Luis Rivera pressed his face against the diner's window, shrugging off Camacho's hand as Hector sought to pull him back from the expanse of glass. From outside, the echoes slightly muffled, came another burst of heavy-caliber gunfire. As he watched, one of Rivera's pistoleros took a shoulder hit that knocked him sprawling, leaving him to wriggle for the cover of a nearby car like some amphibian deprived of water.
There had been shooting as soon as the sweep had begun. Pistol shots at first, sedately muted, and he had assumed they marked the deaths of the townspeople. Almost immediately, from a different quarter, the reports were followed by a shotgun blast, and he was not so sure. Then came the rifle fire, and he was certain: his forces were under attack.
From where he stood, Rivera could see two bodies lying in the street, as well as the wounded gunner who had made his way to cover. He would have to act on the assumption that there might be other losses, but he dared not falter now, or he would lose momentum, lose it all.
His other guns were under cover now, a few of them returning fire in the direction of a rooftop, somewhere to his left, beyond Rivera's line of sight. No doubt they had already found the sniper's nest, and they would root him out before he could do further damage.
Sudden hope was kindled in Rivera's breast. Suppose the sniper was none other than his quarry, cornered now and fighting for his life? It would make everything so very simple; kill the man, then turn in righteous rage and kill the town that had sheltered him. So easy.
But the sniper had not fired those muffled pistol shots, the shotgun blast had preceded his initial fusillade. Assuming that Rivera's quarry had decided on a last-ditch stand, there still remained a possibility of allies — or of locals acting independently, in the defense of families and homes. If the resistance should begin to spread....
He swiveled, snapping orders at Camacho, satisfied when Hector jumped as if he had been stung and hastened to obey. They must initiate a swift and stunning counterstroke before the enemy could organize and take heart from early victories. If necessary, he would burn the town and grind the ashes under foot before he let the people make a fool of him. In fact, a touch of fire might be the best idea of all.
He caught Camacho halfway to the door and issued further orders, watching Hector's face light up as he imagined Santa Rosa burning to the ground. It was the kind of thing Hector normally enjoyed, and he would have no qualms about destruction of the village, the annihilation of its residents. If anything, he would enjoy the sport.
Rivera moved back from the window, keeping Esteban beside him. The sniper had been spotted, soon he would be rooted out and killed, but there was still no point in taking chances. Any stray round crashing through the picture window might prove fatal, and Rivera had no wish to die — by accident or otherwise. He had too much to live for in Sonora, at the heart of his illicit empire.
Glancing at the waitress, he decided she would have to die with the rest of Santa Rosa. He could kill her now, but there was still an outside chance that he might need a hostage if he had to escape from the village, and together with the grizzled cook, she was the only ace he held. It seemed improbable, a morbid nightmare, but Rivera would not waste his hole card yet, before he had the situation well in hand and Santa Rosa was in flames.
When the town began to burn, its citizens would scatter, screaming, to their shops and homes. They would forget about resistance in their haste to rescue children, pets and prized belongings. They would be completely at his mercy, then, but there would be no mercy for the peasants who had dared to stand against Luis Rivera. Opponents were like insects, to be crushed and then forgotten, thoroughly eradicated. If any one of them survived, his raid on Santa Rosa would have failed, and he would be in grievous jeopardy.
There was no extradition treaty between Mexico and the United States, but the Americanos would not have to bring him back to make life difficult. A little diplomatic pressure, if strategically applied, might do the trick, compelling venal federates to forget about their bribes for once and launch a real investigation. The annihilation of a town, if traced directly to Rivera, just might be enough to put a temporary clamp on foreign aid, for example, while a case was built against him in Sonoran courts. Rivera would not normally have feared a prosecution — he was strong enough and rich enough to keep the sentence short, and he could run his empire from a cell as well as from his plush estancia— but this would be a different sort of prison time. If the United States employed its full resources to "persuade" his native government that stringent measures must be taken, there was ample evidence available to lock him up for life, without parole, in squalid quarters where his cash would do him little good. And it would not be long, if he was jailed, before the hungry sharks would start to circle, snapping pieces from his empire, claiming territories for themselves.
Survival hinged on Santa Rosa, and he could not escape that elementary fact, no matter how he tried. If anyone from Santa Rosa lived, he might be doomed. If two or three of them survived, he was as good as dead. There would not be a second chance, no way to make it up, repair the damage from afar. His life, his empire, everything depended on what happened in the next few hours, on the main street of a town too small to be charted on many road maps. If Rivera lost it here, he lost it all, and there would be no point in going home.
