Boone's eyes widened with surprise as his hands flew to the spike and plucked it out. He started to speak, but the words came out in a croak.
Blood was seeping from the little hole in his neck, leaking air, puffing pink foam around the hole.
"As I said," Carrew continued, "the only difference is that I'm shaving the odds a bit. Little trick I learned from an Indian tribe in South America."
Boone dropped his shank, clutching his hand around the hole in his throat, gasping for air. He started for the door, his interest in this fight over.
"Where you going, Boone?" Rodeo demanded.
"Doc... tor," Boone croaked.
"No one leaves I..." But Boone stumbled ahead. Suddenly Rodeo leaped at him, grabbed the back of Boone's shirt and smacked him in the back of the head. The tiny brass studs punched through the skin and hair, drilling through the bone. The momentum of the blow caved in the whole base of the weakened skull. Boone's knees buckled and he fell face first onto the floor.
Blood bubbled out the back of his head and sieved through his oily hair. "You wanted fair," Rodeo rasped, "you got fair. Two against two. Me and Sanders against you and Blue."
"Not exactly what I had in mind," Carrew said, loading another spoke into his tube and puffing it into the face of Rodeo's lone remaining henchman, Sanders.
The dart drilled through the cheek, enough to scare him but not enough to do him serious damage. But while Sanders was plucking it out, Bolan let fly his shank down the eight-foot-long corridor. It flipped end over end like a propeller until it finally thudded solidly into Sanders's chest. Sanders looked down at the protruding shank for a second, more annoyed than anything else, then suddenly his legs melted out from under him and he was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall. He tried to speak, but his tongue flopped inside his mouth like a beached dolphin. He died trying to pull the knife out of his chest.
"Now this is what I call fair," Carrew said. "One on one. And I'm out of it. Go ahead."
Rodeo looked suspicious. "You ain't gonna help him?"
"No." Carrew looked into Bolan's eyes. "I've got a feeling he wouldn't have it any other way."
Bolan smiled. "You read people pretty well."
"Okay, okay. Then let's get on with it," Rodeo said. "You giving him your shank?"
Carrew shook his head. "No." Then he turned to Bolan. "I told you you were on your own."
The two gladiators squared off in the concrete arena, circling each other. The Executioner's heart was pounding and his fists were clenched. Not out of fear, but determination. The crazy thing was that, yeah, he really did want to fight it out now. Even his short stay in the prison had gotten to him. Despite his planning and information gathering for the escape, the inactivity of the place, the damned boredom, combined with the constant tension, had taken something out of him. Sapped his energy, his fierce drive. Now he was getting it back.
Somewhere out there, maybe even inside the prison, getting closer every minute, was Zavlin, the master assassin out to exterminate some poor kid who was sitting shivering in his cell. Inside that kid's head was something that was a threat to the KGB and Bolan had to know what that was. And soon. The only thing in his way was this bald, six-foot-six maniac with the studded knuckle-dusters.
Bolan wanted him.
Bad.
Lying on the floor between Bolan and Rodeo were the three bodies of Rodeo's dear friends. Two of their shanks were on the floor, the third buried deep in Sanders's chest.
Bolan was about to make a dive for Boone's shank, when Rodeo attacked, hurdling his fallen buddies as if they were piles of dirt. He screamed through clenched teeth, stampeding at Bolan like a madman, his braided tail trailing like a flag.
Bolan kept his eyes on Rodeo's hands, the brass studs winking in the light. He'd managed to drop the giant once before, but that was when he'd taken him by surprise. This time there would be no such advantage. Rodeo was right in front of him now, swinging a roundhouse that could demolish a tree.
Bolan ducked under it and the fist swished overhead, smashing into the wall. The studs chipped four holes into the concrete. Bolan angled past him toward the only shank not near Rodeo. The one nailed into Sanders's chest. The Executioner somersaulted down the corridor, rolling to his feet beside the body. Sanders's hands were still gripped around the shank where he'd tried to dislodge it. Bolan pulled at the hands, trying to loosen the fingers.
No time.
