As he approached Santa Rosa, Johnny Bolan realized the town was burning. Smoky columns rose above the crossroads, staining what had been a pristine sky. He was downwind and driving with his window open; half a mile from town he caught the stench of burning gasoline and rubber.
Cars. But buildings were involved, as well. However it had started, Santa Rosa was in flames, and Johnny saw no evidence of anyone attempting to control the conflagration. Standing on the gas, he powered through the outskirts, passing ancient mobile homes, a vacant stucco dwelling gone to ruin in the baking desert heat. He entered Santa Rosa from the north and found himself inside a combat zone.
Downrange, a line of cars were smoldering against the curb outside a diner. Just across the street several shops were burning furiously, pouring smoke into the street and sky. He caught a glimpse of figures moving through the smoke in furtive rushes, scuttling back and forth without apparent destinations. Closer to his own position, on the roof of a garage a half block down, he saw a wiry figure with a rifle rise out of concealment, snap off three quick rounds in the direction of the running men, and duck back under cover.
Mack would be somewhere in the middle of that chaos, whether he was still alive or not. The younger Bolan sat for several seconds, watching Santa Rosa die, a passing thought to the images of Dante as the smoke curled toward him, driven on the desert wind. That wind would also be propelling flames, and in a few more moments half the shops in town would be on fire.
It would be suicidal, Johnny knew, to drive his Jimmy through the heart of town, attracting hostile fire from every side. He dropped the vehicle into reverse and powered backward, cranking on the wheel and gunning back into a narrow alleyway between two vacant shops. It would be safe enough, until the fire was close at hand, and he would be back well before that time. If he was coming back at all.
He slung the SPAS across his shoulder, grabbed the KG-99 and stuffed the extra magazines inside his belt. He locked the driver's door and set the tamperproof defense against intruders. If a car thief tried to break the lock, a loud alarm would sound; if he succeeded, it would blow up in his face, with force enough to flatten anyone or anything inside a radius of thirty yards.
He hit the street and homed in on the sound of automatic weapons. Santa Rosa was a tiny town, and he could see from one end to the other, barring interference from the smoke, but now the racket raised by autofire was coming from behind the shops that lined the west side of the street, as though a portion of the battle had moved on, retreating toward the desert. Johnny was about to follow, hoping for a chance encounter with his brother, when another portion of the war erupted in his face.
Above him, and to Johnny's left, the filling station's rooftop sniper sprang erect to bring his adversaries under fire once more. No sooner had he showed himself than a half dozen gunners broke from cover in a shop across the street, advancing at a run and firing as they came. They were Hispanic, dressed like street thugs, and it took no giant intellect to realize that they must be Rivera's men.
The sniper saw them coming, swiveling to drop the pointman in his tracks and ducking out of sight again before they started scouring the roof with autofire. One of them hesitated, stooped to check for vitals on his friend, and Johnny blew the gunner's face off with a well-placed parabellum round. The others scattered, laying down a screen of cover fire and racing for the sanctuary of surrounding shops, but Johnny bagged another on the run, the impact of a bullet in the spine propelling him against a lamppost with concussive force. The dying gunner slumped into a kneeling position, slowly toppled toward the street and finally lay still.
Not his three companions. They were bobbing in and out of cover, potting rounds at Johnny as well as the rooftop where the sniper had been seen. The younger Bolan knew they could not reach him where he was, but neither could he find his brother while they pinned him down. A change of strategy was called for, and he slipped the KG-99 across his shoulder on its sling before he snapped the safety off his SPAS.
In military parlance, the weapon was a Special Purpose Assault Shotgun, and it was something of an engineering wonder, capable of switching back and forth from semi-auto fire to slide action at the press of a button. Johnny's SPAS was set for semi-auto now, with seven rounds of double-ought inside the magazine and one more in the chamber. He did not unfold the weapon's stock, but rather used the tension of its sling to hold it steady as he peeked around the corner, marking targets, making ready for his move.
He let the gunners throw a few wild rounds his way and then erupted from his hiding place, the awesome shotgun tracking, seeking a target. The nearest gunner was sequestered in a doorway, on his own side of the street, and Johnny triggered off a blast that struck the alcove like a whirlwind. Sweeping on, without a backward glance, he caught the second pistolero just emerging from his place behind a pickup truck, his weapon poised to fire, and Johnny took his head off with a quick, reflexive blast.