The dealer made up his mind swiftly. If he dared not lose, he would not lose. He would destroy his enemies, and let their dying stand as an example to the world.
He would prevail.
Johnny Bolan saw the roadblock from a mile off, a darker blotch against the heat haze of the far horizon, polished metal glinting in the sun. He pulled the Jimmy over, scrutinized the barricade through his binoculars, and saw that two cars had been parked across the road, their drivers and a third man lounging in the meager shade provided by the vehicles. None of them were in uniform, and none of them were Anglo. Johnny knew instinctively that none of them were lawmen.
They would be Rivera's men, detailed to seal off the town from the north, allowing no one in or out until the dealer's business had been settled, finally, with all concerned. The younger Bolan knew what that might mean, and he could not afford to let the barricade delay him any more than absolutely necessary.
Reaching underneath the driver's seat, he freed the Heckler & Koch VP-70 from its hidden rigging, easing off the safety as he placed it in his lap. The pistol's magazine held eighteen parabellum rounds, with number nineteen in the chamber; it was double-action all the way, and Mack had modified it personally to reduce the normally resistant trigger-pull. At any decent pistol range, it was a killer, and the extra loads would keep him firing when most adversaries had been forced to scramble for a backup magazine. With any luck at all, the piece would be enough. And if his luck ran out...
He pushed the train of thought away. Three men and two machines were standing in the way of a reunion with his brother, and he made his mind up that it would not be enough. With cool deliberation, Johnny put the Jimmy back in gear and rumbled toward the roadblock at a careful forty-five, both hands set firmly on the wheel. He guessed that they would speak to him, at least, and try to turn him back before they opened fire. If they didn't, he would deal with that eventuality when it arose.
The gunners scrambled to a ragged semblance of attention as the Jimmy closed to thirty yards, the leader stepping forward, both hands raised, to flag him down. No hardware was in evidence yet, and Johnny took it as a hopeful sign. If they were forced to start from scratch, the lag time would provide him with a lethal edge that they might never overcome.
He rolled the window down and waited for the leader to approach him, frowning with a simulated curiosity, the VP-70 in hand, poised below the windowsill and out of sight. The spokesman's companions were behind him, taking up positions for triangulated fire if they should be compelled to flash the hardware.
"What's the problem?" Johnny asked.
"We have been forced to quarantine the town, senor." The gunner jerked a thumb across his shoulder, indicating Santa Rosa, still invisible beyond the rise. "An accident with chemicals."
"No shit?" He gawked in what he hoped was a convincing imitation of concern. "My brother lives there."
"I understand, senor, but no one is allowed to pass."
"Well, rules are rules, I guess."
He raised the VP-70 and shot the gunner squarely through the forehead, blowing him away and tracking on before his two companions could assimilate the fact. The nearest stood his ground, one hand beneath his shirt and digging for his pistol. His partner sought security in motion, fading to the right and weaving while he wrestled with a handgun in the left hip pocket of his slacks.
John shot the nearer gunner first, two parabellum manglers ripping through his chest and lifting him completely off his feet. He was dead before he hit the ground. His sidekick stumbled, going down upon one knee, both hands outflung to break his fall, and it was all the edge that Johnny needed, granting him the time to aim and punch a bullet through the fallen runner's temple. He was quivering as Bolan stepped across his prostrate body, moving toward the cars. The keys were still in both ignitions, and he backed the larger vehicle — a Caddy — over to the shoulder of the road. When he had cleared a lane, he tramped back to the Jimmy and proceeded toward Santa Rosa.
In one respect the roadblock was a hopeful sign. If they were finished with his brother, done with Santa Rosa, they would not have posted guards to close the highway. Something must be happening, if nothing more than a mop-up, and he still had time to join the party. There was still a chance for him to bag Rivera before the man could retreat to Mexico. And there was still a chance that he might find his brother. A slender chance that he might find Mack alive.
He would have to be prepared for whatever waited for him in the streets of Santa Rosa. A hundred yards beyond the roadblock, still before he had a glimpse of town, he pulled the Jimmy over once again and walked around the back to choose his weapons. He lifted out the KG-99 and extra magazines, then hesitated, finally choosing the SPAS as well. Between the two, he had power and speed, a lethal combination any way you sliced it. There was still a chance it wouldn't be enough, but he was not intimidated by the odds.
