Twisted Path te-121

by Don Pendleton

  As opposed to the small cells with barred doors that he had anticipated, there were fairly open areas that housed two to four men in relative comfort. None of the cells was the same, and each had been improved with blankets, furniture, small cook stoves, books and pornographic magazines according to the occupants' taste. The tall man attracted fixed, unfathomable stares from the other residents as he was guided deeper into the maze that formed the residential barracks. None of the quarters had doors, although each could be made private by a thick curtain drawn across the front. Some were closed even now.

  The lead guard stopped beside one of the openings and motioned Bolan inside. He stepped in to find another occupant reading, the book placed under a ray of sunshine streaming through a high, narrow window.

  "I don't suppose you brought any books with you?" Bolan shook his head.

  "Oh, well, it doesn't matter. English books are the hardest things to get in this hole. I'm Jason Stone." Stone extended a skinny hand.

  They shook hands as Bolan scrutinised his cell mate. He appeared to be in his late forties, slight, with round glasses and a straggling mass of brown hair streaked with Bray, which tumbled over a long, mournful face. Stone looked as though he had been cooked over a slow fire, which had rendered out all the fat, leaving a sinewy frame and leathery skin.

  Almost by way of contrast, a round face poked past the edge of the curtain. Not much taller than Stone, the fat, bald man must have carried twice his weight.

  A guard's uniform was plastered to the round tub, although he didn't carry a weapon.

  "Here is Cristobal to greet you and welcome you to our happy establishment. He is responsible for order in this section of the barracks. And this is..."

  "Michael Blanski."

  Cristobal was delighted and promised to perform any service at a reasonable rate. He backed out, waving and grinning, hoping to see Blanski very soon after he was settled in case he needed any small thing.

  "Welcome to Lurigancho, Blanski. You are a very lucky man, you know. Have a seat over there. That will be your bed." Stone gestured to a wide bed in the corner, tucked beside a tall dresser.

  Several blankets covered the bunk, which was topped by a feather pillow.

  "I hadn't expected the conditions to be so luxurious." Bolan was surprised at the furnishings Stone possessed, including a small library, some solid furniture and a modern radio and cassette player with a selection of tapes that leaned toward the classical.

  "That's one of the reasons why you are so lucky to be here. I've had three other cell mates since I arrived. The first one went mad and was sent to the asylum. The second one was killed in a fight. In both those cases their belongings were split among their friends. Fair is fair, you know. But the last fellow hanged himself one afternoon just above where you're sitting. It seems he had been getting anonymous letters something about his wife fooling around. Well, most of the people here don't want to have anything to do with unhappy ghosts, so most of his belongings have been left for you. A very superstitious lot, in general. Even though they are Catholics, they seem to believe much more deeply in the devil than in God. You aren't afraid of ghosts, are you?"

  Bolan shook his head. In his profession he couldn't afford to be.

  "Cristobal seemed like a friendly sort of fellow."

  "He is. It's a peculiar arrangement. In a strange way he is almost like our servant. But he can be vicious if you cross him or make him look foolish to the other guards. As long as you pay him off regularly and use his services, with a cut for his trouble, of course, he'll be a very happy man. And so will you. You can buy nearly anything you want here. Except your freedom. The whole thing still seems funny to me, but then this is the only prison that I've ever been in. What about you?"

  "I've seen the inside of a prison before. But this seems strange to me, too."

  Bolan was already making plans. If Cristobal was accommodating, there might be a way to obtain the tools necessary to stage a breakout. Comfortable as this was, for a prison, Bolan had no intention of remaining here any longer than was strictly necessary.

  "What are you in for?"

  "Not yet, not yet. We'll be together for a very long time. There's plenty of time to get personal and exchange stories in the future. But not too soon. The best friendships are forged slowly and crawl together at a snail's pace. I'll be here for another twelve years. You?"

  "Life."

