"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.