The terrorists began to move inside the main quarters individually, called in by their commanders for instructions. When they emerged, they resumed their former activities, trying to look nonchalant. The only change was that no one was venturing near the south wall.

Libertad beckoned to the Americans from a doorway. When they entered, he instructed them to stay close to him and ignore everything else that happened.

He glanced repeatedly at his watch as they waited in silence.

"What will happen? What can we expect?" Stone's anxiety was getting the better of him.

The terrorist suppressed an urge to tell the man to shut up. It didn't matter now, and besides, Stone would be less likely to get anyone else killed if he could act on his own. The big American, Blanski, had already shown that he could look after himself very well.

"Last night our people planted dynamite along the wall. It will destroy the towers and blow a hole for our escape. There will be a party waiting to take us to safety. That is all you need to know."

"How much dynamite, and how soon?" Bolan asked.

"The dynamite?" Libertad shrugged expressively. "We will see. Perhaps too much, or maybe not enough. We will know in..." he paused briefly as he checked his black plastic watch, "...less than two minutes."

Several more terrorists drifted inside, seeking shelter, leaving a few to take their chances in the yard in order to lend an air of normalcy to the area.

Two minutes passed, then three. At the end of ten minutes of watching the shadows deepen slowly in the yard, the Americans were becoming impatient.

"I thought you said..." Stone began.

And then the ground shook, followed by the rushing sound of crumbling masonry as a part of the wall disintegrated.

The terrorists and Americans rushed outside, just as several prison sirens began to wail.

Bolan breathed in a double lungful of concrete dust as he sprinted for the shattered wall after Libertad. Stone was behind, followed by more of the Path.

Several of the terrorists were ahead, running interference.

A gap four feet wide had been blown in the base of the wall. There was no sign of the tower that had stood to the far left, while the tower in the middle of the wall had fallen into the Path's compound. To the right, the third guard post leaned drunkenly, but had not toppled.

The Path had taken casualties already. One torso lay in the middle of the yard, the head sheared away by flying masonry as completely as though struck by a cannonball. A second body was partly visible, only a pair of legs sticking from under the guard tower.

Bolan took a detour toward the ruined guard post that lay in the yard. Where there were watchmen there might still be usable weapons. It was worth a look.

There were two dead prison guards among the wreckage. One blood-covered body had been slashed a thousand times when he had fallen into the lens of the searchlight. The second looked as though it had been dropped from a third-story window, with splinters of broken bones sticking through the lacerated flesh. Bolan found the sharpshooter's rifle when he rolled the dead guard over, and he unbuckled a holster that contained a .357 Colt Python. He strapped it on quickly before drawing the weapon.

The entire search had taken only thirty seconds, but he was already late for the party.

Stone, Libertad and several of the terrorists waited on top of the rubble that formed a gentle slope by the breached wall. "Souvenir hunting, Blanski?" Libertad sneered as Bolan approached at a run.

Bolan ignored the remark and cast a quick glance at the terrain outside the wall. The ground was flat and featureless up to a ragged tree line more than three hundred yards away. To the left, less than a third of that distance from their position, was a low barracks. Riot-equipped guards poured from the building to join a line of at least a dozen men forming in front of the squat building.

Three bodies sprawled between the wall and the trees, while several more terrorists raced for the safety of the trees beyond. Night was falling rapidly, but not quickly enough to cloak their escape. As Bolan watched, a rifle chattered briefly from the teetering tower, stitching a line of bullets in the dust before climbing the back of the man who brought up the rear.

"If those guards set up, we're dead. Let's move." Bolan followed his own advice and scrambled over the broken concrete, taking a short drop to ground level and rolling.

He had attracted the attention of the remaining tower guard, and rounds slammed into the dirt beside him. The warrior was up and running, zigzagging toward the tree line while the gunner tried to line him in his sight.

He hit the ground once more, rolling into a slight depression that he had spotted. The Executioner sighted his captured rifle and squeezed the trigger.

The first round gouged chips from the tower wall; the second penetrated an inch below the guard's hairline, flinging the top of his skull over the side of the tower as the body sunk out of sight.

Bolan gave the thumbs-up sign to the others, who were now crouched by the base of the wall. They made their break, quickly stringing into a line with Stone, the oldest and least fit puffing away at the rear.

The prison guards weren't about to let them escape without opposition, now that they had had time to gather their forces.

A sustained chattering began as the security force advanced in a strung-out skirmish line, firing their submachine guns in rapid bursts.

The first three terrorists through the wall were the first victims, falling like rag dolls in bloody heaps, little dots of white oozing red on the dusty plain.

The others went to ground immediately, recognising that there was little chance of survival for anyone exposed to the merciless wall of flying lead pumped out by the massed guns of the advancing guards.

Their position was pretty grim. If they remained where they were, the line of advancing gunmen would overrun the escaping prisoners and they'd be slaughtered where they lay. Anyone who tried to flee would be chopped to bloody ribbons before they had gone ten feet.

Bolan knew that there was no chance of surrender, even if he was to consider that option for more than a flickering moment. The troops held a special hatred for the Path. The last time there had been an uprising at Lurigancho by the Shining Path the government had sent in the Republican Army.

Every one of the terrorist inmates at Lurigancho had been killed. The army and local prison staff even killed two hundred more of the terrorists in other Lima jails, most of whom were already unarmed.

No quarter would be given in this war on either side.

For the moment, Bolan was stuck with the Path as his temporary allies until he could use their trust to blow them away.

He had no hesitation about dealing with the prison guards. In the short time he had been at the compound, he had observed firsthand that they were as corrupt and vicious as any of the prisoners. Rumor had spoken of murder and torture as common weapons in the guards' arsenal of repressive tactics, and Bolan had no doubt it was true.

The Executioner threw down his now-empty rifle and tracked onto an advancing gunner with the Colt.

Accurate as the Python was, he had to be careful to make every shot count. His ammo supply was severely limited, and he hoped he could make the guards back off and give the escaping prisoners room to run before they were overwhelmed. One determined rush by the heavily armed troops would finish the small party, which now numbered less than ten.

Bolan focused chest high, the silhouette dim in the fading light. He squeezed once and shifted targets even as the big pistol bucked in his hand.

The first victim had barely toppled to the ground before the Executioner picked his second mark, sending another heavy slug sprinting the short distance to smash ribs and tumble through soft organs.