Don Pendleton - Twisted Path

Bolan guessed that the crew boss was forcefully reminding the newcomers that it was nearly quitting time.

The discussion ended when the bearded man pulled a brown envelope from an inside pocket and handed it to the foreman. Work resumed within moments.

One of the newcomers disappeared into the hold with the work crew. Two large men climbed from the truck to pull back the canvas top. One after another, three pyramided pallets swayed up from the bowels of the hold and were deposited in the rear of the truck.

Each was covered by a tarpaulin, shielding the contents from Bolan's eyes.

After a ritual of form signing, the dockyard workmen sauntered away, bound for the nearest tavern to spend their bonus. The Ford and truck traveled in the opposite direction, deeper into the maze of warehouses that lined the docks.

Bolan watched the truck take the fourth left and then the second right before it disappeared from his binoculars. He waited until the activity had subsided, then cautiously climbed down from his perch' making a last-minute weapons check. His stained blue workman's coveralls concealed the holstered thunder. He was ready to start plugging the pipeline of death. This was one weapons deal that was going to go down hard.

Damn hard.

Bolan wandered the lanes between the warehouses, hoping to spot the truck and guard crew. It had been a calculated risk to remain so far from the dock that he couldn't follow the cargo when it was unloaded. But he had expected that the armament wouldn't be moved farther than necessary before being reloaded in the morning. Now it was only a matter of time before he ran the men to ground.

This remote area of the dock seemed to be deserted. Early-evening shadows filled the spaces between the neglected warehouses. The faint scuffing of Bolan's shoes on the cracked asphalt seemed magnified.

A sporadic hammering resounded from somewhere dead ahead. Bolan edged closer, ears cocked to pinpoint the source.

The hammering seemed to emanate from the next warehouse ahead on the left, a ramshackle structure with traces of faded blue paint peeping through the peeling battleship-gray overcoat. As the warrior approached, the sound increased in volume.

As Bolan halted outside towering double doors, the erratic noise ended and was followed by a few inaudible shouts. No light penetrated the doors, so Bolan had no idea of what was going on inside.

He continued on, looking for a way to do a reconnaissance of the situation before plunging in. He had no intention of dropping guns blazing into unknown territory, particularly when he was unsure that this was even the right spot. The strategy and tactics of staying alive had taught the warrior to know his enemies and their dispositions.

He had learned the lessons well.

Around the far corner, the warrior found a window that looked into an office. He chanced a quick glance and recognized the bearded leader of the work detail stooped over a battered desk, facing away from the dirt-encrusted panes. The leather of a shoulder holster crisscrossed his back. Peering through the grimy window, Bolan could see right across the office and into the main area of the warehouse. He spotted the squat deuce-and-a-half bathed under roof lights. The rest of the work crew was outside his line of vision.

Bolan circled the warehouse, looking for an unobtrusive way in.

On the side opposite the office, a medium-size window stood twelve feet aboveground. There was no way up the side of the warehouse without a grappling hook, an item that Bolan didn't possess at the moment.

An idea flashed to mind. He retraced his steps down the lane and along to the next warehouse.

Ranged by a platform were ten fifty-five-gallon drums labeled Acetic Acid. Bolan tipped each one in turn. Nine were full, and probably weighed five hundred pounds apiece.

Fortunately one was more than half empty.

Bolan heaved on the last in line, easing it onto the heavy metal rim. He then carefully wheeled it down the lane, balancing the drum on an angle such that he had only to guide it. A few minutes' work saw two full drums below the window, with the half-empty one beside them. With a muscle straining effort, Bolan lifted the third canister into place, creating a secure pyramid.

He scrambled to the top. The window ledge was now just above waist height. The window was locked, but when the hammering inside reached a momentary crescendo, Bolan rapped a small pane with the butt of the Beretta, shattering the glass. He reached through to flick open the catch.

In seconds, Bolan lay prone on the edge of an upper-level loft, peering at the activity below.

Four men were working in pairs around the pallets that had been removed from the back of the truck. As Bolan watched, two of the men picked up a long crate and carried it to a separate area. They dropped it into a slightly larger and deeper crate, so that the original container was completely concealed. The two men added a precut sheet of plywood, which rested on the edge of the box inside. Gathering several spades from a supply in a corner, they covered the crate of guns with a layer of farm implements. A few more minutes' work with a hammer and a paintbrush, and the load of guns was transformed into an innocuous shipment of rakes, hoes and tractor parts from the California Machinery Company.

It would take a very suspicious customs inspector to discover anything unusual about an apparently ordinary delivery of farm tools.

Very neat, Bolan had to admit. No doubt the paperwork was just as efficiently done. In some foreign capital, a less than honest official would be pocketing the bribe necessary to sign the papers showing that the arms had really arrived. Payment would be made to the McIntyre Arms Corporation in the normal manner but siphoned back to the phony customer through a dozen tortuous legal and accounting tricks. With the documentation complete, no one would suspect that anything was out of the ordinary.

Until these guns were used to kill people in Peru.

The Executioner wasn't going to let that happen this time. Payment was due in full for what had gone down already, and he was going to collect.

Starting now.

Bolan had seen what looked like an Uzi resting against a box between the workers. No doubt more firepower lay around the area within easy reach. Five to one odds. Not bad, particularly with the advantage of surprise. However, he didn't want to chance that the guy in the office might signal McIntyre before Bolan arrived to deliver his own personal greeting. He decided to be patient a short while longer and see if a better opportunity presented itself.

Bolan's moves were restricted as long as he was on the upper level, so his first problem was to find a way down without alerting the crew. Discarding the coveralls to increase his mobility, he crept to a rear corner stairway that led to the lower level. The ground floor was littered with old packing materials and drums, so it would be easy to conceal himself once he got there. But he'd have to wait for a distraction, since the stairwell was in plain sight of everyone below.

He resumed his watch, steeled to the waiting by long hours of suspense on a thousand battlefields.

Hurry-up-and-wait was an experience familiar to every soldier, and Bolan had learned to master the boredom without sacrificing his alertness.

Sometimes the numbers counted down fast, and when he had, Bolan could move with the speed of a striking cobra. But he believed that when time allowed it was better to let the other guy make the mistake, the momentary inattention or bad move that made the difference between life or death. It was always a gamble when the Executioner went into battle. One stray bullet by a panicked gunner could obliterate the best-laid plans. War was sometimes a matter of luck, and you had to take your chance and roll the dice with your life bet on the outcome.