Rodeo was on him again, swinging those lethal fists. Bolan sprang to his feet, bobbing and weaving a couple of punches. He stepped inside one left hook and pounded Rodeo in the cheek. The giant's cheekbone shifted slightly, the skin ripping along the bone. A lightning bolt of blood etched down his cheek.
Rodeo was more cautious now, holding his fists up, but not wasting any energy on wild flurries.
He seemed determined to make each punch count. The tattooed snakes seemed fatter and meaner as the muscles in his arms flexed.
Bolan backed up, away from Sanders and the shank.
Now the blades were all at the other end of the hall, along with the exit. He'd have to go through Rodeo to get to them.
Bolan didn't expect any more help from Lyle, didn't really want any. Carrew had seen that this was Bolan's fight, that Bolan was fighting more than just one man, more than just Rodeo.
He was fighting what Rodeo was, what he stood for. Despite all appearances about "Blue" — the phony identity, the criminal record. Carrew had been able to see that much. Even now Bolan knew Lyle was probably debating with himself, tempted to toss him a shank, or spit a dart into Rodeo's neck. But Bolan didn't want his help now.
It had nothing to do with any adolescent notions of bravery, of proving himself or showing his cause was the stronger. He knew being right wasn't always enough, didn't always win battles. Yet sometimes there were doors you had to enter alone, maybe for no other reason than you didn't want to.
This was one door he was going through. Without knocking.
"Come on, Blue," Rodeo taunted, closing in. "Let me see what you got."
Bolan stopped backing away, squared his shoulders. Rodeo grinned. "I'm going back out there with your eyeballs stuck on the ends of these knuckles. Two from you, two from your black friend."
Bolan shrugged. "With that many eyes, maybe you'll be able to see this coming next time." And he snapped a front kick straight into Rodeo's chest. The chest bones dented inward as three ribs cracked from the impact.
Rodeo doubled over, and Bolan threw a right hook and left uppercut combination that rocked Rodeo back into the wall. Blood seeped out over his lip and down his chin. It looked as if he'd been chewing raw meat. The Executioner tried a spinning kick into the kneecap to disable him, but Rodeo was ready this time. He flung himself off the wall and swung his right fist at Bolan's temple. The Executioner managed to raise his left arm to block the punch, but the brass spikes punctured his arm at the triceps. Pain flamed through the arm, numbing it from wrist to shoulder. When he pulled away, he saw Rodeo grinning, holding his triumphant fist high. Blood capped each brass spike like melting red snow.
"Come here, little eyeballs," Rodeo sneered, stalking closer. Bolan's left arm was useless.
He still had no weapon. And the damage he'd done to Rodeo so far was minor, barely slowing him down.
He looked past Rodeo and saw Carrew loading another dart into his blowpipe. He was tempted to say nothing, pretend he didn't even see it.
Right now a dart in Rodeo would be just the distraction he'd need. Carrew placed the pipe to his lips, stared into Bolan's eyes. And Mack Bolan shook his head. No.
Carrew hesitated, then lowered the pipe.
Bolan had no intention of losing this fight.
He'd fought tougher, smarter opponents before.
He'd been a prisoner before. But being in prison, the institution, had dulled him. The boredom had allowed the possibility of failure to creep into his thoughts. What if he failed? He'd be locked in here for years. He'd never worr
ied about the consequences of a mission before. But this time he had without even being aware of it. No more.
He forced a cold wind through his mind, a cleansing bracing breeze. Rodeo stepped in for another attack. His looping right glanced off Bolan's shoulder, the brass teeth biting a chunk of flesh from the shoulder. Bolan ignored the pain, stepping closer to Rodeo, slipping under a punch, wrapping his right arm around Rodeo's waist, pulling the giant up over his hip and flinging him to the ground.
Without pause, Bolan loaded all his weight into one knee and dropped full force onto Rodeo's breastbone, cracking it like a lobster's shell. Rodeo's eyes widened with pain and Bolan raised his right hand like a claw above the giant's face. Rodeo's face cringed with terror as the realization of what was about to happen jangled through his brain. He opened his mouth to scream, but by then Bolan was already moving again, driving his stiffened thumb straight down into Rodeo's right eye, squeezing past the gel of the eyeball, plunging deep into the brain, destroying nervous-system functions. Killing the brain.
