"Twisted Path" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pendleton Don)

12

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.

But if he fell, even his own paid men'll trample his bleeding corpse in their haste to switch sides.

It was dog eat dog all right, and Raimondo was the wolfhound, the champion killer who had trained himself to rip the life from whomever he set out to annihilate.

No matter that Blanski still lived. It would be a very temporary condition. This tough-guy American would be his next victim.

Blanski was out and on the hunt, but he was obviously a fool to come to Raimondo without a gang of his own. This time Blanski would be joining his predecessors in a moldy grave outside the prison wall.

The drug lord knew that this would be a great day in his life. And the last in the American's.

Bolan felt a little uneasy as he approached Raimondo's lair. It wasn't fear he had faced death too many times for the prospect of dying to worry him. Partly it was because he hated to enter a situation where he didn't know the odds or the opposition or the ground. In this case he had no idea if he would be facing five men or fifty, or how they would be armed. He had done it before when he had to that was one of the elements of living large, throwing yourself at something one hundred percent when you had decided that it was the only alternative. But he still didn't have to like it.

Partly it was the senselessness of the whole position he was in, stuck in a prison, dependent on a bunch of terrorists to spring him.

If his imprisonment weren't so infuriating, the irony would be almost comical.

Mostly there was an anger building inside him, a bit of which was directed at himself for being caught so easily. The large part was reserved for the Shining Path, who had caused his predicament and had somehow maneuvered him behind these prison walls.

The anger would be released soon, a tidal wave of blood that would wash over the Shining Path. But Bolan's rage would start lapping at the feet of Raimondo and his men first.

Seven men filed out of the doorway leading into the kingpin's block and ranged themselves across the entrance.

Six of them held knives, while the seventh flexed a length of thick chain.

Bolan drew his own knife and broke into a run.

Events seemed to move in slow motion, as though his mind were racing faster than his senses could keep up with. First Bolan feinted to his right but broke left, heading for a small gap between the last two bruisers.

The Executioner's left arm brushed aside the wavering knife his smaller opponent held. His hand continued in a sweeping chop, the stiffened palm landing across the jugular. The Peruvian dropped like a sawed-through tree.

Bolan's right hand evaded a twisting stab by his second adversary, the warrior's double-edged knife plunging into and through the soft tissue below the ribs. The hardguy collapsed without a word, hands vainly trying to stem the blood spilling between his fingers onto the gravel.

The Executioner exploded into the remaining five, giving them no opportunity to regroup. He plunged his heavy boot forward, crashing it into one thug's chest like a stamping machine into sheet metal.

The victim's ribs burst inward, punching through heart and lungs. The body plunged backward, dead on his feet, throwing the toughs behind in confusion.

Bolan took advantage of the tangle of bodies to step forward, his red-spattered knife flashing, once, twice.

Two bodies dropped to the ground, throats slashed ear to ear.

Now it was two to one, but only momentarily. One of the remaining hitters took to his heels, hoping to put as much distance as possible between himself and the American demon, oblivious to the jeers of the other inmates.

The last guy was nearly as big as Bolan, and swung a long, heavy piece of chain above his head. The warrior ducked as the flying metal whistled toward his face, then leaped into the air as the return stroke came back knee high.

Bolan stepped in fast, spearing the knife at the chainman's eyes. The big Peruvian reacted too quickly for an easy kill, retreating beyond the blade with surprising speed. The warrior lunged forward like a fencer.

This time the savage was ready. He held his ground and replied with a quick flip of the chain. Bolan pulled back instantly, but not rapidly enough to prevent the chain from catching the knife and sending it flying end over end into the watching crowd.

The Peruvian laughed, exposing cracked, stained teeth. He advanced slowly toward the Executioner, the chain singing through the air in glittering figure eights.

Bolan waited calmly, as his adversary approached. Then, when the chain was just beyond striking distance, he launched himself forward, diving at the man's knees. As Bolan's shoulder connected, the flying chain touched the edge of his shirt.

