded to his men, who shoved Stone forward to sprawl at his feet. Without another word the terrorists marched toward the cabin.

"Are you okay, Stone?"

Stone spoke in a low voice, conscious of the half dozen men observing them. The terrorists weren't making any moves, but the two Americans were under a watchful guard. "I'll live. For a short while, that is. We have to make a break soon. Once you deliver the guns we'll be dead. The Path trusts no one, and you already know too much about them. They'll never let you live. Instead they'll find someone else to supply the arms, someone they can keep at arm's length. We have to get out of here!"

Bolan smiled grimly. "You're not telling me anything I don't already know. But we'll go when I'm ready. I have a surprise or two remaining."

A surprise, sure.

A nasty one.