The Executioner exploded into the remaining five, giving them no opportunity to regroup. He plunged his heavy boot forward, crashing it into one thug's chest like a stamping machine into sheet metal.
The victim's ribs burst inward, punching through heart and lungs. The body plunged backward, dead on his feet, throwing the toughs behind in confusion.
Bolan took advantage of the tangle of bodies to step forward, his red-spattered knife flashing, once, twice.
Two bodies dropped to the ground, throats slashed ear to ear.
Now it was two to one, but only momentarily. One of the remaining hitters took to his heels, hoping to put as much distance as possible between himself and the American demon, oblivious to the jeers of the other inmates.
The last guy was nearly as big as Bolan, and swung a long, heavy piece of chain above his head. The warrior ducked as the flying metal whistled toward his face, then leaped into the air as the return stroke came back knee high.
Bolan stepped in fast, spearing the knife at the chainman's eyes. The big Peruvian reacted too quickly for an easy kill, retreating beyond the blade with surprising speed. The warrior lunged forward like a fencer.
This time the savage was ready. He held his ground and replied with a quick flip of the chain. Bolan pulled back instantly, but not rapidly enough to prevent the chain from catching the knife and sending it flying end over end into the watching crowd.
The Peruvian laughed, exposing cracked, stained teeth. He advanced slowly toward the Executioner, the chain singing through the air in glittering figure eights.
Bolan waited calmly, as his adversary approached. Then, when the chain was just beyond striking distance, he launched himself forward, diving at the man's knees. As Bolan's shoulder connected, the flying chain touched the edge of his shirt.
The two men rolled, Bolan in a practiced curl, the hardman landing heavily on his back. As the other guy lay momentarily stunned, the Executioner spun, grabbed the chain and looped it around the Peruvian's thick, muscular neck.
Settling back on the ground, he placed a foot on each of the thug's shoulders and tugged. The hood's heels drummed on the ground as his hands clawed at the chain biting into his flesh. With a grunt, the Executioner heaved again, muscles bulging on his forearms. A vertebra popped with an audible crack, and the Peruvian lay still.
Bolan grabbed two knives from the scattered bodies, placing one in his belt. He edged through the door, expecting more trouble. A roar crescendoed outside as the other inmates fought for the privilege of stripping Raimondo's dead guards of anything of value.
The warrior paused a moment as his eyes adjusted to the gloom of the interior hallway. A long hall stretched before him, similar to his own area. Farther along, several curious but wary heads peeked from their cells. To the left, a stairway stretched to a landing and doubled back. The stairs were grooved beside each banister, silent testimony to the thousands of prisoners who had trudged their lives away inside the prison walls.
Taking time was to the big guy's advantage at this point. Whoever was up there knew that Bolan had carved his way through the main line of defence. He started up the steps, knowing that Raimondo was lurking somewhere above, gathering his remaining forces for a last-ditch stand.
He paused at the landing. A window at the top of the stairs poured sunshine almost directly into his eyes, making it impossible to see if anyone waited in ambush.
He crept forward more warily, conscious of his footing, and the sound of his breathing. His combat sense warned of danger ahead.
A step moved under his foot with a small sound that resounded like thunder in his ears.
A hitter popped from each side of the stairs and let fly, sending a razor-edged missile winging toward the Executioner before retreating for cover.
Their caution would cost them.
Catlike, Bolan ducked to stair level and the knives bounced harmlessly against the rough rock walls.
In the same instant, the warrior rushed forward, legs powering him up the stairs, eyes focused on the top.
A killer stepped right in front of him, arm raised to throw. Fright and surprise etched themselves briefly on the guy's face. He had obviously been expecting that Bolan would retreat and look for another way in.
No way.
Bolan punched his body forward, his head connecting with the hardman's chest as he plunged his knife deep into soft stomach tissue.
The Peruvian staggered back with a shriek, hands clutched to his streaming belly. The backs of his legs connected with the windowsill and he disappeared backward through the opening with a piercing scream.
The second criminal made his move, clumsily trying to take Bolan in the side. The warrior danced out of the way easily and launched a power-packed kick that got the knifeman in the side.
The thug took a dive down the stairs, rolling over the smooth steps until he came to rest in an untidy heap.
Bolan didn't bother to check if the guy was dead. His mind was focused on reaching his prey.
Raimondo saved him the trouble of searching by casually stepping from his quarters, a thin cigar clenched between his teeth.
A snub-nosed .38 stared at Bolan.
The warrior halted, gauging the distance and considering his options. If he tried a rush, Raimondo would riddle him before he could make it five feet from where he stood. If he stayed where he was, he was a dead man. Forward, backward or stand where he was, Raimondo had him dead to rights.
Like hell he did.
"Congratulations, Blanski. I expected you would be dead long before this. But never mind. Now I shall have the pleasure myself."
"A gun, Raimondo? Hardly fair. Wouldn't you like to try this man to man? If you aren't too scared of me, that is."
The drug merchant laughed mirthlessly, although the gun never wavered from Bolan's chest. "Do not think that you can trick me into something as foolish as that. I will not fall prey to your amateur psychology. This is not your American West, and I am certainly not some John Wayne. I do not care how I win, as long as I win. This gun is a favor that I have had to pay the prison officials very dearly for. Now it will repay my investment. I have buried many other strong fools before you, and I shall crush many more. Now, go to hell, Blanski."
Bolan watched Raimondo's eyes for the faint tensing he knew would precede the tightening of the trigger finger. At that instant the Executioner dived forward.
A red-hot pencil traced a line along Bolan's back, as the bullet carved a groove through the hard flesh topping his ribs, but luckily missing bones and vital muscles.
Bolan hit the stone floor hard, rolling onto his shoulder. As he completed the roll, he flung the knife at Raimondo. Bolan mentally crossed his fingers, for if Raimondo were sharp, this might be his only chance.
The warrior finished his roll in a half crouch, tensed to dodge another shot. There was none.
Raimondo sprawled in the corridor, one eye staring at the ceiling. Bolan's knife lay buried to the hilt in his other ruined eye.
When Bolan emerged into the sunlight, he was engulfed by prisoners cautiously but hastily edging their way past him into the prison block. Each was in a frenzy to raid Raimondo's area, to loot what they could before the guards came and took what remained.
As he traced his way back across the yard, Bolan became aware of the new wound. He could feel his shirt sticking to his flesh, captured there by the congealing blood. Everything else hurt, too, and now that the adrenaline rush had worn off, Bolan thought that he could count every bruise on his body with his clothes still on.
Things were rotten, but at least they were starting to improve. Raimondo was out of the way, a minor annoyance settled, another savage who could never prey on anyone else.
One down, and how many million to go?
Bolan wrenched his mind away from the futile speculation. Sure, there would be someone else jockeying for the fallen drug lord's throne, but one down was better than nothing. One step at a time.