The two men rolled, Bolan in a practiced curl, the hardman landing heavily on his back. As the other guy lay momentarily stunned, the Executioner spun, grabbed the chain and looped it around the Peruvian's thick, muscular neck.

Settling back on the ground, he placed a foot on each of the thug's shoulders and tugged. The hood's heels drummed on the ground as his hands clawed at the chain biting into his flesh. With a grunt, the Executioner heaved again, muscles bulging on his forearms. A vertebra popped with an audible crack, and the Peruvian lay still.

Bolan grabbed two knives from the scattered bodies, placing one in his belt. He edged through the door, expecting more trouble. A roar crescendoed outside as the other inmates fought for the privilege of stripping Raimondo's dead guards of anything of value.

The warrior paused a moment as his eyes adjusted to the gloom of the interior hallway. A long hall stretched before him, similar to his own area. Farther along, several curious but wary heads peeked from their cells. To the left, a stairway stretched to a landing and doubled back. The stairs were grooved beside each banister, silent testimony to the thousands of prisoners who had trudged their lives away inside the prison walls.

Taking time was to the big guy's advantage at this point. Whoever was up there knew that Bolan had carved his way through the main line of defence. He started up the steps, knowing that Raimondo was lurking somewhere above, gathering his remaining forces for a last-ditch stand.

He paused at the landing. A window at the top of the stairs poured sunshine almost directly into his eyes, making it impossible to see if anyone waited in ambush.

He crept forward more warily, conscious of his footing, and the sound of his breathing. His combat sense warned of danger ahead.

A step moved under his foot with a small sound that resounded like thunder in his ears.

A hitter popped from each side of the stairs and let fly, sending a razor-edged missile winging toward the Executioner before retreating for cover.

Their caution would cost them.

Catlike, Bolan ducked to stair level and the knives bounced harmlessly against the rough rock walls.

In the same instant, the warrior rushed forward, legs powering him up the stairs, eyes focused on the top.

A killer stepped right in front of him, arm raised to throw. Fright and surprise etched themselves briefly on the guy's face. He had obviously been expecting that Bolan would retreat and look for another way in.

No way.

Bolan punched his body forward, his head connecting with the hardman's chest as he plunged his knife deep into soft stomach tissue.

The Peruvian staggered back with a shriek, hands clutched to his streaming belly. The backs of his legs connected with the windowsill and he disappeared backward through the opening with a piercing scream.

The second criminal made his move, clumsily trying to take Bolan in the side. The warrior danced out of the way easily and launched a power-packed kick that got the knifeman in the side.

The thug took a dive down the stairs, rolling over the smooth steps until he came to rest in an untidy heap.

Bolan didn't bother to check if the guy was dead. His mind was focused on reaching his prey.

Raimondo saved him the trouble of searching by casually stepping from his quarters, a thin cigar clenched between his teeth.

A snub-nosed .38 stared at Bolan.

The warrior halted, gauging the distance and considering his options. If he tried a rush, Raimondo would riddle him before he could make it five feet from where he stood. If he stayed where he was, he was a dead man. Forward, backward or stand where he was, Raimondo had him dead to rights.

Like hell he did.

"Congratulations, Blanski. I expected you would be dead long before this. But never mind. Now I shall have the pleasure myself."

"A gun, Raimondo? Hardly fair. Wouldn't you like to try this man to man? If you aren't too scared of me, that is."

The drug merchant laughed mirthlessly, although the gun never wavered from Bolan's chest. "Do not think that you can trick me into something as foolish as that. I will not fall prey to your amateur psychology. This is not your American West, and I am certainly not some John Wayne. I do not care how I win, as long as I win. This gun is a favor that I have had to pay the prison officials very dearly for. Now it will repay my investment. I have buried many other strong fools before you, and I shall crush many more. Now, go to hell, Blanski."

Bolan watched Raimondo's eyes for the faint tensing he knew would precede the tightening of the trigger finger. At that instant the Executioner dived forward.

