Twisted Path (5 page)

"In other words, look but don't touch. The minute, and I mean the very minute that you have anything, I expect this phone to ring. Make no mistake, if you so much as muss the hair of any of the suspects your ass will be wrapped so tight in interagency paperwork that you'll be lucky if you ever get out from under. And I don't care who you're working for. You got that?"

"I heard you, Kline." Bolan hung up and ran for the plane.

He shoved Kline's warning into his mental file under C, for crap, then coiled for action.

Fifteen feet away from the two guards, Bolan let loose with the Beretta, one silenced round exploding the radio into chips of circuit board and flying plastic.

"Don't even think about it," Bolan growled as the two men spun to face him. The man on the left, the older of the two, settled back with an expression of anger written across his face as he slowly raised his hands above his head. He didn't spare a glance for the holstered pistol three feet in front of him.

The second guard was young, long-haired and muscular. Eyes flickering back and forth between Bolan and the Uzi just beyond arm's reach telegraphed the kid's foolish impulse.

"Get your..." Bolan barked, but the kid made his move anyway, falling to his left. Battle-trained reflexes gave the proper response, and the Beretta spit a 3-round burst as the guy dived for the Uzi.

All three rounds grouped around the gunner's left ear, blowing his brains in a red hail over his bag of superhero comics. Bolan felt no remorse. The kid's own stupidity in making a suicide play had killed him.

That's what happened when comic-book fantasy was confused with real life.

The surviving gunner raised his hands a little higher, eyes bulging as his companion collapsed across the Uzi.

Bolan knotted the other man's hands behind his back and rapped him behind the ear with the Beretta. He collapsed onto the floor, without a sound.

The Executioner looked down at the two bodies. "Sorry, Kline." He then padded into the office and rifled the drawers. The only item of note was a clipboard containing the manifest of the shipment. Bingo!

Bolan rolled back the warehouse doors and drove the deuce-and-a-half into the night, pausing to shut the doors behind him. He gunned the rig toward the gate, fingering the FBI badge in the name of Michael Blanski that he would use if the gatekeeper gave him any trouble. He still had a lot of ground to cover before morning. As the warrior roared away, the office phone began to ring.

Bolan had plenty of time for thought on the lonely drive up the coast. This end of the pipeline was closed or would be when he caught up with McIntyre so the mission was just about wrapped up.

Or was it?

The load he carried convinced Bolan that this was only a part of the mission he had set for himself, a mission that didn't confine itself to borders or briefings or favors for the Justice Department.

If these weapons didn't arrive, it would only be a matter of time before some other greedy vermin passed a cargo of death into the hands of the Shining Path.

Bolan wasn't so naive as to believe that only he could make a difference, or that he could settle a problem that had an entire country teetering on the brink of civil war.

The big man had known of the Shining Path for some time now, and he had despised their fanaticism, a mania that led to murder in the name of freedom. Holding the truths of justice and equality as their banner, the Shining Path had become a twisted path leading to destruction.

The ideals they once stood for had become corrupt in the withered, skeleton hands that reached out to the oppressed peasants, a knife clasped to slit the throats of anyone who didn't want their particular brand of comradeship. Justice and freedom had been forgotten long ago, reduced to meaningless phrases mouthed by crazies whose only reality was a smoking gun.

The names changed, from Red Brigades to Black September to Shining Path. But the hand holding the knife pointed at the heart of innocent pawns of political terror tactics always stayed the same.

Bolan had planned to visit the Shining Path in their mountain retreats one day, but it was a big world, with violence exploding in what seemed like every corner.

It was hard to know where to begin, which was the current priority, since at every turn a hundred targets abounded for the Executioner's fury.

But this mission had tied him to the Shining Path, even if the string was thin and insubstantial. He wasn't about to walk away.

Several hours later, Bolan eased the rig to a stop in the San Francisco dockyard. The arms had come back full circle to where they had departed from a few days ago.