  Stone gave a low whistle. "You must be a bad character, although you don't look it. I wonder if I'll be safe in my bed with you around." Stone laughed to take away any possible sting. "Come along and I'll show you around. But wait, wait. Do you have any money?"

  Bolan drew out the fifty. He didn't imagine for an instant that Stone would be the sort of man to steal it. Although in prison, Stone had a wise and educated air that made it impossible for the warrior to consider him a hardened criminal. Bolan expected that Stone, who obviously knew the ropes, might be a valuable ally and would take pains not to offend him.

  Again Stone whistled, this time sounding a note of amazement. "You're as rich as a bloody prince! You're worth a Peru, as they used to say. That will keep you for almost a year in this place. Cristobal only gets a quarter a week, and that's your main expense. Let me show you my former cell mate's hideout."

  Stone drew the curtain and moved the dresser a foot from the irregular stone and mortar wall. He pulled a small rock from near the base of the wall, revealing a depression about six inches deep. At his direction, Bolan placed the fifty in the hiding hole. With the small stone back in place, a very careful scrutiny would have been required to detect the treasure trove.

  "It will be safe now. You really don't have to worry about the other prisoners. Stealing is one of the things that can get you killed. Looking inside a cell when someone has the curtain drawn is another, since you might find someone hiding their stash. This is mostly to keep it hidden from Cristobal and the others. As it is, one member of a cell usually is pretty close by at all times, or you carry your valuables with you."

  "What else can get you killed in here?" Bolan had to adapt as quickly as possible so that he could devote his attention to getting out, not to avoiding being killed.

  "Do you like men?"

  "Not to date," he replied dryly.

  "Good. Looking at someone's queen the wrong way may get you carved up pretty badly. Some people here like men quite a lot. Apart from that, don't give the guards a hard time, especially the ones with guns. But they won't shoot you unless you try to make a break."

  Stone drew back the curtain and took Bolan on a short tour. A washroom lay a little farther down the hall, with a grinning Cristobal in attendance, engrossed in a girlie magazine.

  Water for showers was available on Wednesday and Saturday. Food was delivered three times a day, but it was only bread, cheese and water, serving to encourage the prisoners to patronize the services of the guards.

  The main gathering place of the prison was the courtyard, which was the exercise area, conversation pit, soccer field, outdoor barbecue center in short, the focus of prison life. About two hundred prisoners crowded the yard, singly and in small groups. Two soccer teams occupied the central portion, with an interested group of supporters cheering both sides.

  The only jarring note was the ring of guard towers around the high wall enclosing the yard, each manned by two men with long-barreled rifles equipped with sniper scopes.

  Complacency was the word that sprang to Bolan's mind to describe his surroundings. As long as the prisoners and guards all played by the rules, life was as easy and profitable as it ever could be in this environment. He suspected that most of the prisoners were here for long terms and were intent on doing their time as comfortably as possible.

  Bolan could never live that way. Echoing New Hampshire's motto, he believed in the words Live Free or Die. Spending one dreary day after another within four prison walls was bare existence. He would break through these forbidding concrete walls or die trying.

&n
bsp; 11

  Bolan and Stone stood near a wall of the prison yard. Stone continued to chatter, explaining the intricacies of life in Lurigancho.

  Cigarettes were the standard medium of exchange, except for certain of the guards who demanded cash on a regular basis. There was a set fee for various services within the prison, from laundry to sexual favors. Food, clothing, furniture, even prostitutes could be obtained from the outside for a small amount of hard currency.

  "It's livable, Blanski, as long as you keep your wits and can get hold of a little cash. The guards will beat you badly if you can't afford to pay off. I've seen prisoners beaten to death, the rifle butts rising and falling as though the guards were pounding corn. The corruption goes right to the top, so no one lifts a finger. Of course, there are rats among the prisoners here like anywhere else. Not real ones. Those are considered quite a delicacy when lightly fried, so you don't see too many, barring a few in breeding colonies that some prisoners keep. I mean the two-legged kind. And it looks like we're going to get a visit from King Rat right now."

