Twisted Path by Don Pendleton Page A

stained blue workman's coveralls concealed the holstered thunder. He was ready to start plugging the pipeline of death. This was one weapons deal that was going to go down hard.
    Damn hard.
    Bolan wandered the lanes between the warehouses, hoping to spot the truck and guard crew. It had been a calculated risk to remain so far from the dock that he couldn't follow the cargo when it was unloaded. But he had expected that the armament wouldn't be moved farther than necessary before being reloaded in the morning. Now it was only a matter of time before he ran the men to ground.
    This remote area of the dock seemed to be deserted. Early-evening shadows filled the spaces between the neglected warehouses. The faint scuffing of Bolan's shoes on the cracked asphalt seemed magnified.
    A sporadic hammering resounded from somewhere dead ahead. Bolan edged closer, ears cocked to pinpoint the source.
    The hammering seemed to emanate from the next warehouse ahead on the left, a ramshackle structure with traces of faded blue paint peeping through the peeling battleship-gray overcoat. As the warrior approached, the sound increased in volume.
    As Bolan halted outside towering double doors, the erratic noise ended and was followed by a few inaudible shouts. No light penetrated the doors, so Bolan had no idea of what was going on inside.
    He continued on, looking for a way to do a reconnaissance of the situation before plunging in. He had no intention of dropping guns blazing into unknown territory, particularly when he was unsure that this was even the right spot. The strategy and tactics of staying alive had taught the warrior to know his enemies and their dispositions.
    He had learned the lessons well.
    Around the far corner, the warrior found a window that looked into an office. He chanced a quick glance and recognized the bearded leader of the work detail stooped over a battered desk, facing away from the dirt-encrusted panes. The leather of a shoulder holster crisscrossed his back. Peering through the grimy window, Bolan could see right across the office and into the main area of the warehouse. He spotted the squat deuce-and-a-half bathed under roof lights. The rest of the work crew was outside his line of vision.
    Bolan circled the warehouse, looking for an unobtrusive way in.
    On the side opposite the office, a medium-size window stood twelve feet aboveground. There was no way up the side of the warehouse without a grappling hook, an item that Bolan didn't possess at the moment.
    An idea flashed to mind. He retraced his steps down the lane and along to the next warehouse.
    Ranged by a platform were ten fifty-five-gallon drums labeled Acetic Acid. Bolan tipped each one in turn. Nine were full, and probably weighed five hundred pounds apiece.
    Fortunately one was more than half empty.
    Bolan heaved on the last in line, easing it onto the heavy metal rim. He then carefully wheeled it down the lane, balancing the drum on an angle such that he had only to guide it. A few minutes' work saw two full drums below the window, with the half-empty one beside them. With a muscle straining effort, Bolan lifted the third canister into place, creating a secure pyramid.
    He scrambled to the top. The window ledge was now just above waist height. The window was locked, but when the hammering inside reached a momentary crescendo, Bolan rapped a small pane with the butt of the Beretta, shattering the glass. He reached through to flick open the catch.
    In seconds, Bolan lay prone on the edge of an upper-level loft, peering at the activity below.
    Four men were working in pairs around the pallets that had been removed from the back of the truck. As Bolan watched, two of the men picked up a long crate and carried it to a separate area. They dropped it into a slightly larger and deeper crate, so that the original container was completely concealed. The two men added a precut sheet of plywood, which rested on the edge of the box inside. Gathering several spades