Don Pendleton - Twisted Path

Bolan pretended to miss his footing, his left foot sliding along the dirt. The knifeman stepped in, his blade flashing toward his opponent's exposed throat.

The Executioner shot forward, his left arm grabbing for the knife hand, while his right balled into a fist for a shattering blow to the larynx.

But this guy was no fool. He hadn't committed himself as much as Bolan had thought, and he danced back out of reach. As Bolan's fingers closed on air, the knife slashed through his left sleeve, the point carving a small trickle of blood along his forearm.

The knifeman was grinning, thinking that he had won.

Bolan knew it was time to try some tricks of his own.

He recognized the grin for what it was, and decided to let the guy think that he controlled the situation. It might make him sloppy next time and give the warrior a split-second advantage, which would be enough.

The bulky Peruvian danced back and forth, performing a little ballet as he edged Bolan around the ring of faces. He feinted twice, flashing the knife at Bolan's eyes. The knife flashed a third time, but as the warrior jerked his head away, he saw the killer flip the knife into his left hand with a flick of the wrist. This time, instead of pulling back, the hardman stretched forward, his right hand still waving as a decoy, the left hand guiding the blade to Bolan's heart.

The Executioner struck hard, his right arm smashing the knife hand aside as he stepped into the advancing con. His left arm shot forward, palm outward. The heel of his hand connected with the tough's oversize nose, flattening the flesh and driving the nose bone like a projectile back into the brain case.

The knife went spinning as the dead fingers relaxed and the hardguy crashed into the dirt.

The crowd exploded into clapping and roared its approval. Almost everyone then drifted back to the entertainment of the soccer game, which had continued uninterrupted. One inmate placed the knife in Bolan's hand before he wandered off, the spoils given to the victor. Bolan folded it away after wiping it on the dead man's pants, pleased to not be empty-handed any longer.

Raimondo shook his fist at Bolan, although he had retreated well out of the Executioner's range.

"Don't think that this is over, Blanski. You're a dead man." The two other enforcers had recovered and were backing him up, one of them with a sticky red bloodstain on the crown of his head.

"Listen, Raimondo. If I have any trouble, I'll see you about it. Personally."

With a last glare, Raimondo turned away and led his shrunken party back to their quarters. As they moved off, the transvestite looked back and winked at Bolan.

Stone approached Bolan, his admiration showing on his face. "Well, Blanski, I'm glad to see that you're still alive. You certainly have a remarkable way with people. I bet you took that course 'How to win friends and influence people'!"

Bolan chuckled, and he and Stone wandered off to explore the rest of the prison. Two guards arrived to remove the remains of the con, like a dead gladiator being dragged from the arena. Neither paid Bolan any attention.

One area that Stone pointed out interested Bolan a great deal. It was a set of barracks around a second small yard, almost a separate wing, which Stone explained held prisoners associated with the Shining Path. At present there were about three dozen of the terrorists in the compound.

"They keep to themselves almost exclusively," Stone explained, "maintaining an almost monastic kind of existence. They spend the days in silence, except for what are like prayer meetings when they sing revolutionary songs and chant political slogans. The guards leave them pretty much alone. In 1986 there were about 125 of them before they staged a mutiny. The government attacked with rockets and antitank missiles and killed every one. That was a very bad time. The prison ran with blood."

An idea popped into Bolan's head, a way of getting out and yet accomplishing what he had set out to do. "Do you have any contacts among them?"

"Well, yes, as a matter of fact I do. But they are very secretive and have little to do with anyone who is not a member of their group, so I wouldn't expect much."

"Do what you can to arrange a meeting between me and their headman, will you?"

Stone considered the matter. He had only known this man for a few hours, but something in Blanski's gruff but straightforward manner had impressed him.

Blanski was the sort of man who inspired confidence, a natural leader. He appeared to be one of the strong silent types that Stone had admired in the movies, another Gary Cooper or Clint Eastwood. He was falling under the big man's spell.

"Sure thing, Blanski. I'll see what I can do."

The next two days passed slowly as Bolan waited for a response from the leader of the Shining Path, an Indian who called himself Libertad.

Bolan pressed Stone to find out what was happening, and why there was a delay. Stone urged Bolan to leave matters to their own time. Any further inquiries would only arouse the suspicions of the terrorists, never a very trusting group at the best of times.

Steeling himself to wait, Bolan examined the possible avenues of escape. The direct route over the wall didn't seem very promising. Eight towers perched atop a thirty-foot wall, each manned with two alert guards with machine guns.

Razor wire ran along the wall between the towers.

At night, spotlights traversed the yard, while lights illuminated the walls. It would require a full-scale assault to break out against heavy opposition. For one man alone, an attempt to go over the wall would probably be suicidal.

A second possibility would be to get out the main-door. As a start, that would mean getting into the administrative area from the prison compound. There was only one way in, down a long corridor heavily guarded at both ends. Except for unusual circumstances, only the older and more trusted prisoners went in there to work as servants to the guards and in areas such as the laundry. It would be a long time, if ever, before Bolan received that "privilege." An honor that Bolan would gladly do without.

There were variations on the plans that involved more subtle approaches a little sleight of hand, a few heavily greased palms, a sudden break under lucky circumstances. All of those possibilities involved more time, luck and money than he had available.

The heat of midday had ended the soccer game temporarily as prisoners scrambled to find a small patch of cool earth. Bolan and Stone had taken a choice spot in a corner of the prison yard. Other prisoners moved away at the big man's advance. As the two prisoners discussed methods of escape, Stone was pessimistic about the outcome. Bribery was out. One prisoner had escaped seven years ago by paying off several of the guards. In the aftermath, those who had been directly involved found themselves prisoners in other jails.

Many of the remaining guards had been fired.

No one at Lurigancho was anxious for a repeat performance.

"What about feigning death and being smuggled out as a corpse?" Bolan was willing to consider any option at this point.

"Impossible." Stone shook his head in discouragement. "Some clever prisoner tried that years ago. Now they make sure that a corpse is really dead by cutting off its head before they bury it outside the prison. No one tries to escape that way any longer."

Bolan was beginning to regret not trying a break earlier, before he arrived at the prison. It looked as if he was in for a longer stay than he had anticipated. The whole Peruvian mission was turning into a disaster. Someone had been a step ahead of him every inch of the way.

The warrior was going to find out who the mystery person was. As soon as he got out of this hole.