The tip was glowing white-hot and driving like a rocket directly at Bolan's right eye.

Libertad walked down the corridor, considering what he would tell the council. He realized that his success in capturing the intruder was tempered with a certain element of responsibility for the American's actions.

His concern was to distance himself from the damage this dangerous Yankee had caused. He was shown in to the Revolutionary Council immediately.

The atmosphere in the room was electric. The glances directed his way by the council members were baleful and full of suspicion. Libertad realized that he was in for a rough ride.

"Tell us, comrade, how this has come to be. An American, whom you claim to be dead, shows up in our most secret complex, killing many of our people." The chairman spoke in a low voice, barely above a whisper.

Libertad had to strain to pick up the words above the minute noises the other members made. The terrorist knew that the quiet tone was a sign of extreme anger.

"Comrade, I truly thought that the American was dead. His appearance here is as much a surprise to me as it is to you. Fortunately I recaptured him and he is now being held for questioning. I will soon find out everything we needed to know." Libertad tried to keep his voice from quavering.

"Yes, find out how he was able to make his way unassisted through the tunnels and what his purpose was in coming here. Maybe he was guided by another traitor. Maybe he has come to destroy the council. What do you think, Libertad?"

The ambitious young man was sweating now. He could see where this line of questioning might lead him in front of a Revolutionary Tribunal or, worse, the inquisitor.

"I had nothing to do with his escape from the pits or his coming here. Nothing at all."

"Why so defensive, Libertad?" The chairman's eyes sparkled with the evil light of a cobra ready to strike. "Is it because it was your idea to bring this Blanski here?"

"It was with your approval," Libertad protested.

"Yes, on your recommendation," the chairman shot back.

"Soon I will have all the answers you require." Libertad had run out of comebacks. The facts, twisted as they were, made him look pretty bad. Blanski would have to sing another song, and sing it loud.

Libertad would make sure the Yankee sang any song the terrorist requested.

The chairman seemed to sense what Libertad was thinking. "Come, comrades," he said, as he pushed back his chair. "Let us see what this American has to say for himself."

The council left for the interrogation room, with Libertad reluctantly following. Who knew what the American would say just to exact his revenge against the man who captured him?

The hot poker halted two inches from Bolan's eye. He could feel the searing heat of the metal tickling the orb.

The sadist threw back his head and laughed, his noxious breath washing over Bolan. "Capitalist pig! We will not begin so quickly. One day we will poke your eyes out with a burning rod, but until then, you will have that to look forward to. Today will be just a small sample of everything we have planned for the days to come. Where shall we begin?" Bolan's tormentor began to slowly wave the hot rod over the length of his prisoner's body, letting his victim anticipate the moment when the white-hot tip would come to rest on his skin.

A tremor coursed down the big man's spine he was angry. He exerted every last ounce of strength he could on the manacles binding his hands. His head throbbed and a red mist swam in front of his eyes as his muscles strained the iron chains.

The terrorist chuckled as he saw the muscles bulging. "Save your energy for screaming, American dog. No one has ever escaped."

The bolts popped from the wall with a screech of torn metal. The startled terrorist reacted quickly, swinging the poker like a bat at Bolan's forehead.

Although his arms felt as if they were on fire, the warrior reached up to grab the bar, keeping his hands well away from the glowing tip. He seized it with both fists and pulled.

The terrorist didn't let go. Instead he dropped on the prisoner, shifting his grip so that he now grasped the branding iron near each end. The torturer pushed down with his weight behind him, slowly forcing the tip toward Bolan's cheek.

The Executioner took a deep breath and exerted a pulsing surge of power through his right arm. The iron bar pivoted back and caught the terrorist in the left side. Bolan thought he heard the crack of breaking bone.

The man fell away, dropping the hot poker.

He got up again with a snarl, his left arm grasping his side. He grabbed a long pole off the wall, a metal spear that tapered in a fine point. It was more than long enough to spit Bolan where he sat, trapped by the chains securing his ankles.

Bolan wound up and threw the poker just as the terrorist began his charge. The rod sailed through the air like an iron arrow and buried itself in the guy's belly.

The man began to scream hysterically as the hot metal burned his flesh, giving him a taste of the agony that he had eagerly dealt his helpless victims.

He stumbled a few more steps and crumpled to the floor beside the rack, his hands working feebly at the heated rod. Bolan reached over and extracted a set a keys from the guy's belt, and in a moment he was free from his shackles.

He moved quickly to Stone and cut his bonds.

"Let's get the hell out of here. We don't have much time." Less than fifteen minutes remained until zero hour.

Before they quit the chamber the warrior dressed himself with his torn clothes and picked up the Uzi and the AK-47, which Libertad had conveniently dumped in a corner. He handed the assault rifle to Stone. "Use this."

"How?" the academic protested. "I've never fired a gun in my life."

"Simple. The safety's off. Point at the bad guys and pull the trigger. Stop when they all fall down. Now let's move." Bolan fisted the Uzi and pushed the door open.

The way to the exit was clear. But twenty yards ahead a dozen men filled the passage and were marching toward the interrogation room.

The Executioner opened fire with the SMG, concentrating on the two point men. A stream of 9 mm death punched the men to the ground, jets of blood spurting onto the uniforms of their surprised comrades.

The survivors began a stampede to the rear, kicking and clawing on the now slippery stones in an effort to escape.

Bolan dropped one last man, practically tearing the terrorist's head from his body with a burst to the neck before the lucky few survivors vanished out of sight around a corner.

Libertad slunk back around the corner after a long wait, when he was sure the coast was clear. The rest of the council members were still running, heading for the deep underground refuges.

He examined the heaped bodies of the Path's leaders, looking for survivors. There were none. He found the chairman near the front of the pack. The hawk eyes that had pinned Libertad minutes earlier were no longer there. They, along with the rest of his features, had been smashed by the force of several bullets that had scrambled the chairman's keen brain before bursting through his face.

Well, that was one less rival. Still, Libertad thought, in spite of the chaos, perhaps he could turn this disaster to his advantage.

He grabbed a rifle and walked cautiously down the passage leading to the exit. It was an M-16. How appropriate that he should kill the American with a weapon manufactured by his own countrymen. In the distance, he heard the hammering sound of a firelight in progress. The terrorist flattened himself in a shadow, waiting for the telltale signs of violence to fade away. The American was a very dangerous man.