Libertad watched Stone for a moment. He looked perfectly miserable. It had been the squad leader's idea to subject the American to this indignity and discomfort until his spirit was broken.

Only then would he be a reliable captive.

"Stone, do you hear me?"

The American stirred, rousing himself from a pain-filled stupor.

"Are you ready to be given your parole, American? Will you become a loyal servant of the great Republic of New Democracy? Will you renounce the capitalist lies and embrace the teachings of the wise Gonzalo?"

Stone was fully awake now and full of vinegar.

"You miserable son of a slug. What makes you think I would ever become part of what Gonzalo plans for Peru? I hope that he rots in hell!"

Libertad was tempted to shoot Stone on the spot. The barrel of his Uzi was jammed through the grate before he realized through a hate-filled haze that Stone was goading him into doing just that. He lowered the subgun.

"It is not wise to insult your captors. Very foolish indeed, Stone. If you wish to die of starvation, be our guest. Or be wise and join us. Live or die, it's your choice." Libertad stalked off while he still had the last word, not at all pleased by the encounter.

As the footsteps faded into the distance, Stone wondered why he was being so stubborn. It was not at all like him. But every time he thought of giving in, Blanski came to mind. Somehow, he knew instinctively that the big man would rather die than surrender, and he felt inadequate doing anything less. But still, he felt sorry for himself.

Sometimes dying was a lot easier than living.

Bolan crept down a broad corridor. Now that he was inside, he had three objectives: to find some weakness in the organisation and exploit it, to find Stone if he was still living and rescue him and to make it out alive.

He had been traveling down deserted halls, peering into each room he passed. He had checked several dozen storerooms and thus far had seen nothing of interest, just heaps of innocuous boxes, sacks of tobacco and mounds of other things necessary to keep a guerrilla force fighting. Everything except weapons and dynamite, the two things he sought.

The corridors were similar to those he had traversed underground, relics of the ancient Incas.

This complex appeared to be primarily a storehouse for the town beyond, with lots of small rooms off a web of passages. The main difference was that the halls were lit by crude strings of electric lights powered by some hidden generator.

The next room had a wooden door, which immediately aroused the warrior's suspicions, as none of the others had been secured. Apparently the Incas and the Path usually didn't believe in doors. He opened it silently and found himself in a large, shadow-filled room, staring at the back of a man who was tending what looked to be a small forge. This would be an excellent opportunity to gather some intelligence.

The Executioner slipped inside, closing the door softly behind him. The terrorist by the fire was so intent on his work that it was easy for Bolan to creep up behind him unnoticed.

The warrior lashed out with his forearm, catching the hardguy around the neck. He squeezed, but not hard enough to cut off the air supply.

The man's hands clawed at Bolan's arm.

"Stop it," Bolan commanded in Spanish, his mouth near the guy's ear. "Any more trouble and I'll break your neck."

The resistance stopped instantly.

"Now tell me, where is Gonzalo? Is he here?"

The terrorist shook his head as hard as he was able.

The big man eased off a little at the throat.

"No, he is not here. He has never been here. I have never seen him. It is true!" As the warrior digested the words he admitted to himself that it jibed with what Brognola had told him. Gonzalo was more of a legend than a leader.

Unless this guy was completely ignorant or a better actor than Bolan gave him credit for the Executioner wouldn't be able to settle any score with the big boss in this valley.

As Bolan considered his next move, his gaze moved around the room and fastened on an object in a far-corner.

Someone was tied to a rack, the signs of torture visible even across the chamber. And now that Bolan looked more closely, what he had taken for a forge for working metal was a small furnace, with an array of irons and pincers glowing red-hot on the burning coals.

It reminded Bolan of some of the worst times in his Mafia hunts, the times when he had come across the tortured remnants of what had once been men and women.

Bolan's rage reached fever pitch and erupted, a fierce volcano that washed over the man in his grasp, a red tide of anger that flowed through his body. He jerked his muscled forearm, cutting off the hapless man's wind. When the warrior's wrath abated, he dropped the lifeless corpse to the ground. He wasn't going to get any more information from the guy, but at the moment Bolan didn't care.

He walked over to the rack, and with a shock, Bolan recognized its occupant as the radiant beauty who had approached and spoken to him in the restaurant, Carrillo's secretary.

His stomach churned as he looked at the damage, and he had to turn away, bile rising in his throat. His eyes fixed on an array of rusty, blood-stained knives and other implements heaped on a low table. He picked up the sharpest-looking one.

He would do what had to be done.

A Bolan left the chamber, a shiver of disgust running down his spine. People died, that was inevitable.

He had been behind the gun often enough himself. But the mentality that was required to perform such brutal acts, to do things to another human that were rooted in sick nightmares, was beyond his comprehension.

He didn't want to understand.

Bolan forced himself to become calm, to concentrate on staying alive, rather than on his revenge. Anything else risked disaster such as being gunned down by someone who had stayed frosty and had not let his emotions run wild.

The big man would have liked to ask Antonia some questions himself, since much of what he had endured since coming to Peru was the direct result of his visit to her boss's office. Now he might never know the answers.

Tough. He was just going to have to play out his hand the way it had been dealt to him. But that didn't mean that he couldn't try to stack the deck in his favor.

Bolan eased down the corridor, every sense attuned to his surroundings. Through an effort of will, he turned his mind from the bloody lump of flesh he had left, and tried to imagine where the best spot for a weapons depot would be.

He checked each room as he passed, not at all sure what he was looking for. Most were simply large empty squares.

The warrior was somewhat surprised that he hadn't seen much of the opposition so far. He guessed that the complex was probably lightly manned at the best of times, serving as a headquarters and a transit station for the terrorists.

Bolan kept moving forward. Since he didn't know where he was going, the safest route was straight ahead, making it easy for him to retrace his steps to the exit. As he moved farther into the complex, the fresh air and starlight of the outdoors seemed more like a distant and elusive memory.

A couple of doors down, he found a small man with a thin mustache scribbling at a desk made from boards piled on crates. This was definitely a low-budget revolution, Bolan thought. The man didn't notice the Executioner's stealthy approach until the big man's shadow eclipsed the terrorist's writing pad. The Peruvian looked up with a start and gaped at the stranger.

Bolan reached over the narrow desk, wrapped a callused hand around the other man's throat and jerked him out of his hard-backed chair.