His brother had not come this far by playing safe, and Johnny Bolan knew the odds against him going in. It was a losing game, no matter how you read the stats, with death the only certainty, and Johnny had resigned himself to falling in the cause. But not just yet, if there was any way to put the Reaper off. In lieu of lasting victory, he would accept postponement of the inevitable, another chance to face the savages and drive them back into their burrows, purge them with the cleansing fire.
He knew enough, from following his brother's war, that there would be — could be — no final victory against the cannibals. But he could singe their asses here and now. And he could do a great deal more, if he had come too late for Mack.
Rivera had arrived expecting to annihilate a town. Instead the dealer and his troops might be annihilated if a man had guts enough to stand before the gates of hell. As Bolan dropped the Jimmy into gear, he knew that he had the guts.
"I didn't mean to shave it quite that close," Grant Vickers said.
Mack Bolan held the lawman's eyes. "I'm not complaining."
"Reckon you're the fella that Rivera's all revved up about."
"You know his name?" the lady asked.
The constable seemed to pale beneath his desert tan. "We've met," he answered curtly, and he could not seem to meet the woman's gaze.
"But how..."
"We haven't got much time," the soldier interrupted, and he thought the officer looked grateful as he raised his eyes. "Rivera may not notice, but his people on the street will know they didn't fire that shotgun blast."
"I thought of that." The constable was looking Bolan over, closely. "As I recollect, he said that you were wounded. Are you fit to travel?"
"I'll survive. I couldn't say about the girl."
They turned to Dr. Kent, who shrugged dejectedly, still studying the lawman's face. "I've given her a sedative. We'd have to carry her."
"Too risky," Bolan told her. "I'd suggest a suck."
"I beg your pardon?"
"A diversion. Something that will draw the enemy away and keep them busy elsewhere. If we play our cards right, we could lay an ambush, turn it to our own advantage."
"Now you're talkin'," Vickers said, but there was less enthusiasm in his eyes than in his voice.
Before the warrior could elaborate, he heard the sound of rifle fire, immediately answered by the growl of automatic weapons. From the tempo of the gunfire, its direction, Bolan knew the rifleman was not a crony of Rivera's, but a sniper who had brought the raiders under fire.
"We've got some company."
"I'll be goddamned." The constable's amazement was entirely genuine; he had had a passing thought that his constituents might rebel, but he had honestly not expected it. "Who would have thought? I wonder who the hell..."
"Whoever," Bolan cut him off, "they won't hold out for long. We need to put the ball in motion if we plan on walking out of this one."
"Walking out?" The lawman seemed confused. "You mean you think we gotta chance?"
"We're not dead yet."
Grant Vickers seemed about to argue, but he let it go. It struck Mack Bolan that the constable had no intention of surviving through the night. He wondered briefly what had driven Vickers to the point of suicidal heroism, and he let it go. It didn't matter now, and if his first suspicions of the lawman were correct, the answer might be better left alone for now.
"You've got your cruiser?"
Vickers nodded. "Half block down the alley."
"Good. We'll need the lights and siren."
"Say the word."
He turned again to Dr. Kent. "Is there an inside way to reach the roof?"
She nodded. "There's a skylight in the main examination room. You'd need a ladder, though."
"I'll use the furniture."
"Your side..."
"Will have to take its turn. We're out of time."
The lady was about to speak, but kept it to herself. He turned to Vickers. "Give me five, and I'll be looking out for that diversion."
"I'll be there."
The constable was leaving when the lady caught his arm. "Be careful, Grant," she said.
"Hell, yes. You know me, Becky."
As he disengaged, the lawman's eyes met Bolan's, locked there for an instant, and the Executioner saw death, as cold and certain as the print on last night's headlines. Vickers might not let him down, but he had no intention of returning from his mission. He was cashing in, for reasons that the soldier did not have the time or will to contemplate.
"Five minutes."
"I'll be waiting," Bolan promised him.
The lawman grinned, an easy smile this time, and said, "Let's kick some ass."
And he was gone. Before Rebecca Kent could voice her questions, Bolan was in motion, moving toward the main examination room, the skylight that would put him on the roof with a commanding view of Main Street. Given half a chance, he would have opted for a big-game rifle, but the captured submachine gun, his AutoMag and the Beretta 93-R were the best that he could do, and they would have to serve. If used correctly, Bolan knew, they just might be enough.