A red-hot pencil traced a line along Bolan's back, as the bullet carved a groove through the hard flesh topping his ribs, but luckily missing bones and vital muscles.

Bolan hit the stone floor hard, rolling onto his shoulder. As he completed the roll, he flung the knife at Raimondo. Bolan mentally crossed his fingers, for if Raimondo were sharp, this might be his only chance.

The warrior finished his roll in a half crouch, tensed to dodge another shot. There was none.

Raimondo sprawled in the corridor, one eye staring at the ceiling. Bolan's knife lay buried to the hilt in his other ruined eye.

When Bolan emerged into the sunlight, he was engulfed by prisoners cautiously but hastily edging their way past him into the prison block. Each was in a frenzy to raid Raimondo's area, to loot what they could before the guards came and took what remained.

As he traced his way back across the yard, Bolan became aware of the new wound. He could feel his shirt sticking to his flesh, captured there by the congealing blood. Everything else hurt, too, and now that the adrenaline rush had worn off, Bolan thought that he could count every bruise on his body with his clothes still on.

Things were rotten, but at least they were starting to improve. Raimondo was out of the way, a minor annoyance settled, another savage who could never prey on anyone else.

One down, and how many million to go?

Bolan wrenched his mind away from the futile speculation. Sure, there would be someone else jockeying for the fallen drug lord's throne, but one down was better than nothing. One step at a time.

One less obstacle to keep him from his primary objective, his date with the Shining Path.

Stone was waiting, still reading, when Bolan returned to the cell block.

"Ally need a keeper, Blanski," the older man observed as he gingerly pulled the shirt from the clotted wound. "Not very pretty, but not deep, either. Another scar to add to your numerous collection. Lurigancho hasn't been very hospitable to you so fat, has it?"

"I'll live," Bolan replied between tightly clenched teeth, as Stone poured what seem like liquid fire along his back.

"I have no doubt about that. You're a survivor type and Raimondo wasn't. He was a weak man, as most bullies are, who ruled through fear."

"What's a survivor type?"

"That's easy. Survivors survive."

Bolan laughed in spite of himself, regretting it immediately as his aching body protested.

A few minutes later, they had a visitor.

Libertad stood in the doorway, looking grim.

Four of his men filled the corridor behind him.

"I did as you suggested, Blanski," Libertad spit. "We got the guns exactly as you said we would. But they are useless! The breechblocks are missing, so they might as well be scrap metal. Is this how you will deal with us? I want an explanation before I order my men to kill you, slowly."

Bolan acted unimpressed by the other man's anger. "Of course the breechblocks are missing. I wanted to demonstrate that I could deliver on the weapons, not to make you a gift with no guarantees from your people. Once we're out of here, you'll get your breechblocks, your rockets and your ammo. But you won't get a damn thing more until I can take you to it personally."

Bolan realised that he was taking a calculated risk. If the Path refused the bargain, then he didn't have any more chips to play with. He certainly wasn't about to deliver working weapons to the very people he had come here to destroy. And if he had to get out of here on his own... well, he might be spending more time here than he'd planned.

"Why shouldn't I just make you tell me where the weapons cache is," Libertad sneered at Bolan.

Bolan knew that he had won. The terrorist leader was acting a part now, as much for his own men as for Bolan. The moment of danger had passed. "In the first place, you need me, or someone like me, and we both know it. I've got what you want, and I'm prepared to deliver as soon as we get out of here and to keep on supplying your little war until you run out of targets. And in the second place, you couldn't make me talk if I didn't want to, and you know that, too." Bolan held Libertad's eyes until the terrorist turned back to his men, gesturing them away with a wave of his hand.

He paused in the doorway as he was leaving, and said, almost as an afterthought, "Be ready tomorrow. At sundown."

Bolan settled carefully facedown in his cot.

He'd be ready for the Shining Path, all right.

But would they be ready for him?