Carrew sucked in his breath, and puffed his cheeks out as he blew into the tubing. The makeshift dart whooshed down the corridor and pierced Boone's throat just below the Adam's apple.
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.