Kline and his men were waiting as Bolan had instructed during a quick call from a truck stop along the route. To say the agent was angry was an understatement. His ego was bruised from losing control of what had been his case, and he was hell-bent on making the big guy pay for the "minor, but necessary casualties" that had been left in the warehouse.

While Kline was steaming, waiting for Blanski's call, the ID report on the guy had come in.

Surprisingly it had shown that the man was really Michael Blanski, a war hero with a biography that made him the next thing to Michael the Archangel.

One thing that jumped from between the lines of the rundown was that Blanski had some very powerful political connections, so potent that Kline, who had the nose of a bloodhound for politics, could smell the touch of the White House.

To make matters worse, a few hours later he had been awakened at 4:00 a.m. by an assistant to the director, calling from Washington.

Kline was informed that he had come to the director's attention. The director had been admonished for questioning the Justice Department's direct involvement in this affair. Needless to say, the director didn't relish being admonished, nor did he look favorably on subordinates who involved him in such a predicament. Kline was urged to cooperate fully with Mr. Blanski in future. The director wished to be kept informed of the progress of the case. With that the phone went dead.

Kline got the message. One more screwup and he might find himself teaching fingerprint identification in Montana. Or worse.

He had resolved to maintain a very low profile where Michael Blanski was involved, but to keep lots of notes just in case. Now, remembering the conversation with Washington, Kline suppressed an urge to quiz the man on how he had acquired the truck.

Bolan spoke first. "McIntyre is in it up to his neck. Just check this." Bolan tossed over a clipboard. He didn't bother to explain the circumstances behind the body in the warehouse. He hoped to keep his distance and didn't want any complications with the police.

Kline flipped through the invoices, a low whistle escaping from between tightly pursed lips. Listed on the yellow sheets were enough deadly toys to supply a small army. Apart from a couple of cases of small arms and ammunition, the shipment contained fragmentation and thermite grenades, rifle grenades, antipersonnel and antiarmor mines and two cases of Stingshot antitank rockets. A real surprise was the load of Jackhammer combat shotguns. Able to fire four 12-gauge shotgun blasts per second from a preloaded ammo cassette, the Jackhammer was a deadly close-assault weapon.

Kline was excited by the captured arms, practically dancing with anticipation. "This will make excellent evidence. I have no doubt that we can tie it back to McIntyre. He should get ten years. Although, of course, I was hoping to get him for Sharp's murder. But I suppose we can hope for a confession. Or maybe further evidence will surface when we raid the plant. I'll be able to get a search warrant with this."

"No."

Kline's jubilation turned to anger as Bolan halted him in full flight. "No? What do you mean, no? This is evidence!"

Bolan's eyes bored into the agent's.

"It won't be evidence, Kline, because I'm taking it with me. Why do you think I had you meet me at the docks? That ship behind us sails in a day for Central and South America. And those weapons are going to be on that ship. Is that clear enough? And one more thing. About that body in the warehouse, don't even fantasize about pinning anything on me."

He didn't enjoy playing the heavy when it involved coming down hard on people in the law-enforcement community. But sometimes there was only one way to deal with guys like Kline, who were used to running things their own way you stepped on their toes until they apologized to you for getting their feet in your way.

"But if you take the stuff away, how will we make the case against McIntyre? Are you going to let him get away with this whole business?" Kline didn't bother to hide how annoyed he was at the possibility that McIntyre might escape punishment. Bolan liked him for the first time since they had met.

"Don't worry, Kline. Just make sure that you handle your end properly. I want all of this forwarded to Lima and stored in a warehouse. I've left written instructions with the invoices. Handle the paperwork and leave the rest to me. McIntyre won't get away with anything. I'll see to it personally." Bolan grinned, a tight humorless smile that reminded Kline of the toothy snarl of some feral cat.

Kline didn't ask any more questions.

Cameron McIntyre was beginning to wonder if he might have made a fatal blunder.