  Five men were ambling along the edge of the yard in their direction. The prisoners lining the wall and soccer field moved to let the group pass freely.

  Anyone who was a little slow was shoved aside by two toughs who were the point men for the small party.

  "That's Raimondo," Stone explained. "He controls the drug trade within the prison, and as such he's rich and powerful among our little community. Don't try to interfere with his operations. That's another way to get killed in here. A couple of other cons have been knifed or had their necks broken this year, either because they were dealing themselves, or just because Raimondo didn't like them. People try to stay on his good side."

  "Don't the prison guards maintain any sort of control?"

  Stone snorted his contempt. "Violence and kickbacks are the way of life here. Sure, you can have whatever comforts you can pay for, but only the strong survive to enjoy them. If madness doesn't get you, disease or violence will. As for the guards, as long as they get their payments, they don't care if we beat or kill one another right under their noses. They seem to regard us as a separate species, not really human at all. If you get into trouble, you'll get no help from them. If you cause trouble with another prisoner, they won't intervene, either." Bolan stored away the data for later use.

  Stone was proving to be a gold mine of information, just as he had hoped. Some of that information might prove handy right now.

  The advancing party bore down on Bolan.

  Three of the men were clearly the muscle, mottled with scars and broken teeth that showed long histories of hand-to-hand combat. The leader was dressed in a freshly washed and pressed prison uniform, with a silver cigarette case protruding from the shirt pocket. Gold flashed from wrist and throat.

  Slim and self-confident, he seemed oblivious to his surroundings, acting as though he were strolling the grounds of his own private garden.

  Bolan had to look hard at the fifth member of the party. Small, delicate features had been enhanced with makeup and a blond wig, transforming a male prisoner into a very convincing simulation of a woman. A flower-patterned dress and high heels completed the illusion. The transvestite smiled broadly at Bolan.

  Raimondo halted by Stone and Bolan, his henchmen forming a protective circle. Smaller than the hardmen who ringed him, the drug lord radiated a sinister menace that a lesser man would have found intimidating. Flat black eyes sparkled under heavy brows as Raimondo examined Bolan, trying to stare him down.

  Bolan wasn't budging an inch and returned the thug's gaze, the warrior's steely look skewering the crime boss until the guy looked away.

  "So, you are Blanski, the new prisoner." Raimondo's tone was icy, although a quaver betrayed his annoyance at losing face in his first confrontation with the new inmate. Raimondo struggled to regain the initiative.

  Word traveled fast in the prison community, Bolan thought. Either that or Raimondo had had advance warning of his arrival.

  Raimondo ignored Stone as he addressed Bolan. He waved a hand casually, encompassing the entire massive structure. "All this you see about you is mine."

  With a pompous opening line like that, Bolan figured the drug boss was preparing a lecture about how great and powerful he was. Bolan was in no mood to listen to the guy rant about his own self-importance.

  "I thought it belonged to the government of Peru," Bolan drawled.

  Raimondo halted, his mouth open, as he was preparing to continue delivering his speech. His eyes glittered with a cold, reptilian dislike. He took a pace closer to Bolan, eyeballing the big man as he snarled, "The outside may belong to the government, but what happens inside, I control. The other convicts obey me, Raimondo." He thumped himself on the chest for emphasis. "You are as much my prisoner as the government's."

  Bolan wasn't about to take any crap from a petty criminal. He rocketed his fist into the vermin's jaw, sending Raimondo sprawling onto his backside.

  Sitting up in the dust and holding his chin, Raimondo shook his fist in Bolan's face, rattling the gold chains at wrist and throat.

  "Listen, you smart ass gringo, I run this prison. And I'll make sure that you don't forget it." He barked a command at the three hardmen.

  The two nearest hitters charged, while the third held back to look for opportunities.

  Bolan knew that a single man, properly trained, was more effective than any two or three hoodlums in a brawl. He stepped to his left as Stone scrambled out of the way of the bruisers.