Beneath him, Rodeo convulsed slightly, tensed, gagged, relaxed into death with a sigh.
Bolan withdrew the thumb, wiped it on Rodeo's shirt and walked with a slow exhausted gait toward Carrew, stepping over bodies as he walked. "How do we explain all this?" he asked.
Carrew shrugged. "Mass suicide?"
Bolan smiled grimly as Carrew led him away. The numbness in his left arm was worse. He tried to rub some feeling back into it. He wasn't too worried about a prison investigation. By the time officials got around to him, he and Reed would already have made their escape. Or would have been shot trying.
"We'd better get back to our cell," Bolan said. Ninety minutes to go before the breakout.
"Sure thing," Carrew said, muscling his wheelchair along. "But there's just one detour we need to make." He stopped, spun the chair around to face Bolan.
"Detour?" Bolan asked. "Where?"
Carrew smiled. "That's a surprise."
Bolan felt a little alarm jangle in his head.
Something was wrong. He closed his fists and started for Carrew. But he was too late. The first gunman appeared behind him, the second popped out of the storage closet in front. Both were dressed in black hoods. Each had a Star Model PD .45 pointed at him.
He felt the pinch of a needle as the gunman behind him stabbed his arm with a hypo. There was nothing to do now.
Fighting would be useless. They didn't intend to kill him, at least not yet, or they would have done so already.
Perhaps they just wanted information. But who were they? How did they get in here? What was Lyle Carrew's connection? What did they...
Bolan's eyes closed and he dropped endlessly through black space, past the floating bodies of all the friends and enemies who had died violently during the past years.
They stared as he dropped past them. Some cried out to him in warning. Others laughed and waved for him to join their ranks.
10
Bolan was conscious but he didn't dare open his eyes. He used his other senses to assess the danger, study his predicament. He was naked to the waist and could feel the fresh bandages taped to his body. Knife cut on left shoulder, puncture wounds from Rodeo's spiked knuckles on his left triceps, a chunk the size of a rat bite on his right shoulder, the slash across his shin.
A radio played in another room. A commercial for a popular wine. Faintly, Bolan heard a young woman's voice harmonizing with the jingle. She was pretty good.
Onions. He sniffed the tangy scent of cooked onions, his mouth watering involuntarily, his stomach churning from hunger. How long had he been out?
Beneath him, movement. He dug his fingertips into the bed he was lying on and felt the mattress shift like Jell-O. A water bed. "How long you gonna keep playing this game, Mack Bolan?" a woman's voice drawled. He pedigreed that sassy voice from a lifetime ago. Bolan opened his eyes and stared into the face of the same beautiful woman he'd seen earlier at the jail with Lyle Carrew.
"Hi, Shawnee," he said.
"Hi yourself." She walked over to the bedroom door, leaned her head out into the hallway and shouted, "He's awake." Footsteps pattered down the hallway.
Three other equally gorgeous women huddled anxiously around the doorway. A leggy blonde, a tall dark-haired woman, a petite Asian.
They stared at him as if he was a visitor from another galaxy.
"You all right, Mr. Bolan?" the one with the short blond hair asked. "I hope we didn't hurt y'all none."
Bolan lifted himself up to his elbows. His head was still a little cottony, which the rolling of the water bed didn't help. He nodded at her. "I'm fine."
"Of course he's fine," Shawnee said. "He was in expert hands."
"You stuck me with the needle, right?"
She smiled. "Of course, Mack. You deserve the very best." She turned to the other women. "Okay, you've seen him. Introductions later. Right now Mack and me got some catching up to do." The three women nodded and left. The blonde began singing along with the radio again. Bolan struggled to the edge of the shifting bed, waiting for the grogginess to clear. It didn't.
"I know what you need," Shawnee said. She sat next to Bolan and began rubbing his neck and shoulders. Her long fingers were hard as the prongs of a rake as they expertly worked his tired muscles, avoiding the bandaged areas. "How's that?"
"Haven't lost the touch, huh?"
"About the only thing I haven't lost." Bolan looked her up and down appreciatively. Her Jenim cutoffs and T-shirt didn't hide much.