He sat alone in a paneled library in the heart of his sprawling estate. It was a warm room, lined floor to ceiling with hundreds of books representing the best of modern writing and the classics. McIntyre had read none of them, and had no interest in doing so. His father had told him that every civilized man owned a well-stocked library.

Consequently he had a standing order with a bookseller for every book on the New York Times bestseller lists, which the butler rearranged as required.

McIntyre was in the library for a reason unconnected with books. A cherry corner cabinet held the private stock of Scotch, imported directly from a small Highland distillery, that he reserved exclusively for himself.

The businessman had canceled a previously arranged rendezvous with one of his girlfriends.

He wanted the evening to think, something that would be impossible with the woman's vacant chattering.

Not that she would miss him terribly, he acknowledged in a rare moment of self-honesty. He recognized that all the heaving and moaning during their couplings had more to do with the expensive, glittering baubles he brought than any genuine feeling she had for him.

Her rival was no different, and both were exactly the same as the three grasping, avaricious harpies he had married. All of them wanted a piece of the McIntyre fortune rather than a piece of McIntyre himself. Neither of them was any better than a well-paid hooker.

McIntyre realized that he was verging on self-pity. Much better to think about his problems the quarter-million he owed Davis from his incredible run of bad luck at poker last weekend; his second wife's petition for an increase in alimony payments; that puzzling call from Peru.

The more McIntyre thought about the telephone call, the less he liked it, and the more afraid he became that he had said too much. He should have waited to speak to Carrillo after all, but the assistant had been quite convincing.

As McIntyre stewed, he decided that he could easily dispel any doubts. He refreshed his drink and strolled to the end of the left bookcase.

He withdrew a thick history book from the end of the second shelf and depressed a knot in the paneling. A six-inch piece of the bookcase upright popped out from a seemingly solid panel and swung back on a hinge. McIntyre reached in and withdrew a thin black book.

The first page contained a list of numbers. Moving to an antique model telephone on a low table, McIntyre dialed Peru.

"Buenas noches." The telephone was answered on the third ring.

McIntyre took a moment to compose himself. He had been counting on Carrillo being absent.

"Senor Carrillo, what a pleasure. I thought that you were out of town."

"No. I have not been out of town for some weeks. But why are you calling me?" Carrillo sounded puzzled at the arms dealer's call.

McIntyre's stomach sank. Now he was almost afraid to hear the answers to his other questions, although there was no doubt he had to get to the bottom of whatever scheme was being played out. "I spoke with your assistant this afternoon. I merely wanted to confirm that you now have all the information you need."

"My assistant? Do you mean Senorita Vincenzo?" The Peruvian's voice revealed a tremulous note, and it was obvious that McIntyre's inquiries were making him nervous.

"No, the gentleman. The one who speaks such good English. I don't know his name."

"I have no such assistant. There is only myself and Senorita de Vincenzo. Is something wrong, Senor McIntyre?"

McIntyre was becoming alarmed at Carrillo's responses, but he fought to keep his voice casual. "'My mistake, senor. I am sorry to have bothered you. I see that the gentleman that I am speaking of is an associate of a Mr. Capistro, an Italian business contact of mine. You see, I am in error and have simply called you through a mistake of my own. Please forgive me. Good night." His explanation was weak and he knew it, concocted on the spot so as not to alert Carrillo to any trouble. McIntyre quickly hung up before the Peruvian could question him about his mistake.

He stared at the phone, half expecting it to ring.

When it hadn't rung in ten minutes, McIntyre began to regain his composure. After all, there was nothing concerning the arms shipments that could be tied directly to him. He had made damn sure of that. If the facts ever came out, there were going to be some very unhappy and unpleasantly surprised executives at McIntyre Arms Corporation.

One of the advantages of being the boss, particularly one with a reputation for being harsh and unapproachable, was that subordinates didn't look too closely when they were made to sign piles of forms and contracts.

By the time his high-priced legal beagles got through suing everyone in sight and firing off every writ, stay and affidavit in the legal dictionary, he doubted if he would ever see the inside of a courtroom, let alone a jail.