  As one of the men rocketed by, Bolan stuck out a foot and tripped him. As the guy fell to the ground, Bolan crunched a power-packed blow to the point of his chin, dropping the enforcer like a stunned ox.

  The second man halted with a shout of rage as he found his outstretched arms empty of prey. The guy weighed about three hundred pounds, and Bolan guessed that his method of fighting was to flop on top of his opponents to crush resistance with his massive bulk.

  The pig eyes focused on Bolan, and with another shout, the fat man trundled forward like a maddened bull, heavy arms seeking to lay a bear hug on Bolan.

  The soldier waited impassively by the prison wall as the other man built up speed. At the last instant, Bolan dodged under a flailing arm and reappeared behind the thug. With a mighty shove the Executioner propelled the tub of lard into the wall.

  The hitter dropped on his belly, leaving a red streak down the rough stone from where his head had made contact.

  A crowd of prisoners had gathered to watch the brawl. They were silent, which told Bolan that Raimondo and his men were not liked enough for the other prisoners to cheer them on. At the same time, the drug lord was obviously feared, since nobody had the guts to root openly for Bolan.

  The last tough advanced to take his turn. He reminded Bolan of a gorilla, of medium height but broad and deep cheated, with long arms and shoulders as thick as small tree trunks. He grinned through chipped teeth as he pulled a switchblade from his pocket. Raimondo stood impassively behind, a tight smile on his face, anticipating the sight of Bolan's blood.

  The knife flashed in the morning sunlight. The crowd murmured, the excited sound that a mob gets when violence is on display, a diversion to pass the weary time.

  This player knew his business, advancing slowly with the knife held loosely and pointed upward.

  Careful, restrained movements tested Bolan's reactions without allowing a countermove.

  The warrior backed around the circle of prisoners, staying well away from the crowd, his main worry that someone might extend a foot to trip him up. If Bolan slipped, he wouldn't just be beaten, he'd be carved up like a jigsaw puzzle.

  He feinted to the side, but the knifeman turned in response, his lightning speed belying his squat bulk. Bolan kept his eyes on the knife, knowing that it was possible to fake an opponent out with the eyes or hands.

  Bolan pretended to miss his footing, his left foot sliding along the dirt. The knifeman stepped in, his blade flashing toward his op
ponent's exposed throat.

  The Executioner shot forward, his left arm grabbing for the knife hand, while his right balled into a fist for a shattering blow to the larynx.

  But this guy was no fool. He hadn't committed himself as much as Bolan had thought, and he danced back out of reach. As Bolan's fingers closed on air, the knife slashed through his left sleeve, the point carving a small trickle of blood along his forearm.

  The knifeman was grinning, thinking that he had won.

  Bolan knew it was time to try some tricks of his own.

  He recognized the grin for what it was, and decided to let the guy think that he controlled the situation. It might make him sloppy next time and give the warrior a split-second advantage, which would be enough.

  The bulky Peruvian danced back and forth, performing a little ballet as he edged Bolan around the ring of faces. He feinted twice, flashing the knife at Bolan's eyes. The knife flashed a third time, but as the warrior jerked his head away, he saw the killer flip the knife into his left hand with a flick of the wrist. This time, instead of pulling back, the hardman stretched forward, his right hand still waving as a decoy, the left hand guiding the blade to Bolan's heart.

  The Executioner struck hard, his right arm smashing the knife hand aside as he stepped into the advancing con. His left arm shot forward, palm outward. The heel of his hand connected with the tough's oversize nose, flattening the flesh and driving the nose bone like a projectile back into the brain case.

  The knife went spinning as the dead fingers relaxed and the hardguy crashed into the dirt.

  The crowd exploded into clapping and roared its approval. Almost everyone then drifted back to the entertainment of the soccer game, which had continued uninterrupted. One inmate placed the knife in Bolan's hand before he wandered off, the spoils given to the victor. Bolan folded it away after wiping it on the dead man's pants, pleased to not be empty-handed any longer.