Bolan faded into the doorway as he heard the approaching men. He poked his head out slightly until he could see what was happening. Farther down the corridor four men were coming his way, carrying flashlights to supplement the dim bulbs strung intermittently throughout the gloom. Each man toted a rifle.

They were moving cautiously, shining their beams into each area they passed. From their wariness, Bolan guessed that this wasn't some routine security patrol making the rounds. Obviously someone had become aware of his presence.

He was faced with a difficult choice.

For thirty yards behind him there was nothing but a few more rooms similar to the one he was in right now, stone boxes that offered nowhere to hide.

And there was no way that he could leave his niche without risking a bullet in the back. Yet if he remained where he was, he would have to rely on not being spotted by the searchers a poor bet at best.

Since he couldn't hide and he couldn't run away, there was no option.

The Executioner slid the assault rifle from his shoulder, poked the barrel of the AK-47 through the doorway and squeezed off a series of 3-round bursts.

Two of the terrorists crumpled to the ground, cored by the tumbling slugs. The remaining two found cover in opposite rooms and returned fire, bullets chipping away at the stone near Bolan's face.

The warrior snapped at several bursts, conscious that he didn't have many spare clips. The hammering of the guns reverberated like nearby thunder in the confined space. He wondered how long it would be before the sounds of the firelight attracted reinforcements.

The Executioner had made up his mind to change position and zigzag toward the two gunners. That way he could force the action and improve his angle on the concealed men. He could also get himself killed, but there weren't any options. Time was against him. He glanced at his watch. In one hour and fifty-one minutes, the headquarters would be history.

As would Bolan unless he escaped by then.

The terrorists made their move first. One man charged Bolan, spraying a wall of flying metal ahead of him, while the second man sprinted in the opposite direction to summon more troops.

Bolan dropped the messenger first, then tracked onto the other rifleman and walked a line of parabellums from his chest up to his throat.

Bolan paused momentarily to strip one of the bodies of a couple of spare clips. He slung the rifle and held the Uzi in a large hand as he trotted down the corridor. The big man had abandoned stealth in favor of speed, knowing that his priority was to hit hard. Then to get the hell out.

He knew more or less where he was headed, so he decided to take some time to look for Stone. However, there was no point in wasting too much time in the search, as it was likely that Libertad had murdered Stone long ago. The professor's body was probably lying at the bottom of some dark shaft in the labyrinth.

Bolan spotted more men in the near distance, intent on combing the underground passages. He took a right, planning to circle around them quickly.

"Blanski! Wait! Get me out of here!"

Bolan started in surprise. "Stone. I'm glad you made it this far." Bolan peered through the grate in the door of a tiny cell. "I see that you and Libertad have become great friends in my absence."

"So it really is you. I thought I might be hallucinating when I saw you go by. I was sure you were dead, fallen into the pit."

"We're not dead yet, Stone. Just let me take care of some business, and then I'll get you out. Hang in there."

"Where does he think I'll go?" Stone muttered to himself as Bolan returned the way he had come.

The warrior got the drop on the terrorists again and exploded from the side corridor, firing into the closely packed group of three moving down the passage. The Uzi spit round after round into the surprised troopers. When the warrior released the trigger, three ventilated bodies lay heaped together in the corridor.

He trotted back to Stone and concentrated on freeing the older man. There was no way of picking the lock, so Bolan ordered Stone to stand back as far as he could. After two bursts from the Uzi the door swung free.

Stone stumbled from the cell and fell on his face, groaning as his muscles spasmed. "Just leave me here, Blanski. Get yourself out. I can't move."

"We'll both get out," Bolan said, bending over to reach for Stone. The other man looked quite light, and the warrior wouldn't have any difficulty in carrying the small man the short distance to freedom.

A shot rang out, but Bolan didn't hear it as he pitched over on top of Stone.

Libertad lowered the rifle, thinking how lucky it was that he had been trailing his team.

They were dead and he had single-handedly killed the Yankee dog.

Stone was screaming hysterically, almost completely covered by the body of his companion. Libertad walked up to him and kicked him heavily in the side.

Stone shut up.

Bolan was still bleeding, a rivulet oozing from his scalp. The terrorist could see the arteries pulsing in the American's neck. So he wasn't dead yet.

Another patrol arrived attracted by the metallic sounds of gunshots. "Two live Americans? Let us kill them right now before they can cause any further trouble," the patrol leader said.

He swung his rifle toward the two prone men.

"No!" Libertad commanded, pushing the barrel of the assault gun aside. "They are my prisoners. I intend to keep them alive until the council orders otherwise. So do not interfere unless you want the council to wonder why you destroyed prisoners before they could be questioned."

The other squad leader got the point and clicked his safety on. "Then let us get them somewhere safe for now. This cell can no longer be used."

"I know just the place," Libertad replied with a smile.

When Bolan awoke, his head throbbed as though an NFL linebacker were inside trying to smash his way out. His hair was matted with dried blood, and more coated his cheek.

With a start, he realized where he was. His feet were bound and his hands were tied above him. An orange glow lit the room from the opposite end, while various implements of torture were scattered on tables around him.

He was naked and tied to a rack, the same one that Antonia de Vincenzo had occupied a short while ago.

Stone was roped to a chair across the room, a gag stuffed in his mouth.

"Ah, Blanski, you are awake. I see that you recognize where you are." Libertad advanced from beside the furnace until he stood beside his prisoner. "I know that you were here not long ago. And so you recognize full well what goes on here, and you understand just what you can expect. Poor Antonia. She was so beautiful. No one would call you beautiful, Blanski, but if you ever escape from here you win frighten small children with your ugliness."

Bolan spoke, his voice sounding harsh and dry. His mouth felt as though it had been stuffed with cotton. "No matter what you do to me, you'll always be a damn sight uglier than me. Your ugliness comes from within."

Libertad struck Bolan across the cheek repeatedly. "Brave words, American. But I will see you whimpering for mercy soon. You will plead with me to kill you, but I won't. We will enjoy ourselves with you for a very long time. And then maybe, just maybe we will let you go, so that for the rest of your miserable life you will hate mirrors. But you will see yourself in the disgusted, pitying looks of everyone who turns away from the sight of you. And you will remember Libertad and the power of the Shining Path."

The terrorist strode toward the door and paused.

"My assistant here will acquaint you with some of our tools. Each has a different purpose and creates a new sensation. Just a sampling of what is to come over the next few days, when you will learn about their uses in great detail. Stone will keep you company. I'm sure that what he sees will persuade him of where his true loyalties should lie. In the meantime I shall tell our council about my brave recapture of the capitalist animals. You have done me a great favor." As Libertad turned to leave, Bolan noticed a second man in the chamber, who advanced toward him, a wide grin plastered across his face, a poker extended in front of him.