His only real worry concerned the Sharp killing.

He realized now that Carrillo had maneuvered him into that rash act, with grand speeches about "honor," "treason" and "just vengeance." Mistake or not, there had been a certain horrible satisfaction at the killing. He had been astonished at how calmly he had watched Sharp die.

But now Carrillo had a hammer over him that the Peruvian could use as he chose. Carrillo had begun by insisting on the hasty and rather insecure delivery of the order that was now en route.

McIntyre would bet that this was only a sample of a long and increasingly difficult association with the Latin arms smuggler.

McIntyre began to wonder if he could arrange an accident for Carrillo the next time the two of them met.

The arms dealer pushed the thought aside. Carrillo lived in the dark underworld, while McIntyre had barely put a toe in. Whatever he thought of that might be devious or treacherous, he would bet that Carrillo would have planned a countermove.

He couldn't beat Carrillo at his own game.

McIntyre's anxiety began to return as he reflected on his precarious position.

Finally, turning his attention to the problem at hand, he picked up the phone once more, intending to verify the status of the cargo in San Francisco. He let the phone ring for three minutes.

McIntyre slammed the receiver down and threw himself into an easy chair. Even though the crew guarding the arms shipment were morons, they weren't stupid enough to leave it unattended. If no one was answering the phone, it was because no one was able to do so.

That could only mean serious trouble.

In spite of how well he had distanced himself from his covert deals, McIntyre began to wonder if he was as secure as he imagined. He could only surmise that it was the FBI that was interfering with his secret arms shipment. If the Bureau felt confident enough to seize the arms, it must have some very solid evidence, something that might link him to Sharp's death.

Almost as bad, he would have to repay Carrillo the advance for the weapons, and he had already spent the cash.

It was time to cut his losses and get out of the country before the ax fell.

McIntyre had no confidence in the rent-a-cops manning the front gate. They were fine for scaring delinquent kids and shooing away curious strangers. If there was real trouble they would be as useful as straw scarecrows. He phoned a shady contact of his who had helped him out with the mechanics of the arms deals. They agreed on twenty of the roughest, meanest ex-cons on the streets, every one packing his own hardware. Any one of them would knife you for a U.S. Grant, let alone the Grover Cleveland they were promised for a six-hour shift. His three personal bodyguards would make sure that the hired help didn't get out of hand.

McIntyre then phoned his pilot to get him to warm up the company jet and file a flight plan for Argentina. It wasn't exactly his favorite spot in the whole world, but it would be safe. Besides, someone with solid American currency could live like a king, if the water didn't kill him first.

Fortunately the arms dealer had retained enough self-restraint to preserve a little nest egg in a Swiss account, safe from the eagle eyes of his ex-wives' lawyers.

With about five million, he could live reasonably well in the impoverished southern country.

In the meantime, he would gather a few little trinkets to take along with him, starting with the contents of the wall safe downstairs.

McIntyre drained his Scotch and got to work.

Bolan eased through the woods, gliding through the trees as easily as the chill western breeze.

The night stalker had an eerie sense of deja vu; it was only a week ago that he had put the hit on Jones under similar conditions. The foliage was a bit different, and there was a quarter moon peeping above the treetops, but he wore the same black-quit, and the Beretta and Desert Eagle rode in their usual spots.

This time the Executioner carried a second Beretta with him to provide a little rapid firepower. It was the Model 12-S submachine gun, a deadly minigrease gun that featured exceptionally little vibration and no muzzle climb on full-auto. It could spit 9 mm parabellums at 500 rounds per minute. For this hit, Bolan carried a liberal supply of 40-round clips jammed into pouch pockets.

He crawled on elbows and knees into the grass at the edge of the tree line to inspect the main house.

Earlier, he had driven to the front gate under the pretext of asking for directions. The gate guards were unlike any he had ever seen on an upper-crust estate — three toughs who made no attempt to hide their hardware. The smallest came to the car brandishing a Remington shotgun, a Colt Python stuck in his belt. He made no pretence of civility as he roughly told Bolan to get the hell out of there. From the intent way his two companions watched Bolan, the warrior had no doubt he wouldn't have gotten off so lightly had he looked like an easier mark.

