Don Pendleton - Twisted Path

It was the harsh click of the safety popping on a gun.

Bolan was down and rolling even as a gunner stepped from a narrow rat hole that the Executioner had passed moments before. The intruder opened fire, blasting controlled 3-round bursts down the corridor. The orange muzzle-flame cast transient shadows, like the flare of a camera flash.

Screams answered the gunfire as the panicked terrorists began to run forward, trying to escape the hurtling lead.

The gunman placed a burst between the shoulder blades of the man who brought up the rear, and got lucky with the Indian immediately in front. Three rounds cored the Peruvian's head, splattering a red-and-grey pattern on the ancient walls.

The lead man raced for safety, legs pumping as he guided himself down the passage by the faint light of the one lamp the group possessed.

A darker shadow loomed from the blackness. The ambusher hurled the fleeing man into his own lightless void with a single shot that carved through the runner's heart.

The two machine gunners fired sporadically but methodically, a cross fire that picked victims carefully. Each bandit took refuge in a side corridor, poking his muzzle around the edge to reduce the possibility of being cored by friendly fire from his opposite number.

A couple of the armed terrorists replied with death streams of their own, but the bullets cascaded harmlessly from the sheltering rock corners.

Bolan's party wasn't as lucky, caught in the open. The terrorists' gunfire died away to a chorus of agonized shrieks, as the ambushers raked the Peruvians with a steady stream of hellfire.

Bolan remained where he lay spread-eagled, trying to blend into the shadows as he assessed his next move. His stomach and side were wet, as a thin stream of blood trickled his way from two corpses heaped three feet away.

The ambushers had the small party trapped in a narrow corridor with both ends sealed with hot lead, like beetles trapped in a jar, waiting for the sun to fry them. The only good thing about the precarious situation was that the attackers didn't have grenades.

Bolan's choices were limited.

If he stayed still, there was the chance that he'd catch a stray round. Flying metal was ricocheting from the hard stone, filling the air with tumbling rock chips.

After a while, when all movement ceased, the gunmen would probably move in to finish the job, put an insurance round through the head of everybody, moving or not.

Just to make sure the "dead" stayed dead.

That might be the Executioner's best opportunity, but it was a risky strategy.

A momentary silence fell, the stammering of the machine guns falling away in echoes reverberating down the long corridor.

Someone began screaming in Quechua, frantically calling to the hidden gunmen. The only answer was a swarm of stingers from both directions. The screaming faded to a soft gurgle, which collapsed into a faint wheeze and died away.

Someone besides Bolan had figured out that the assassins were members of the Path, ruthlessly killing their own comrades. No one else could have been waiting in the close confines of the passage.

The who and why would have to wait. Now the only important question was how to stay alive.

The only answer he could think of stood out like burning letters etched in his brain.

Move.

Bolan tensed, coiling his muscles. His target was only twenty-five feet away. He could do three hundred feet in just about thirteen seconds, so he should be able to reach the gunner in just over a second.

But a bullet from the barrel of the submachine gun could hit home before he'd taken his first step.

The Executioner didn't think about it. He was up and running.

The gunner didn't notice Bolan until the warrior was almost upon him. Whether he was slightly dazzled by the muzzle-flashes or had gotten too cocky imagining that no one would actually charge him, it didn't matter. The guy fired wild.

Bolan grunted as one round nicked his left ear. The others whistled away harmlessly above his shoulder, the wind of their passing fanning his cheek.

The Executioner clipped the gunner in the knee as he raced into the side passage, the shooter falling to the floor as Bolan slid headfirst into the wall. The warrior spun and flailed out in the darkness, catching the other guy a hard backhand in the jaw. Then he sprang, one knee coming down heavily on something soft and vital.

The Peruvian screamed and jerked up, trying to double over. Bolan grabbed the guy's head in both hands. One hand gripped under the chin and the other fisted his opponent's dark hair, propelling the head back with all his adrenaline-fired strength. The spine popped like a scrawny chicken's.

The body shuddered once and lay still.

Bolan wasn't wasting any time. He searched out the fallen gun in the blackness and pulled out the clip to check the weight. It wasn't quite empty.

He edged along the wall toward the other ambusher's position. The only light was a faint glow ahead from the fallen lamp.

Would the other guy make a break or hold out and try to finish the job alone? Bolan was betting on the shooter sticking around. If he was a member of the Shining Path, he would most likely be fanatical about a mission to the point of being suicidal.

The assassin was getting nervous. He had obviously heard the sound of the fight and knew that something was amiss. Several times the man called "Federico," hoping that his comrade would answer.

Bolan silently encouraged the hitter to keep shouting. It made it a lot easier for him to zero in on his target, and the lack of response would be making the assassin jittery.

Bolan held the weapon at arm's length, not wanting to take a chance on being surprised. In the dark he couldn't tell what type of gun he was holding, but it was light, like an Ingram or an Uzi machine pistol.

He held a small advantage, since the fallen light pointed slightly toward the hidden gunner, making it a little more difficult for Bolan to be seen as he silently crept forward for the showdown.

He didn't hear any other sounds and wondered briefly if he was the only one of the group still alive.

A muzzle poked around a corner ahead, swinging in Bolan's direction. The warrior squeezed off a burst, and the SMG went flying into the dark. Those were the last shots fired. Bolan's gun registered empty.

The hitter took to his heels. Bolan had apparently hit the gun but missed anything vital on the ambusher. The impact of Bolan's rounds on the terrorist's weapon must have numbed his hands at the very least. The guy certainly wasn't hanging around for a hand-to-hand encounter.

Bolan dropped the useless weapon and pursued, one hand on the wall for guidance as he ran in compare darkness, guided only by the ringing sound of footsteps leading him by a few feet.

For a moment, the warrior considered giving up the chase and allowing his quarry to escape but abandoned the thought. It was in his best interest to catch the guy and keep him alive, if possible. This shadowy fleeing figure might be the warrior's only way out of the maze if everyone else had been killed in the attack.

His hands told him that the pathway veered sharply to the right. He powered around the bend, listening for the footsteps. The cadence changed, as though the man in front did a dance step, followed by a slight pause, then a thump.

Even as the significance registered, Bolan jumped, arms outstretched. His legs came down on air, but his arms fell heavily on stone, scrambling madly for a purchase. He had almost fallen into a yawning chasm in the center of the passageway.

The man in front had guts, Bolan admitted grudgingly, even as his fingers scratched for a hold in the smooth rock floor. It took nerve to run the corridor in the dark and time a jump like that. He had to know the place the way his socks knew his shoes.