Twisted Path Read Free Page A

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.
    He rushed toward them, clawing at his pistol in its holster.
    Fernando elbowed the driver in the side, urging him to get them out of there. He levered the M 60 onto the edge of the door and loosed a burst at the cop, stitching a line from groin to chin.
    The jeep's gears engaged, throwing them against the cushions in a sudden surge of acceleration. The driver swung left, speeding for the outskirts of town and a waiting safehouse.
    Fernando held down the trigger in a sustained burst, the M-60 chewing through the ammo belt at 550 rounds a minute. Death flew at the onlookers, smashing into flesh and bone.
    The jeep powered down the broad avenue, weaving in and out of the traffic. Jewelry stores, furriers, expensive clothing shops and arcades lined the street. Whenever the machine gunner saw a small crowd of well-dressed strollers, he would