McIntyre must be scared witless, Bolan reasoned, to even have that kind of scum on his property. It looked as if the arms dealer had dived into some sewer to find a bunch of goons to replace his regular security staff. That implied that he was planning a break sometime soon, which meant that Bolan didn't have any time to waste.

Bolan had an edge-on view of the two-story Georgian house about two hundred yards away across a vast and carefully manicured lawn. A series of outbuildings lay beyond the main house, and clustered around the front door were four guards, with a case of beer at their feet. Two more chatted idly by the wall around the corner.

So far he had counted nine hardmen, and he would bet that there were at least as many more hanging around other areas of the estate. However, they weren't taking their assignment seriously, and were paying almost no attention to what was going down. They were obviously relying on safety in numbers, trusting to bulk and brawn rather than brains to keep them safe.

That hadn't worked for the dinosaurs, and it wouldn't work for these guys.

There was almost no cover between Bolan and the house, just a few trees and shrubs cut and trained into ornamental patterns. But he took advantage of what was available, making the approach to the front door on an angle, weaving from cover to cover. At each bush he paused to observe the guards, but saw no sign that they were aware of his presence. They were content to chat, rifles and stubby machine guns slung over their shoulders. The glow of cigarettes flared from time to time.

One more silent rush brought him to an evergreen carved like a perfect pyramid. Bolan had heard a superstition once that pyramids brought good luck. So much for old wives' tales.

Time to do it.

Bolan unsheathed the 93-R and sighted on the two hardguys laughing by the side of the house. The Beretta coughed out three rounds, sending one gunman staggering, his belly chewed into ribbons. His buddy gaped openmouthed until the Beretta spit again and the Executioner sent him reeling to the soft grass.

He replaced the magazine with a full clip and switched to the submachine gun, bringing it to bear on the little party by the doorway. The Beretta had been so quiet that they were still unaware of Bolan's arrival.

He squeezed the trigger, hammering a stream of 9 mm death at the unsuspecting gunmen.

Bolan fired low, stitching a fat man in his ample belly as his last beer can went flying from between twitching fingers. One man caught a full load in the groin and collapsed screaming for the few seconds it took for a severed femoral artery to bleed his corpse dry over the marble stairway. A spray of steeljacketed stingers ripped into the faces and throats of the two remaining hired killers.

The man in black inserted a fresh clip on the run, pausing by the blood-drenched stairs, listening for reinforcements. From the sounds of running feet he guessed the gunplay had attracted at least two groups.

The three hardmen by the gate were charging up the driveway, seeking a target for their half-drunken fury. The Beretta SMG stuttered its one-note death chant as Bolan drew figure eights of blood on each of the running gunmen. Three rapid bursts sent the hoods tripping over the doorstep to hell.

Flying mortar chipped from the heavy balustrades as two more gunners made their appearance from around the corner. One was blasting away with a large-caliber handgun, sighting carefully, pistol levered in a two-handed grip. A long-haired and mustached giant of a man was spraying Bolan's cover with an Uzi assault pistol grasped in one oversize ham of a fist.

The Executioner swiveled and dropped onto the bloodstained stairs. Target acquisition took only an instant, and the Uzi flew into the darkness as Bolan riddled the gunner with half a magazine.

The giant flopped hard onto his back, empty eyes staring at the quarter moon, as his chest seemed to dissolve into one large, red spot.

The stuttergun clicked on empty as the second man turned to flee, all thoughts of resistance and his easy pay vanished from his mind.

Bolan drew the big .44 and sighted over the long barrel at the retreating gunner. The cannon roared and sent its prey sliding into the dirt.

The warrior listened a moment for the sounds of more reinforcements. From the gate came the metallic thump of slamming doors, followed by the squeals of tires from what sounded like two cars.