Don Pendleton - Twisted Path

Cigarettes were the standard medium of exchange, except for certain of the guards who demanded cash on a regular basis. There was a set fee for various services within the prison, from laundry to sexual favors. Food, clothing, furniture, even prostitutes could be obtained from the outside for a small amount of hard currency.

"It's livable, Blanski, as long as you keep your wits and can get hold of a little cash. The guards will beat you badly if you can't afford to pay off. I've seen prisoners beaten to death, the rifle butts rising and falling as though the guards were pounding corn. The corruption goes right to the top, so no one lifts a finger. Of course, there are rats among the prisoners here like anywhere else. Not real ones. Those are considered quite a delicacy when lightly fried, so you don't see too many, barring a few in breeding colonies that some prisoners keep. I mean the two-legged kind. And it looks like we're going to get a visit from King Rat right now."

Five men were ambling along the edge of the yard in their direction. The prisoners lining the wall and soccer field moved to let the group pass freely.

Anyone who was a little slow was shoved aside by two toughs who were the point men for the small party.

"That's Raimondo," Stone explained. "He controls the drug trade within the prison, and as such he's rich and powerful among our little community. Don't try to interfere with his operations. That's another way to get killed in here. A couple of other cons have been knifed or had their necks broken this year, either because they were dealing themselves, or just because Raimondo didn't like them. People try to stay on his good side."

"Don't the prison guards maintain any sort of control?"

Stone snorted his contempt. "Violence and kickbacks are the way of life here. Sure, you can have whatever comforts you can pay for, but only the strong survive to enjoy them. If madness doesn't get you, disease or violence will. As for the guards, as long as they get their payments, they don't care if we beat or kill one another right under their noses. They seem to regard us as a separate species, not really human at all. If you get into trouble, you'll get no help from them. If you cause trouble with another prisoner, they won't intervene, either." Bolan stored away the data for later use.

Stone was proving to be a gold mine of information, just as he had hoped. Some of that information might prove handy right now.

The advancing party bore down on Bolan.

Three of the men were clearly the muscle, mottled with scars and broken teeth that showed long histories of hand-to-hand combat. The leader was dressed in a freshly washed and pressed prison uniform, with a silver cigarette case protruding from the shirt pocket. Gold flashed from wrist and throat.

Slim and self-confident, he seemed oblivious to his surroundings, acting as though he were strolling the grounds of his own private garden.

Bolan had to look hard at the fifth member of the party. Small, delicate features had been enhanced with makeup and a blond wig, transforming a male prisoner into a very convincing simulation of a woman. A flower-patterned dress and high heels completed the illusion. The transvestite smiled broadly at Bolan.

Raimondo halted by Stone and Bolan, his henchmen forming a protective circle. Smaller than the hardmen who ringed him, the drug lord radiated a sinister menace that a lesser man would have found intimidating. Flat black eyes sparkled under heavy brows as Raimondo examined Bolan, trying to stare him down.

Bolan wasn't budging an inch and returned the thug's gaze, the warrior's steely look skewering the crime boss until the guy looked away.

"So, you are Blanski, the new prisoner." Raimondo's tone was icy, although a quaver betrayed his annoyance at losing face in his first confrontation with the new inmate. Raimondo struggled to regain the initiative.

Word traveled fast in the prison community, Bolan thought. Either that or Raimondo had had advance warning of his arrival.

Raimondo ignored Stone as he addressed Bolan. He waved a hand casually, encompassing the entire massive structure. "All this you see about you is mine."

With a pompous opening line like that, Bolan figured the drug boss was preparing a lecture about how great and powerful he was. Bolan was in no mood to listen to the guy rant about his own self-importance.

"I thought it belonged to the government of Peru," Bolan drawled.

Raimondo halted, his mouth open, as he was preparing to continue delivering his speech. His eyes glittered with a cold, reptilian dislike. He took a pace closer to Bolan, eyeballing the big man as he snarled, "The outside may belong to the government, but what happens inside, I control. The other convicts obey me, Raimondo." He thumped himself on the chest for emphasis. "You are as much my prisoner as the government's."

Bolan wasn't about to take any crap from a petty criminal. He rocketed his fist into the vermin's jaw, sending Raimondo sprawling onto his backside.

Sitting up in the dust and holding his chin, Raimondo shook his fist in Bolan's face, rattling the gold chains at wrist and throat.

"Listen, you smart ass gringo, I run this prison. And I'll make sure that you don't forget it." He barked a command at the three hardmen.

The two nearest hitters charged, while the third held back to look for opportunities.

Bolan knew that a single man, properly trained, was more effective than any two or three hoodlums in a brawl. He stepped to his left as Stone scrambled out of the way of the bruisers.

As one of the men rocketed by, Bolan stuck out a foot and tripped him. As the guy fell to the ground, Bolan crunched a power-packed blow to the point of his chin, dropping the enforcer like a stunned ox.

The second man halted with a shout of rage as he found his outstretched arms empty of prey. The guy weighed about three hundred pounds, and Bolan guessed that his method of fighting was to flop on top of his opponents to crush resistance with his massive bulk.

The pig eyes focused on Bolan, and with another shout, the fat man trundled forward like a maddened bull, heavy arms seeking to lay a bear hug on Bolan.

The soldier waited impassively by the prison wall as the other man built up speed. At the last instant, Bolan dodged under a flailing arm and reappeared behind the thug. With a mighty shove the Executioner propelled the tub of lard into the wall.

The hitter dropped on his belly, leaving a red streak down the rough stone from where his head had made contact.

A crowd of prisoners had gathered to watch the brawl. They were silent, which told Bolan that Raimondo and his men were not liked enough for the other prisoners to cheer them on. At the same time, the drug lord was obviously feared, since nobody had the guts to root openly for Bolan.

The last tough advanced to take his turn. He reminded Bolan of a gorilla, of medium height but broad and deep cheated, with long arms and shoulders as thick as small tree trunks. He grinned through chipped teeth as he pulled a switchblade from his pocket. Raimondo stood impassively behind, a tight smile on his face, anticipating the sight of Bolan's blood.

The knife flashed in the morning sunlight. The crowd murmured, the excited sound that a mob gets when violence is on display, a diversion to pass the weary time.

This player knew his business, advancing slowly with the knife held loosely and pointed upward.

Careful, restrained movements tested Bolan's reactions without allowing a countermove.

The warrior backed around the circle of prisoners, staying well away from the crowd, his main worry that someone might extend a foot to trip him up. If Bolan slipped, he wouldn't just be beaten, he'd be carved up like a jigsaw puzzle.

He feinted to the side, but the knifeman turned in response, his lightning speed belying his squat bulk. Bolan kept his eyes on the knife, knowing that it was possible to fake an opponent out with the eyes or hands.