Don Pendleton - Twisted Path

It had been effective, all right. It had almost gotten him killed. Next time he might not be so lucky. There was more to the situation than first met the eye, Bolan was sure. It was no coincidence that Stone had been in the warden's of flee and away from his cell. The only puzzle was whether Raimondo had enough influence to get the warden to cooperate, or whether someone else was pulling the strings.

With the way the dice had been tumbling, Bolan would have bet on the latter.

"I'm curious about one thing, Stone. How did you stop them from killing me? I can't see you fighting them off single-handedly." Bolan smiled, to take the edge off in case Stone felt insulted.

"Blanski, you are looking at one of the very few brujos in Peru. A brujo is a caster of spells and can work almost unimaginable evil. He can cause melancholy, blindness, sickness and death. I told you once that the Peruvians were a very superstitious people. When I first arrived, one of the other prisoners gave me some trouble. I cursed him, using my knowledge of witchcraft. He was so terrified that he missed his footing running away from me, fell down some stairs and broke his neck. Since then, the Peruvians have taken it into their heads that I am a sorcerer, and none of them wish to cross me. So when I intervened, they let me have you. Now that it's clear that you are under my protection, I don't think there will be a repetition of yesterday's incident."

Bolan had already decided that. As soon as he was back in fighting form, he would hand Raimondo his head.

"As for the vile elixirs that I have been preparing for you, the Indians have a great deal of knowledge concerning herbs and roots and their medicinal properties. Thanks to a few pungent roots, you'll be as good as new." Bolan vowed that Raimondo would need more than a few roots by the time he was fished with him.

Bolan spent one more tedious day under Stone's vigilant care. The former professor treated his charge with the bullying attitude of a drill sergeant combined with the protective demeanor of a fussy old hen. He exercised the dominance over his sick patient that was a prerogative of the well.

A splitting headache was the least of Bolan's worries, as he discovered when he tried to push his way out of bed and grab his clothes. The room reeled and his stomach churned, threatening to send the big man to his knees. Instead, he sat down hard on the bed once again before lying back against the lumpy pillows.

"Satisfied, Blanski? Maybe now you'll listen to me and let yourself rest." Stone looked at the now supine man more closely. He was already asleep. "Damned if I know why you're so anxious to get out of that bed. Raimondo and his goons will be waiting, no matter how long you stay here." With a sigh, Stone returned to his reading.

The next morning, Bolan awoke refreshed from a dreamless sleep. He felt clear-eyed and alert for the first time since the battering, without a trace of the nausea that had plagued him as a result of the concussion. The pain of the bruises and cracked ribs had retreated to a dull ache. Through determined concentration, Bolan forced the sensations from his conscious mind into an area of awareness that was present, but unimportant.

He stood and began to stretch, performing a long ritual of exercises designed to restore his fighting flexibility. He ignored the protests of knotted, inactive deltoids and pectorals.

Stone watched silently from his bed, then said, "Well, I can see you don't need my services any longer. All that's left is to send you the butcher's bill."

Bolan turned to the older man and fixed him with a penetrating stare. "Stone. Thank you." The big man vanished through the door in the direction of the shower.

Under the weak stream of tepid water, Bolan considered his next move. It wouldn't be long before Raimondo learned that his enemy was up and about.

Whatever Bolan did next would have to be done fast.

Obviously inclined to treachery, it was only a matter of time before the dealer arranged for Bolan to be poisoned, shot by a guard or killed in some other underhanded way that minimized the danger to the crime boss.

A waiting game would be the best strategy he could adopt if he wanted to play into Raimondo's hands.

Bolan didn't plan to wait around.

He had no intention of being a target, either moving or sitting. Only the superstitious fear that the simpleminded inmates had of Stone had protected Bolan as he lay injured and recovering. Once he began mingling with the others, it would be open season on him once again.

Strike first, strike hard that old military dogma used by everyone from Alexander the Great to the Israeli air force would serve Bolan as well.

Cutting off the water jet and grabbing his towel, Bolan returned to the cell. Equipping himself was a simple chore, since his only weapons were the captured knife and a length of rough hemp rope that he wrapped around his waist.

"I don't suppose that you can be reasoned with, can you, Blanski? This isn't High Noon, you know, and the cowboys in the white hats don't always win in the final reel. You'll be safe enough if you remain here."

Bolan shook his head. True, being on the right side didn't make you invulnerable. The Executioner had buried too many good comrades in arms to think any differently. But he wasn't about to make himself a prisoner in his cell, even if it might be only a few days until he could make a break. He had never been afraid to meet danger eyeball to eyeball, and he wasn't about to change now.

"This was Raimondo's choice. He's made it clear with his 'This place ain't big enough for the both of us' attitude." With a short laugh, Bolan strode toward the courtyard.

Raimondo would be dying to see him.

Soon.

Bolan pushed into the prison yard, the fierce southern sun already giving promise of the blistering heat yet to come. The interminable soccer game was in progress, to be interrupted-only by the scorching midday sun.

The big man powered across the yard toward Raimondo's cell block, half-conscious of the trail of murmuring he left in his wake. A few of the more intrepid followed like sharks after the scent of blood, while the timid crept away to safety when elephants fight, it's the ants who take a beating.

The Executioner guessed that Raimondo would be expecting his visit. The Peruvian would see no reason to fear one man against whatever army he had assembled.

On the other side of the yard, Raimondo stood by a second-story window. He smiled tightly as he saw Bolan pushing toward his territory. He welcomed a rematch between his men and the American tough guy. The sight of the troublemaker's mangled body in the dust would restore his injured pride and reestablish his authority over the unruly and dangerous inmates.

The prison was a caldron that seethed with men anxious to gain a little power and a measure of safety by dominating the weaker inmates. For more than five years, Raimondo had succeeded in being the number-one badman by eliminating anyone who posed a challenge. If he showed weakness toward this single opponent and failed to destroy him shortly, the other inmates would begin to think that he didn't have the grit to rule the prison. Rivals would gather around like buzzards circling a dying man.

That was how Raimondo had achieved control many years ago. The boss at that time had underestimated Raimondo, while the new player put together a secret challenge. Within a month, the old guy was six feet deep in the prison cemetery.

Raimondo wasn't about to make the same mistake. Since then he had fought off every upstart who thought he could become king of the castle. None of them lived long enough to do more than dream of taking his place.

Everybody loved a winner, even in the dunghill named Lurigancho. He had protected his position by sharing his drug profits generously with the prison guards and officials, but their cooperation was a fickle commodity. They would back anyone who could outwit him. The other prisoners were the same. Right now they feared him, and that fear made his life safe.