Don Pendleton - Twisted Path

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.