Don Pendleton - Twisted Path

"Why so defensive, Libertad?" The chairman's eyes sparkled with the evil light of a cobra ready to strike. "Is it because it was your idea to bring this Blanski here?"

"It was with your approval," Libertad protested.

"Yes, on your recommendation," the chairman shot back.

"Soon I will have all the answers you require." Libertad had run out of comebacks. The facts, twisted as they were, made him look pretty bad. Blanski would have to sing another song, and sing it loud.

Libertad would make sure the Yankee sang any song the terrorist requested.

The chairman seemed to sense what Libertad was thinking. "Come, comrades," he said, as he pushed back his chair. "Let us see what this American has to say for himself."

The council left for the interrogation room, with Libertad reluctantly following. Who knew what the American would say just to exact his revenge against the man who captured him?

The hot poker halted two inches from Bolan's eye. He could feel the searing heat of the metal tickling the orb.

The sadist threw back his head and laughed, his noxious breath washing over Bolan. "Capitalist pig! We will not begin so quickly. One day we will poke your eyes out with a burning rod, but until then, you will have that to look forward to. Today will be just a small sample of everything we have planned for the days to come. Where shall we begin?" Bolan's tormentor began to slowly wave the hot rod over the length of his prisoner's body, letting his victim anticipate the moment when the white-hot tip would come to rest on his skin.

A tremor coursed down the big man's spine he was angry. He exerted every last ounce of strength he could on the manacles binding his hands. His head throbbed and a red mist swam in front of his eyes as his muscles strained the iron chains.

The terrorist chuckled as he saw the muscles bulging. "Save your energy for screaming, American dog. No one has ever escaped."

The bolts popped from the wall with a screech of torn metal. The startled terrorist reacted quickly, swinging the poker like a bat at Bolan's forehead.

Although his arms felt as if they were on fire, the warrior reached up to grab the bar, keeping his hands well away from the glowing tip. He seized it with both fists and pulled.

The terrorist didn't let go. Instead he dropped on the prisoner, shifting his grip so that he now grasped the branding iron near each end. The torturer pushed down with his weight behind him, slowly forcing the tip toward Bolan's cheek.

The Executioner took a deep breath and exerted a pulsing surge of power through his right arm. The iron bar pivoted back and caught the terrorist in the left side. Bolan thought he heard the crack of breaking bone.

The man fell away, dropping the hot poker.

He got up again with a snarl, his left arm grasping his side. He grabbed a long pole off the wall, a metal spear that tapered in a fine point. It was more than long enough to spit Bolan where he sat, trapped by the chains securing his ankles.

Bolan wound up and threw the poker just as the terrorist began his charge. The rod sailed through the air like an iron arrow and buried itself in the guy's belly.

The man began to scream hysterically as the hot metal burned his flesh, giving him a taste of the agony that he had eagerly dealt his helpless victims.

He stumbled a few more steps and crumpled to the floor beside the rack, his hands working feebly at the heated rod. Bolan reached over and extracted a set a keys from the guy's belt, and in a moment he was free from his shackles.

He moved quickly to Stone and cut his bonds.

"Let's get the hell out of here. We don't have much time." Less than fifteen minutes remained until zero hour.

Before they quit the chamber the warrior dressed himself with his torn clothes and picked up the Uzi and the AK-47, which Libertad had conveniently dumped in a corner. He handed the assault rifle to Stone. "Use this."

"How?" the academic protested. "I've never fired a gun in my life."

"Simple. The safety's off. Point at the bad guys and pull the trigger. Stop when they all fall down. Now let's move." Bolan fisted the Uzi and pushed the door open.

The way to the exit was clear. But twenty yards ahead a dozen men filled the passage and were marching toward the interrogation room.

The Executioner opened fire with the SMG, concentrating on the two point men. A stream of 9 mm death punched the men to the ground, jets of blood spurting onto the uniforms of their surprised comrades.

The survivors began a stampede to the rear, kicking and clawing on the now slippery stones in an effort to escape.

Bolan dropped one last man, practically tearing the terrorist's head from his body with a burst to the neck before the lucky few survivors vanished out of sight around a corner.

Libertad slunk back around the corner after a long wait, when he was sure the coast was clear. The rest of the council members were still running, heading for the deep underground refuges.

He examined the heaped bodies of the Path's leaders, looking for survivors. There were none. He found the chairman near the front of the pack. The hawk eyes that had pinned Libertad minutes earlier were no longer there. They, along with the rest of his features, had been smashed by the force of several bullets that had scrambled the chairman's keen brain before bursting through his face.

Well, that was one less rival. Still, Libertad thought, in spite of the chaos, perhaps he could turn this disaster to his advantage.

He grabbed a rifle and walked cautiously down the passage leading to the exit. It was an M-16. How appropriate that he should kill the American with a weapon manufactured by his own countrymen. In the distance, he heard the hammering sound of a firelight in progress. The terrorist flattened himself in a shadow, waiting for the telltale signs of violence to fade away. The American was a very dangerous man.

This time Libertad wasn't taking prisoners.

There wasn't time to mop up, so Bolan headed for the exit at a trot, reloading on the run. Stone brought up the rear. The warrior was certain that the guards at the gate would have been replaced, and he was right. Two men stood by the inner gates, facing down the corridor, weapons drawn.

They made the fatal mistake of shouting a challenge at the approaching men.

Bolan fired first, spraying the guards chest high, knocking them back against the heavy wooden door as he stitched a lengthwise figure eight back and forth over the gunners. Blotchy red patches peppered the wood behind them like a scarlet abstract painting.

The warrior traded weapons with Stone. He gripped the Kalashnikov, commanding the professor to watch their back. He stepped over one of the leaking bodies and shoved the door inward. The space between the two sets of doors was empty.

Bolan could almost visualise the gunmen crouched outside, rifles trained on the exit, waiting for him to step through.

The Executioner dropped to the floor, aimed the assault rifle and fired low, tracking a line of heavy metal through the thin wood and back again, sighting just above ground level on the second pass.

Splinters flew as the slugs bored through to the darkness beyond.

Bolan released the trigger and listened. Nothing seemed to be moving outside. He stood and opened the rear door and motioned Stone inside, instructing him in what he wanted done.

At his signal, Stone flung the door wide and Bolan popped through, landing in a roll from the tumble.

He found himself eyeball to eyeball with a dead man, a small hole in his forehead leaking a trickle of blood into the heavy eyebrows. The second ambusher sprawled motionless at the side of the exit.

"Get out here, Stone," Bolan called. "Let's head for the hills."