Bolan shook his head. "I just asked her name, Carrew."

"Funny thing," the black man said, frowning. "Because she asked yours, too."

Bolan waited for more, but Carrew didn't offer anything. "What'd she say when you told her?"

"Said she could be wrong, but you reminded her of someone else, someone she knew a long time ago."

Bolan tried to think, picturing her gorgeous face, the trim body. A name hovered in the distance, out of sight. He had to stop thinking about it, concentrate on the escape. There were too many things that might go wrong for him to allow any distractions. He retied his shoelaces in double knots. There would be some running tonight.

"Said she didn't recognize the name, though. Damon Blue."

"I've used lots of names," Bolan said. "She think what name she knew?"

Carrew returned his concentration on the book he was reading when Bolan interrupted him.

Outside the cell, men milled back and forth. The cell doors were open for all the minimum security prisoners, giving them a chance to mingle before lights-out for the night.

Bolan headed for the open cell door. "See you later, Lyle."

Carrew looked up. "I wouldn't go out there, man. You're marked."

"Rodeo's not minimum security. He's supposed to be locked up."

"Big difference between "supposed to be" and "is."

Bolan knew that, but he had to check on Dodge Reed, make sure the kid was okay for the next couple of hours. "Thanks for the warning."

Carrew shrugged. "Just looking out for myself."

"Yeah, right."

Bolan was about to leave when a shark-faced guard blocked the doorway, chewing gum noisily.

He slapped his baton into his palm and nodded at Bolan. "Come with me, Blue."

"Where?" Bolan said. He recognized the guard as the one who'd exchanged glances with Rodeo out in the courtyard, the one who'd ignored the fight.

"You don't ask no questions around here, Blue," the guard barked. "You do what you're told. Now haul ass, mister."

Bolan started for the door, tripped over Carrew's wheelchair and fell sprawling to the floor next to the chair.

"Shit, man," Carrew complained, almost getting knocked over.

"Sorry," Bolan said, climbing to his feet, his hand pressed against his chest as if he'd bruised something.

"Don't get nervous now, Blue," the guard taunted with a chuckle, chewing his gum rapidly. "We ain't going to no gas chamber."

"Aren't you?" Carrew said.

"Watch yourself, Carrew. You don't want none of his trouble, do ya?"

Carrew stared angrily at the guard, then looked up at Bolan. "Like I said before, man. You'll have to help yourself."

"I just did," Bolan said. His back was to the guard as he opened his fist clutched to his chest. In it was Carrew's shank, which Bolan had taken from the wheelchair when he'd fallen. He stuffed it down his shirt.

"You mother," Carrew said, groping under the seat of his chair, finding nothing. He looked angry enough to lunge at Bolan, but the Executioner was already failing in step next to the gum-chewing guard. The other prisoners looked away as the two men marched by, as if they didn't want to be able to testify later.

Once they were out of sight of the open cells, the guard threw Bolan up against the wall, pressing his baton into the base of Bolan's skull as he frisked him. He pulled Carrew's shank out of Bolan's shirt. "Beena bad boy, Blue."

"Just something to sew my torn shirt."

He shoved Bolan ahead of him as they continued down the hallway. Bolan watched the guard unlock the door to the corridor for solitary confinement cells. They were hardly ever used to lock up prisoners, though they were a popular spot for boozing, shooting up or just passing a joint around.

"What's this all about?" Bolan asked innocently.

"Whaddya think, fish?"

"Maybe my pardon came from the governor?"

"Yeah," the guard snorted, "I want ya to meet the governor and his staff." He prodded Bolan ahead of him down the dim hallway. The doors on either side began opening. Three rough-looking men with shanks stood sneering at Bolan. And finally at the end of the walkway, Rodeo stepped out, his fists fitted with heavy brass knuckles with sharp one-inch spikes protruding from each knuckle.

9

"Wait outside," Rodeo told the guard, who grinned and left. The door closed behind him with a hollow thud.

Bolan was silent. He eyeballed each man carefully, analyzing from the way they moved what their strengths and weaknesses were. He didn't find many weaknesses.

The three men faced Bolan in the narrow corridor like a wall of malignant flesh, their hard thick bodies tense and bristling. The flat, crudely made blades shone dully in their hands.

Behind them, Rodeo chuckled.

There was no way out. On the other side of the door, their bribed guard was waiting. On this side, three armed bone-crushers and one bald giant with spikes on his knuckles.

Some choice.

"You boys can cut him up some," Rodeo was telling them, "but I want him alive." He hoisted his studded knuckles. "For these. My tenderizers."

Bolan fell into his combat stance, feet apart, weight evenly distributed. The corridor was too narrow for any fancy moves, but if he could get the knife away from one of those guys, he might just have a chance. Slim, but a chance.

The first to step forward was the heavy one with the matted hair on his arms and neck, the one whose face Bolan had ground to guacamole dip earlier that day. The nose was pushed to the left now with blood crusted darkly at each nostril. Raw tracks swirled across his face where the skin had been raked away.

"Easy, Bradley," Rodeo cautioned.

"Watch him." Bradley lumbered forward, his long blade stabbing the air in front of Bolan.

Bolan backed up, keeping a few feet between him and Bradley. He watched the hands, the shank flipping back and forth between them as the man with the raw face tried to catch Bolan by surprise. "Get his nuts," one of the other guys encouraged. The third man nodded, but didn't say anything. He was the one whose teeth Bolan had kicked out. Bolan glanced over his shoulder at the thick glass window in the door. The guard who'd escorted him here had his face pressed against the glass. He was grinning, chewing his gum excitedly. He reminded Bolan of those guys who like to watch dogfights, cheering the dogs on until one has gnawed through the other's throat, leaving his dying body convulsing in the dirt.

"Come on, big man," Bradley said. His eyes looked huge and white set in that pulpy skinless face. His knife tattooed the air in front of Bolan's face.

The Executioner backed up another step, but there was only three feet between his back and the door.

He didn't want to get cornered here, so he had to make his move. Soon. He feinted to the left, then kicked up his right foot, trying to catch Bradley's knife hand. But this time the heavy man was ready. He pivoted away from Bolan's foot and slashed at it with his shank. The knife caught Bolan low on the shin, slicing through his heavy pants and socks, plowing open a furrow of skin all the way to the bone. Bolan felt the blade's bite, the blood soaking into his sock.

Bradley's eyes lit up when he realized he drew blood. Bolan could swear the man began to drool as he grew even hungrier for more. He plunged forward, a little too anxiously, his shank flicking upward toward Bolan's face. The Executioner yanked himself back just as the blade hissed by his right eye. Then he ducked under the knife, knocked Bradley's arm into the wall and drove his fist straight into the fat man's throat. Bradley managed to tuck his chin down enough to deflect much of the punch's power, but still he staggered back from the blow, flopping against the door of one of the solitary confinement cells.