Don Pendleton - Twisted Path

Ahead of him, someone was loaded down with a lot of fear. He could feel it streaming out to meet him.

A long hall at the top of the stairs stretched to the right and left, half a dozen closed doors ranged along each length.

Bolan eased the 93-R out of its holster and turned left. Creeping along noiselessly, he paused by the first door and placed his ear against the wood, watching the opposite door intently. Silence.

He repeated the maneuver at each of the remaining doors. At the last on the right, he heard muffled, ragged breathing on the other side. Bolan edged away from the door slightly and flattened himself against the wall, the Beretta extended in his grasp.

The fear got to the man inside. He couldn't bear the waiting any longer. Bolan saw the door handle turn infinitely slowly. Tugging gently on the door, the gunner opened it a crack, peered down the hallway and found himself looking down the cavern of the Beretta's barrel.

Bolan squeezed, and the back of the thug's head flew into the room behind as a red star appeared above his right eye. The corpse slid out of sight with a thump, an astonished expression etched permanently on its face.

The Executioner catfooted back down the hall, aware that the noise, slight as it had been, was more than enough to alert any other tense watchers to his presence.

At the first door in the other section of the hall, Bolan paused again, pressing his ear to the dark wood.

The door flew open with a jerk, as the man inside decided to go for a quick kill, planning to get the drop on Bolan as he eased along the hall. Caught off guard, Bolan fell forward, striking the gunman in the knees. The two collapsed in a tangle, with the other man momentarily on top, and Bolan on his stomach.

Bolan flipped over like a five-star wrestler, bringing the Beretta around quickly to bear on the guy.

His left hand automatically clutched for the killer's throat. But the other guy wasn't about to give up.

He swung his .22 in an arc that connected solidly with Bolan's wrist, knocking the Beretta from the warrior's hand.

Grinning in triumph, the gunner poked the .22 into Bolan's side and jerked the trigger.

The professional gunner's look of satisfaction changed to consternation as he realised he had forgotten to release the safety. Chalk up another victory for the fear factor, Bolan thought, relief washing over him as his knee exploded into the other man's groin.

The killer collapsed on his side, all interest in Bolan lost as he struggled with the agony.

Bolan solved that problem for him as he sprang to his feet, retrieved the Beretta and knocked the guy into unconsciousness.

Bolan paused a minute to flex his hand.

Fortunately nothing seemed to be broken, and the fingers responded to his commands. His wrist was protesting, but Bolan didn't have time for the pain. There would be an ugly bruise up and down his arm in a few hours, but he was still sound enough for combat.

The big man proceeded down the hall, listening at each door, barely conscious of his throbbing wrist. McIntyre was nearby, as proved by the stiffening resistance. The last guy had been dressed as a professional bodyguard might be, not like the collection of local toughs Bolan had previously encountered.

Pausing at the fourth door he checked, he thought he heard the sound of something scuffing on carpet. He listened more intently, but the sound was not repeated.

He listened at the last two doors to make sure that he wouldn't be gunned down from behind.

The problem was getting through that door unscathed. It was one of the hardest challenges that any military man had to face without backup. Sure, he could pop the door and clear the room with a double load of grenades.

But he wanted McIntyre alive to answer a few questions.

Bolan had been in similar situations before, and he had learned from experience that the first man through a doorway often ran into a barrage from waiting gunners, living only long enough to distract the targets for the backup troops. It was a method often used by suicide terrorist squads, or by self-confident thugs who didn't know the odds.

There had to be a better way. Bolan opened the door nearest to the stairwell to test out a theory.

Inside, he found a deserted bedroom, with faint moonlight pouring through floor-to-ceiling windows.

The large windows swung open wide like French doors after he released the catch.

Sticking his head out the window, he observed the next window some eight feet away. There was no ledge that he could use as a support to creep along, nor were there any irregularities in the wall to give him enough hand holds to climb up the side of the house.

The warrior unwound a length of webbing with a hook at the end and fastened the hook to his belt. He tied the other end to the center bar of the window and gave a strong yank. It held. Stepping carefully on the windowsill, he leaned back out the window at a forty-five-degree angle to inspect the roof.

The eaves trough above looked old and fractured, barely strong enough to support the water it carried. A large stone chimney protruded halfway down the roof, just a few feet beyond where the next window ended.

Bolan pulled a length of black nylon cord from around his waist and tied on a grappling hook that he extracted from one of the many pockets of the black-quit. Trying to compensate for the awkward angle he was forced to assume, he whirled the hook around his head in a widening circle before letting fly.

It missed, and Bolan remained motionless as it scraped along the roof and bounced off the eaves trough with a sound he imagined could be heard in the next county. This was not the best position to be caught in.

One more try, but this time the hook disappeared near the chimney. A couple of heaves on the line, as though he were trying to land a marlin, failed to dislodge the hook.

Bolan untied himself from the webbing and checked his weapons once again, then put on a pair of goggles to shield his eyes. He eased out the window, grasping the nylon rope as tightly as possible, and began to work his way toward the next window. He edged along in crablike fashion, fighting against the torque of the angle, which would flip him over and over if he lost his footing. Several times he had to raise himself on the rope as the angle decreased.

In about three minutes he was by the window, his feet planted on the concrete two feet from the glass.

He risked a peek to the side. Even though there were no lights on in the room, from the illumination from the moon and the lamps around the grounds, he spotted two gunmen near the doorway. One was crouched behind a large desk, the other behind a solid wingback chair.

Both appeared to be sighting submachine guns on the doorway, ready to shred the first person through. He could see someone else sitting in a corner by the base of the bookcases, who he supposed was McIntyre staying out of the line of fire.

Bolan eased the SMG into his hand and pushed off slightly to the side, with as much force as if he were going for the winning basket in the NBA championship.

He came down with just as much force, shattering the window into a thousand shards that drove into the room like sleet in a gale. Bolan dropped to his feet, the SMG up and ready.

The three occupants were caught by surprise, their attention fixed on the door to the hall, which they had assumed was the only way in.

It was a fatal mistake for the two henchmen. As they turned to meet the threat, Bolan held down the trigger in a sustained burst, crunching flesh and bone, flinging one man to the floor in an untidy heap. The second man half rose to his feet, squeezing off a burst, tracking bullets through the rows of books lining the room. The stream of lead climbed to the ceiling and ended abruptly as Bolan cored the guy's chest with a group of parabellum manglers, staining the gunner's crisp blue suit with dark red blood.