Don Pendleton - Twisted Path

"I cannot decide this alone. Your information must be verified and a decision made by other parties. It may take several days." Libertad took the paper.

Bolan smiled to himself. He had no doubt what the answer would be. Trapped in prison, these Shining Path guerrillas were of no value. If anything they were an embarrassment and a liability as a potential source of information leaks. Dead, they were martyrs. Bolan believed that their leaders would sacrifice them all if there was the slightest possible benefit to be gained.

He would know soon enough.

The Executioner left, content with the seeds of self-destruction he had sown among the Shining Path.

Now all he had to do was wait for them to ripen.

Bolan reentered the main prison courtyard and found himself in the middle of a firestorm.

"There he is!" an angry voice screamed, pointing an accusing finger at Bolan.

The big man had no idea what was going on, but it spelled trouble in capital letters. A group of inmates was advancing on him, shaking their fists.

Several cons were yelling "thief" as they approached.

Bolan moved back to the wall, protecting himself from assault from the rear. Now he was ringed by shouting prisoners, although they all kept beyond the range of a lightning strike from the big man's fists, remembering the fight of a few days ago.

Bolan saw Raimondo's grinning face on the outer fringes of the crowd. He would bet that the prison boss was behind what was going down. A score to be settled later.

Right now he could either try to break through the rowdy mob, or wait it out and fight off attacks where he stood. He couldn't afford to lose his cool, not when he was outnumbered forty to one.

A rock sailed in from his left, delivering a solid blow to his shoulder, hard enough to bruise. A second from another quarter whistled by his ear.

That settled it. If he stayed where he was, he would be cut to pieces by flying stone.

Bolan charged, and Raimondo's grin vanished as the Executioner parted the crowd and headed right for him, menace blazing from his eyes. The kingpin scrambled like a pursued quarterback as Bolan plowed into his enforcers with the force of a defensive tackle.

He put his head down and aimed between two toughs, a shoulder taking each one in the chest. They dropped beside him as Bolan's hands stretched for Raimondo's throat.

They came up a few inches short as grasping hands pulled his legs out from under him and Bolan crashed on top of a con. He kicked viciously, feeling the satisfying snap of bone under his boot, and the clutching paws relaxed.

Bolan scrambled to his knees, searching for Raimondo, who had evidently left the yard while he was able.

A foot caught Bolan in the stomach, and the air whooshed out of him. The milling mob had regained its courage now that the big man was downed, and jostled around him, raining kicks indiscriminately while they chanted, "Thief, thief." Bolan tried to rise once, twice, but each time a savage blow toppled him to the ground. He ached everywhere, but attempted as best he could to protect his head from the brutal assault.

Through the gathering fog in his brain, he heard what sounded like Stone shouting. The words rang faintly in his ears as if they were coming from deep underground. The black vortex around him began to spin wildly, breaking into fantastically colored constellations of blinking lights that extinguished themselves with a roar as he fell over a cliff into total darkness.

Bolan awoke with a start, a stifled scream emerging as a gasp.

"Nasty dreams, Blanski? Well, have some of this." Stone gave the weakened man a cup of something hot that smelled and looked like boiled cow dung, while he wiped the beaded sweat from Bolan's forehead.

Bolan was too tired to resist, downing the foul mixture while he held his breath.

"I expect it'll be a day or two before you're up and around again. You'll be sore for a lot longer than that, though. It's a good thing that you're all muscle, or those ruffians would have done you some serious damage. As it is, the worst you got was two cracked ribs, a mass of bruises and a severe bump on the head, probably with a mild concussion."

"What happened?"

"While you were in with Libertad, I was called in for a chat with the warden. Meaningless, really. He didn't have anything to say. When I got back to the yard, I saw that you were in need of some assistance. So I helped out and got you back here. That was a few hours ago."

Even in his fuzzy condition, Bolan recognized that Stone was leaving out something. While he thought about what question to ask next, he fell asleep again.

"Good morning, Blanski. Time for your potion again." Stone held out another cup of his noxious brew.

"What is that stuff?" Bolan was feeling less agreeable this time about drinking the evil-smelling liquid, although he certainly felt no ill effects.

"I don't want to explain it, and I'm sure that you would rather not know. Just take my word for it, it will do you good."

Bolan downed the mixture reluctantly, trying not to taste it.

"For your information, Blanski, this is a very potent native medicine known only to the natives of the altiplano, the high Andes regions."

"I can see why it never caught on."

"Ah, Blanski, somehow I had expected you to have a more open mind. The natives know remarkable things, if we would let them teach us."

"How is it that you are familiar with native medicines?" Bolan had been curious about Stone since they had met. His manners and bearing didn't identify him as one of the criminals or lowlifes whom Bolan was acquainted with.

"I was a university professor in the States, specialising in native medicine and witchcraft. Before I came to Peru, of course." That explained a lot to Bolan, but not why his companion was in prison. Almost as though he read Bolan's thought, Stone continued to fill in his background. "I was doing some field work in the province of Ayacucho about eight years ago. Rather foolishly, as it turned out, because that is the primary base of the Shining Path. They were just starting to make a nuisance of themselves back then. The region was placed under a state of emergency. Because I was educated, American and in the wrong place, I was connected to the left-wing revolutionaries, and so here I am. There were protests and appeals ongoing, but the last I heard of those was about four years ago. Looking on the bright side, I only have another twelve years on my sentence." Stone couldn't hide the bitterness in his voice. Bolan recognised that he wasn't the only victim of a bad conviction. "I'll never forget the man who sent me here. A Lieutenant Colonel Palma. That's where I met Libertad and many of his people, although he had another name then. I developed a certain sympathy for their cause, if not for their methods, while I lived in the region. We have maintained a loose contact since he arrived in the prison."

"So that's how you were able to get me a meeting with him." Bolan hadn't realized how fortunate he had been being paired with Stone.

"I have treated him and his men since they arrived. He was pleased to be able to return a favor."

Bolan turned to a more immediate question. The aches and pains that plagued him were a continuous reminder of yesterday's beating.

"What was all that about yesterday? I think they were accusing me of being a thief."

"Absolutely right. While you were away and I was diverted, someone, probably one of Raimondo's men, sneaked in and planted a stolen lighter under your mattress. Clumsy, but effective, since the prisoners despise a thief. Then, when the loss was discovered, another helpful prisoner claimed to have noticed you in the vicinity of the robbed man's quarters. A search turned up the evidence, and you were convicted in absentia."