The third man up was opting for the better part of valor, taking to his heels, when Johnny swung the SPAS around and helped him with a charge of shot that riddled him from neck to knees. The impact lifted him completely off his feet and pitched him forward, facedown on the faded center stripe of Main Street.
Awkward, clumping movement sounded on his flank, and Johnny pivoted to find the gunner from the blasted doorway lurching into view. He had been hit, more than once, but he was walking on his own and very capable of using the revolver that he carried. Bolan hit a combat crouch and squeezed the trigger of his riot gun, a stunning double-punch that blew the shooter backward through the doorway where he had been previously concealed.
He was about to turn away when movement on the rooftop of the service station froze him in his tracks. The sniper had emerged from cover once again, and he was sighting down the barrel of an M-l rifle, straight at Johnny's face. The younger Bolan brought his shotgun up, his finger tensing on the trigger, wondering if there was any chance at all for him to drop the rifleman before a bullet cut him down. He didn't think so.
Suddenly the sniper lifted off his stance, the M-l's muzzle veering skyward. With a grin, the wiry figure thrust one fist at Johnny, thumb extended in a high-sign of congratulation. Bolan gave him back the same, and watched the sniper drop from sight again, prepared to wait for other enemies to show themselves.
It was a luxury Johnny Bolan could not well afford. If he stood still and waited for the enemy to find him, he would forfeit any chance he might still have of finding Mack alive. Such a chance existed, he deduced from the continued sound of automatic weapons hammering away behind the storefronts on the far side of the street. The warrior headed in that direction, moving out to find the sole surviving member of his family. Failing that, he was prepared to find the fires of hell, and carry them against his enemies, until no trace of them remained.
Camacho snapped off two quick rounds, then ducked back quickly, diving behind the garbage Dumpster as a bullet sliced the air above his head. He cursed the gringo's aim, his obvious proficiency with firearms, and a sudden thought intruded on Camacho's mind: he wondered if they might have found the bastard they were hunting.
He had not seen the gringo clearly; just a glimpse of denim clothing, which was not the garb their enemy had worn last night. He could have changed, of course, but when they glimpsed him, he had not been moving like a wounded man already at death's door. He had been sprinting like an athlete, running serpentine to spoil their aim, and when he turned to face them, there was thunder in his hands.
Two of Camacho's men had fallen in the first exchange of fire. That left him only two, and they were staying safely under cover now, reluctant to expose themselves and tempt the gringo. Scowling at their cowardice, Rivera's crew chief risked a hasty glance around the Dumpster, scanning for his enemy, retreating quickly as a flicker of movement at the far end of the alley caught his eye. He waited for incoming rounds, then crouch-walked backward to the Dumpster's other end, abruptly popping up with pistol leveled to surprise the gunman.
Nothing.
The top flaps of a cardboard box were fanning in the arid breeze where he had imagined human movement seconds earlier. Camacho scowled, aware that he had almost wasted precious ammunition on a paper target while his enemy was safely hidden, waiting for the sound and muzzle-flash to offer him a target. Ducking back, Camacho knew that he would have to break the stalemate soon or risk disaster in the form of a surprise attack by other townspeople.
Behind him, from the general direction of the street, he could hear heavy firing, concentrated near the diner where Rivera would be waiting for him to report. Unless the other troops were emptying their guns at shadows, they must be meeting stiff resistance, and he wondered how much longer it would be before the angry citizens of Santa Rosa found him in the alleyway, cut off, with only two men to assist him. What had seemed a simple hunting party at the outset had degenerated into something desperate, something deadly, and Camacho had begun to wonder if he would survive.
It was the first time he had questioned the pronouncements of Luis Rivera, and the first time in at least decade that Camacho had been doubtful of his own ability to do a job. It had been simple: find the gunman, capture him and take him home for questioning at the estanda. As time went by, and they encountered marginal resistance, he had drawn another relatively simple job: burn down the town. But now, instead of herding frightened peons to their deaths like sheep to slaughter, he was pinned down in an alley, smelling garbage, fighting for his life. Camacho wondered, briefly, where he had gone wrong, and gave it up at once in favor of considering a different strategy against his enemy.
