Don Pendleton - Twisted Path

The Peruvians were very possessive of their trucks and cars, and habitually gave them fancy names. This one was no exception, and the driver had named it "The Friend of Death." He and everyone else on the road drove in a manner that lived up to the name. It was not uncommon for the vehicle to rush head-on at another car or truck, until one or the other swung to the outside and the two vehicles passed together, one hugging the edge of the precipice.

Small white crosses marked the route at points where some drivers hadn't been as careful or lucky.

"This isn't as bad as it gets, Blanski," Stone had told him in an unsuccessful attempt to cheer him. "At some points on the other side of Ayacucho, the road is so narrow that the traffic passes in different directions depending on the day of the week. They use the same trails that were blazed in Inca times, narrow as they are."

Almost every roadside wall or smooth rock surface was defaced by some sort of political slogan, many of them by the local Communist party calling for an armed struggle. Most were by the Path, demanding death to the imperialists and their lackeys.

Even among the deserted highlands between the scattered villages, grim reminders of the constant political battles remained, fading gradually in the harsh sunlight.

Libertad had been surprised when Bolan informed him that the arms had been moved into the mountainous Andean district.

"What are you complaining about?" Bolan had responded when Libertad queried him. "It's a lot more convenient for you there than it would be in Lima. I know the score in your little war. Besides, I didn't want to hang around in Lima any longer than I had to. Some people I know there wouldn't have been too happy to see me, if you know what I mean."

"I can certainly understand that, Blanski." The unexpected news that the weapons weren't in Lima had sparked the terrorist's suspicions once more. "Particularly since there's a rumor floating around the underground that you might have helped yourself to the arms."

Bolan couldn't help being startled by this news.

"Don't look so surprised we have very accurate sources of information."

Bolan thought fast. He wasn't happy that the Peruvians had learned he was not exactly a well-established arms dealer. He also wondered at their source, since that information shouldn't have been available to anyone who wasn't familiar with the twisted relationship between McIntyre and Carrillo.

And both of them were dead. So who was putting the pieces together, and how? It pointed once again to some outside source pulling the strings a source with connections to the Shining Path.

"It doesn't matter how I got them. If I'm a thief, well, I'm your thief. I don't care about your politics, so don't you worry about my source of supply. All you have to know is that I can deliver what I promise and at a very competitive price."

"We'll see what you're capable of when we get to Ayacucho, won't we, Blanski?"

You don't know how right you are, pal, Bolan thought. "Right on, hombre. But I've got one more piece of news for you. Before I give you so much as a rifle bullet, I want to see your boss."

"That is out of the question. No one sees Gonzalo. You will have to deliver the arms as we agreed."

"No way, buddy. I don't need to talk to the guy, but I sure want to talk to someone more important than you. I didn't come all this way to get turned off like a brush salesman. No way. I'll talk to your council, or somebody in charge, but I'm going to go away with another sale, a bigger and better one. You guys have got a lot of potential demand for my services, and I aim to make you good customers of mine." Bolan was playing his part to the hilt, since an aggressive pursuit of a dirty arms deal would provide a perfect cover to get a little closer to the heartland of the terrorist organisation.

Libertad appeared to consider the proposition for a few moments and then relented. "It is highly unusual, but under the circumstances, I think an exception can be made. When we reach Ayacucho, I will make your request known to my superiors. Then we shall see."

When Bolan had departed to prepare for the long ride through the Andes, one of the terrorists accosted Libertad. "Are you mad? You would let an outsider into our secret enclave? What if he is a government agent or a CIA spy? What then?"

"It does not matter what he is, Pablo. Honest man, fool or traitor, he must die anyway. So let us do what we need to do to get the arms. Then we shall kill him. Very unpleasantly."

Ayacucho stood 8,500 feet above Lima's dry coastline. Stone explained to Bolan some of the contrasts between the rich urban metropolis and the interior, where many impoverished peasants still worked on large, almost feudal estates that had survived since the time of the Spanish conquest.

The area was predominantly Indian, and the majority of the local population spoke nothing but the native Quechua. The majority lived as their forefathers had done. Their agricultural methods were primitive, relying on the ancient Inca foot prow. Nominally Catholic, the natives still mixed Inca practices with their ceremonies. Their staple diet was native potatoes and corn, and they drank chicha, a popular homemade beer considered especially delicious because women chew the corn before it is fermented.

The terrorists were poised now on the lip of the last pass before they would enter the regional capital. The city was spread before them, the most notable feature being the spires of nearly thirty churches.

Their entry into the city would be the most difficult part of the journey thus far. Ayacucho was the center of the main movement of the Shining Path, and consequently the military was present in force. It was likely that the truck would be checked at a roadblock before they would be allowed to proceed, as it was known that the escaped terrorists would eventually make for their mountain stronghold.

Bolan and Stone were ordered into a small box welded just below the high bed of the truck and each was given a pair of cracked goggles to shield his eyes. Barely able to squeeze in, the two Americans almost choked from the dust kicked up from the roadway as they rumbled down the mountainside.

The Indians would be safe enough. There was nothing to link them to the prison breakout, and police methods were too unsophisticated for there to be much chance that they would be identified. However, the Americans would be conspicuous in an area visited by only a few white tourists, and might be shot on sight if they were captured.

Given the alternative, Bolan and Stone weren't about to complain too loudly about a little dust.

They were stopped for inspection at the foot of the slope, just before the main highway into the city divided.

The warrior saw heavy combat boots below jungle camouflage clothing circling the truck.

To Bolan's relief, the troopers didn't bother with a search, and only asked the driver a few routine questions in a bored and disinterested tone before waving them through.

"That was pretty lax," Bolan shouted to Stone above the grinding of the engine.

"These soldiers are strictly amateurs, uneducated farm kids given a uniform and a gun. They are also highly unpredictable, so any checkpoint is a danger even for innocent travelers. The troops don't really care about finding the Path. If they are determined to kill someone, it makes no difference whether they are terrorists, or whether there is any evidence to link them to the Shining Path. The army has become a worse menace than the guerrillas they are trying to suppress. We're a long way from Lima here in the mountains, and the army treats the area like its private hunting preserve."

Stone was bitter, having seen firsthand the destruction that the so-called protection forces had wrought among the native people he had come to like. In the years he had spent in prison, the situation had deteriorated considerably.