The lady had begun to follow him, but Bolan turned and froze her with his eyes. "Stay with your patient," he instructed. "Don't come out for anything or anyone, unless I call you or you recognize the state police."
"But what about..."
He handed her the stainless-steel revolver he had lifted from another of Rivera's goons. "Take this," he said, and forced it on her when she hesitated. "If anybody else comes through that door, remember what they've done already, what they mean to do."
"I will," she answered, and the warrior thought she meant it.
For her sake, and for the sake of her sedated patient, Bolan hoped she meant it.
They had already searched the long-deserted Laundromat, and Stancell knew that he would be as safe there, for the moment, as he would be at any place in town. The empty building had a dusty smell about, but the atmosphere was much too dry for mildew, and the place was relatively clean. It was ironic that the usual pests and insects moved away when man departed, following his trail of refuse. There were still a few spiders in the Laundromat, awaiting contact with the few odd roaches that remained, but Rick ignored them. It was his turn now, and he was hunting larger game.
There had been firing up the street; a muffled shotgun blast, and seconds later, rifle fire. The latter was continuing, the raiders firing back with automatic weapons, but Rick could not see the sniper from his place inside the Laundromat. He could see two of the invaders, stretched out on the opposite sidewalk, lying in spreading puddles of their life's blood, and he would give the unseen sniper credit for a sense of style. Whoever he might be, his help was welcome in the crunch.
Rick watched another gunman fall. He had been hit in the shoulder, and started to wriggle toward the cover of a car parked at the curb. His path would bring him into range, and Stancell stepped into the doorway, easing off the safety of the shotgun he had lifted from a dying adversary in the pharmacy. He wasn't a pro at this, but he had sense enough to know that bullets would not pass through glass without some measure of deflection, and he did not wish to waste a single round of precious ammunition. Fortunately, the invaders had already crashed the door, demolishing its lock and knocking out a section of its plate-glass in the process.
Standing in the shadows, Stancell raised his riot gun and sighted through the jagged ruins of the door. He let his target reach the curb, then squeezed the trigger, riding out the mighty recoil as a charge of buckshot drove the wounded gunman back into the street, a rag doll flopping in the desert wind.
He scanned the street immediately, waiting — hoping — for the other gunmen to respond. Across the street and three doors up, a pair of them were crouching in the meager shadow of the grocery store, attempting to escape the sniper's plunging fire. The blast from Stancell's shotgun brought their heads around, and one of them was pointing at him — or at an automatic weapon in the general direction of the laundry, squeezing off a burst that chipped the masonry outside, and then both men were firing for effect. Rick triggered two quick blasts, imagined that he saw one of them stagger as he hit the floor.
A lethal storm broke overhead, with bullets shattering the plate-glass windows, gouging plaster, whining off the pipes that once had been connected to a line of washers on the wall. Rick hugged the floor and crawled through the broken glass to find a vantage point from which he could return fire through the doorway. He had bagged no extra ammunition from the dying gunman, and he knew the shotgun must be almost empty, but he still had pistols, and if he was forced to make his last stand in the Laundromat, they would not find him easy.
Rick poked his head around a corner, found the angle that he wanted, sighted quickly and pulled the trigger. This time there was no doubt: one of the gunners took his blast directly in the chest and toppled backward through a window of the grocery, raining glass and day-old produce around his body. His companion scrambled clear as Stancell worked the shotgun's slide, squeezed the trigger and heard the hammer snap against an empty chamber.
"Shit!"
He tossed the empty gun aside and snagged the automatic from his belt, retreating several feet into the store as some unseen assailant poured another burst through the windows. The crack of rifle fire rang out in counterpoint to the staccato grumbling of automatic weapons.
It was time to cut and run before they trapped him, cut off his last retreat. If he could slip out through the back, he might have a chance to lay another ambush for them, choose another spot to make his final stand. At this rate, hell, they might be chasing him all day.
The thought of victory had never entered Stancell's mind. Survival had seemed so improbable that he had never given it a second thought. But after killing men, and facing death himself, the young man realized how very much he wanted to survive. There was so much to see and do out there, away from Santa Rosa.
Raw survival was the problem, though. He could not count on living through the next five minutes, let alone the afternoon. Evacuation of the Laundromat was a start, but Stancell still had work to do. The enemy was still out there. Waiting. And while any one of them survived, Rick knew that he would not be whole, would not be free.
He had a job to do, and it was getting late. He prayed that it was not too late, and took himself away from there. To find the enemy.