He snapped his fingers twice, attracting the attention of his two surviving gunners, who cowered on the far side of the alley. They were less than twenty feet away, but now they squinted at him, as if he were standing on the far side of a giant chasm. He directed them to rush the enemy's position, root him out. Camacho would be right behind them, bringing up the rear. He would be present at the kill.
They gawked at each other, whispering, and then they shook their heads in unison, a negative response for which Camacho was completely unprepared. He felt the color rising in his cheeks, restrained himself from shrieking at them with an effort. In the place of angry words, he raised his automatic pistol, trained it on their faces and repeated his instructions in a somber tone. The pistol's cold, unblinking stare left them in no confusion as to the alternative should they defy his orders.
Hector kept his finger on the trigger as they tottered to their feet, aware that they might turn on him, trusting in the strength of two-on-one to save their lives. He was prepared to kill them, if he had to, but it would not solve his problem. Rather, it would leave him all alone to face his adversary, and that was precisely what Hector wanted to avoid.
His men were cowards, anxious to retreat and save themselves. Camacho, on the other hand, was simply exercising the prerogatives of his command, employing solid logic. Two-on-one might take the gringo, although it was doubtful when Camacho thought about his swift response to five-on-one a moment earlier. If nothing else, the rush would force him to reveal himself, and when he rose from hiding to annihilate the others, Hector would be waiting for him, safely under cover, with his pistol primed and ready for the kill.
It was a simple plan, and therefore nearly foolproof. Any latitude for failure would be interjected by the sorry soldiers under his command. He waited, gestured with his pistol when they hesitated in the starting gate, then watched with satisfaction as they set out, one behind the other, running awkwardly, crouched, shouting, firing blindly toward the far end of the alleyway. A pair of Dumpsters stood together there, and Hector's enemy was bound to be behind them, certainly, unless...
No time for supposition now, as Hector stood erect, his pistol braced in both hands, elbows locked and resting on the hard edge of the garbage bin. He sighted down the automatic's slide with both eyes open, ready for minute adjustments when the gringo showed himself, prepared to empty out the whole damned clip in rapid fire and send his adversary off to hell without a face to call his own.
He waited, smiling, knowing that his time had come to shine.
The wound in Bolan's side had opened when he landed on his hands and knees in the alleyway, but he was scarcely conscious of the pain as he waited for the enemy to rush him, finish off the job. He had exhausted the supply of ammunition for his captured automatic weapon, and he had discarded it before the hunting party overtook him in the alley, firing wildly, closing fast. It had been luck as much as skill when had Bolan dropped a pair of them with hasty rounds designed to frighten more than kill, and now he waited for the final rush, a pistol in each hand, fresh blood like sticky perspiration soaking through his denim shirt.
He heard them coming, knew that they were making for the Dumpsters, counting on him to be there, relying on the greater cover to conceal their enemy. They would not spare a second glance for ancient, battered trash cans farther down the alley, where the Executioner sat, his back against a picket fence that bordered brown, withered grass, the small backyard of a deserted mobile home.
He pushed forward and stood, tracking with the Beretta in his left hand and Big Thunder in his right. Two men, already closing fast at twenty yards, were about to realize their last mistake too late, as Bolan's furtive movement brought their eyes and guns around toward unexpected target acquisition. They had bet their lives that he was behind the Dumpsters, and it was the soldier's moment to collect, in full.
He lightly stroked the 93-R's trigger, ripping off a 3-round burst that caught the foremost gunner in the chest and knocked him backward, off his stride and off his feet. He jerked and twitched for a moment, like a viper with a severed head, and then lay still. His partner, meantime, leaped across the new obstruction, desperate to stay in motion, counting on the Dumpsters for his own protection. He pegged a shot at Bolan, missing him by yards, undoubtedly aware that he could never make it, that his life was measured out in fractions of a heartbeat.
Bolan put a 3-round cluster through the runner's throat and nearly took the man's head off in the process, the lethal impact spinning his assailant right around and hurling him against the wall of an adjacent shop. Rebounding, Bolan's late opponent left wet traces of himself behind, like abstract artwork on the dusty stucco, drying quickly in the desert heat.