"I noticed. Must be about forty pounds."
"Yep. I'd gained about thirty of them my first year in Nam. That's when we met. Took me years to get rid of them."
"You look good."
"Good? Hell, I look great." Bolan laughed. "I stand corrected."
"You didn't even recognize me, did you? Admit it. When you saw me at the jail today with Lyle, you didn't know who I was."
"You looked familiar. But it wasn't until I heard your voice just now that I placed a name with the face."
She gave him a serious look, her long black hair intensifying her expression. "It took me a while to place you, too. Had some alterations done to your face, huh?"
"A few. You know why."
"Yeah, I know. Who doesn't? Your name and escapades aren't exactly a national secret. But I heard you'd died."
"Came close enough."
She laughed. "I don't think I ever believed it, though. Not really. Any man who could survive what you did back in Nam — well, he wasn't about to get killed by mere cops or mobsters."
"Nam was a long time ago, Shawnee. We were both a lot younger."
"Dumber. Otherwise you and I wouldn't have lost touch." She paused. "I guess you know Billy died."
"I heard." Billy was Shawnee's brother, a medic who had served briefly with Bolan before getting wounded by a sniper.
Bolan had killed the sniper and carried Billy back to camp and a "dust-off" chopper. Billy had been transferred to a Saigon hospital and Bolan had looked him up on a three-day pass.
It was there the Executioner had met Billy's sister, Shawnee, an Army nurse with the 24th Evac Hospital in Tan Sa Nhut.
Plump, sassy, intelligent, she and Bolan had become pals, spending most of his three-day pass together, visiting Billy, dining out, just talking.
They'd corresponded whenever possible, maintaining their friendship, right up until the day Bolan had come home to bury his father, mother and teenage sister.
The day he stepped out of one war into another.
Shawnee stopped massaging his shoulders.
Bolan stood up. His body felt better now, his strength returning. "Why'd you bust me out?"
"Why?" She looked surprised. "Because, despite your little facial surgery, I recognized you. Your walk, your eyes, your, well, presence. Women sense these things. When I asked Lyle about you he told me your name was Damon Blue, so I figured the authorities didn't know who they had yet. But when they did, they'd throw you in the Atla
nta penitentiary so fast you'd have bar burns on your palms. And once you were in there, you'd never come out alive. Lots of Mafia guys in the Big A would just love to get their hands on you."
"Since when do you know anything about breaking people out of jails? That the latest in nurses' training?"
"I'm not a nurse any longer, Mack. Oh, I do some volunteer work at the VA hospital — that's where I met Lyle a couple years ago — but that's all."
Bolan walked over to the window of the bedroom.
He pawed aside the curtain and looked out over Atlanta, submerged in darkness. Electric lights glittered as in every big city, though Atlanta had a small-town feeling to it. A fuzzy aura of light seeped up over the horizon. It would soon be dawn.
He faced Shawnee. "You made a mistake breaking me out of jail."
"But..."
"I appreciate the motive, Shawnee, but I was in there for a reason, trying to keep someone alive. Now he's alone and exposed."
"Gee, Mack, I'm sorry. I didn't know."
He placed his rough hand on her cheek. "I know."
"Well, you can't just turn yourself in and claim you were kidnapped. They'd toss you in solitary."
"I wouldn't be much use there."
"So what are you going to do now?"
Bolan frowned. "Only thing I can do, I guess. Break him out, too."
"You'll need help."
"No." Bolan shook his head.
"We got you out, didn't we?" She went to the door and shouted, "Everybody. Come here." The other three women entered the room. "About time for introductions, Mack," Shawnee said. "This here is Belinda Hoyt."
Belinda stepped forward with a big smile. Her short blond hair framed her narrow face in a slight tomboy cut. But there was nothing else tomboyish about her. Her sleek body couldn't be hidden even under the gray sweatshirt and bib overalls.
"Howdy, Mr. Bolan."
"Belinda's from New Jersey," Shawnee explained, "so all that "howdy" and "shucks" stuff is just her rap. She wants to be a country singer."
Belinda's smile widened. "When in Rome, right?"
Shawnee continued. "This is Lynn Booker. Our legal adviser."
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