Four down, but there had been another, and before the thought had time to form, he was aware of subtle movement there, behind another Dumpster, halfway down the alley's length. A head and shoulders were revealed, hands interlocked around a pistol aimed at Bolan from a range of fifty feet. He squeezed the trigger of his AutoMag three times in swift succession, heard the heavy boattails clang against the siding of the Dumpster, drilling through, and then the silhouette of his assailant seemed to sag, collapsing, disappearing by degrees. The hands veered skyward, swinging up the pistol into close alignment on the sun, while head and shoulders kept on sinking, out of sight. Another moment passed, and the lifeless hands had disappeared as well.
He didn't bother checking on the guy. If his target was not dead or dying, he was out of it, so far as any action was concerned. Whatever happened to him now, the Executioner had business elsewhere, and Rivera's goon would have to look out for himself, if he was still alive.
Beyond the roofline of adjacent buildings, Bolan saw the rising smoke of shops on fire and knew the town was dying while he watched. Its death might be a swifter one, more merciful than lingering extinction brought on by neglect, but he could not escape a pang of guilt. If not for him, Rivera would have shown no interest in Santa Rosa, and the blight of Bolan's private war would not have fallen on so many other lives.
But there was no time to wallow in self-condemnation now that it was done. Survival was the top priority, for Bolan, for the citizens of Santa Rosa. Some of them, at least, were standing tall against the enemy; continued firing from the Main Street battleground informed him that Rivera's men had not found it easy going. He thought about Grant Vickers, the elusive sniper on the roof of the garage, and wondered if there might be others, fighting even now to save the town that was their home.
He hoped so, realizing that the only hope for Santa Rosa lay within her people. If they cared enough to stand and fight, there might still be a chance. If they did not, then the town and all had been long dead before Rivera ever showed his face and called for Bolan's blood on Main Street.
Concentrating on Rivera, the soldier knew his best and only chance of ringing down the curtain on the dealer's game was through a confrontation with the man himself — a confrontation in which only one of them would walk away.
There might still be a chance to keep Rivera from annihilating everyone in Santa Rosa, if the Executioner was swift enough and sure enough about his tactics. He would have to find a way inside the diner, first of all, or force the dealer to emerge... but, then again, the latter course of action might not be the problem that it seemed. Rivera had already been deprived of transportation, and the town was burning down around him. He would have to find some wheels, unless he meant to hang around and fry, or wait for the eventual arrival of the state police. But to acquire another car, or cars, it would be necessary to dispatch his gunners, singly or in teams. And if they failed to reappear...
Rivera would be forced to do it himself.
It was a plan, but Bolan knew that his success in pulling off the scheme was far from guaranteed. He might yet fail, and failing, he would lose it all: his war against Rivera's filthy empire, his crusade against the broader evil of the savages. He knew that death had been inevitable from day one, but the reality was something else entirely. Bolan was not ready to surrender by any means, but it was time to face the fact that he was not immortal, that he might not make it out of Santa Rosa.
He might die here, and with the town in flames, Rivera's troopers on the prowl, there was a chance his death might never be officially discovered. Johnny would suspect, of course, suspicion growing into certainty with time, and he would pass the word to Hal and the team at Stony Man. It did not matter to the Executioner that he might die unheralded, unnoticed by the world; what bothered Bolan was the thought that he might die in vain.
If he allowed Rivera to escape, resume his dirty trade from the Sonoran rancho, then he would have failed. It would not matter if he killed off half the dealer's troops and left the others scattered in the desert. The viper's lethal head might still survive, unless he crushed it totally, without remorse.
And that brought Bolan back to penetration of the diner, or a suck play that would draw Rivera into the open. There appeared to be no third alternative available within the time remaining.
He was conscious of the seeping blood inside his shirt, the denim sticking to his ribs and underneath his arm. He would not bleed to death before he finished with his work, but it was a distraction, and it weakened him by slow degrees.
No time to waste, then. If he meant to do it right, he had to do it now. The soldier turned to face the alley's southern mouth... and froze. His eyes were riveted upon the muzzle of an automatic pistol, aimed directly at his face from fifteen feet away.