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Hector Camacho scowled at the storefronts that slipped past his window. They all looked the same to him: dusty and lifeless, the signs of a town in the last throes of death. He had never enjoyed Santa Rosa, was never impressed by its stubborn resistance to change. Now, he thought, all it needed was one final shove toward oblivion. One little push. In his present mood, Hector would gladly oblige.
He had taken the flack for the raid on Rivera's estancia. Heat came with Hector's position — the second-in-command was always more responsible, somehow, than number one — but he had never been accused of negligence before, of sleeping on the job, and there was much to do before he could regain his pride. He must locate the gringo, first and foremost, bring him down before he had a chance to talk to anyone. Or, if he had shared his secret, if he even had an opportunity to speak, Camacho must eliminate his contacts on the spot. So easy, if only they could find the bastard.
Santa Rosa was their last real hope, Camacho realized. If their attacker had gone farther — if he had, for instance, thumbed a ride — then he would be beyond their reach. Rivera might put out a contract on him, through his contacts in the States, but it was virtually impossible to kill a man when you possessed no name or physical description of your victim. Stranger things had happened, true, but Hector did not put his faith in miracles.
All things considered, it seemed safe to say their enemy was still in Santa Rosa. He had lost his car a few miles south, and he had lost a lot of blood, as well, along the way. He might be dead already, sprawled beneath a cactus somewhere, waiting for the buzzards, but Camacho didn't think so. He had seen this one in action, and he had a rough idea of just how strong, how tough this hombre was. With his head start, there had been time to walk from the abandoned car to Santa Rosa, keeping well away from passing traffic on the highway. Once in town, the American would seek medical attention, but there was no hospital in Santa Rosa. Possibly a doctor's office. He would have to check it out.
The next priority was transportation. Once he was stitched and given medication for the pain, the gringo would be desperate to put some space between himself and Santa Rosa, running from the troops that would inevitably follow him. Except the troops were here already, and if the man had not stolen someone's car, it should be easy for Camacho's men to cover all the sources in a town this size.
The lone garage and service station was a possibility. Aside from that, there were no used-car lots, no dealerships, no nothing. People went to Tucson or Phoenix when they wanted to buy a car. They did not come to Santa Rosa for their major purchases. And, from appearances, Camacho would have said they seldom came for any reason.
He was satisfied their enemy was here, within his grasp, if only he could root the bastard out. A second car had been positioned on the highway north of town, its crew awaiting Rivera's order to seal the town. Before those orders could be issued, though, before Rivera risked a confrontation with the state police, the horrors of publicity, Camacho must convince him that their enemy was still in Santa Rosa.
Hector lit a cigarette and tried to put himself inside the gringo's mind. What sort of warrior were they dealing with? He was professional, no doubt about it, capable of taking on an army and inflicting heavy casualties before he slipped away. That ruled out the DEA, and Hector had already dropped the FBI from his considerations. They had no one like this man on their payroll, and the Bureau would not cross a border without filing forms in triplicate beforehand. CIA? It seemed unlikely. They were not concerned with drugs — unless they were involved in smuggling themselves — and they had once or twice relied upon Rivera as a source of contacts with the Contra movement to the south.
That left Rivera's various competitors, but once again Camacho had his doubts. If Esquilante or the others planned a move against Rivera's stronghold, singly or en masse, they would have sent an army to attack the rancho rather than a single man. And when their soldier fled, why would he run for the United States?
The more he thought about it, the more Camacho was convinced that they were dealing with an unknown quantity, a stranger — or a group of strangers — they had not encountered previously. Someone had decided that Luis Rivera should be driven out of business, and had taken steps to reach that goal. They had not been successful, even though they might have cost Rivera several million dollars in a single evening, but it was the very effort that disturbed Camacho, made him fearful for his own position. For his life.
He had come close, last night, with bullets snapping all around him in the fire-lit darkness, and he had not liked the feeling one damned bit. Camacho's idea of a shoot-out normally involved half a dozen guns — all his — against some solitary target who was taken by surprise, and preferably unarmed. This business of guerrilla warfare in the middle of the night was something else entirely, and it grated on Camacho's nerves. He might be dead already if another of Rivera's men had not been kind enough to step in front of Hector at a crucial moment in the action, stopping rounds that would most certainly have spoiled his day.
Camacho didn't like the sharp, metallic taste of fear. Since joining forces with Rivera, rising through the ranks to stand beside Luis, Camacho had become accustomed to inspiring fear, not suffering its chills and loss of face. He was a power to be reckoned with throughout Sonora, speaking for Rivera in his business deals and ordering elimination of the small-time dealers who attempted to encroach upon Rivera's territory. When Rivera fell, as he inevitably would, Camacho would be king.
Unless he blew it here, in Santa Rosa. If he let the gringo get away, he would be scum beneath Rivera's boots. The second-in-command could be replaced — could be eliminated — at any time. A word was all it took, and Hector knew that word was waiting on the tip of his employer's tongue right now. He had to prove himself, and soon, before Rivera started thinking that another man might do the job with more success.
His next step was immediately obvious. They had already searched the several streets and alleyways, without result. That meant the American was inside, somewhere, perhaps observing them right now. Hector knew what he must do to nail the town up tight, and he was ready to proceed. But first, he would require some inside help.
Grant Vickers finished off his second cup of coffee, left a dollar on the counter and waved a hand to indicate he didn't want the change. Old Beamer's waitress was a sweet young thing named Rachel, and she flashed him such a smile that Vickers thought his heart would break. An angel face, a body like she had... and Vickers would have bet his life that she was under seventeen. It was a crying shame.
He waved to old man Beamer, hitched his gun belt up and pushed through double doors to reach the sidewalk. It was heating up already, and it would be ninety in the shade by ten o'clock, assuming you could find a patch of shade, that is. The cruiser was not air-conditioned, thanks to misers on the town board, desperate to save a dime while everything around them went to hell. They couldn't tell the town was dying, but by God, they kept on top of "wasteful spending" by their constable.
He pulled up short before he reached the squad car, startled as he found Camacho lounging with his back against the driver's door. A little warning sounded in the back of Vickers's mind, and he recalled the crew he had encountered earlier that morning. Gunners passing through were one thing, damn it, but Camacho waiting for him out on Main Street in broad daylight was another game entirely.
"Hector, what brings you to Santa Rosa?"
"We have run into a little problem, Marshal."
"Constable."
Camacho shrugged and stared through Vickers as if he were made of glass. The lawman did not want to hear about his little problem, but he couldn't see a way around it now.
"Senor Rivera knows that, as a friend, you will be pleased to help him with his difficulty."
"I don't have jurisdiction in Sonora. You know that."
"Of course. The difficulty lies in Santa Rosa."
Vickers hooked both thumbs behind the buckle of his gun belt, frowning at Camacho. "Guess you'd better spell that out."
"Senor Rivera was attacked last night, at home. He is unharmed, but property was damaged, members of his household killed. The man responsible is here, in Santa Rosa."
"What? One man? What kind of loco idiot would go against Rivera on his own?"
Camacho shrugged again. "This is a question el jefe wants to answer for himself. I have been sent to find the man and invite him back to share Senor Rivera's hospitality while they discuss these things."
It was a job to keep from laughing at Camacho, but the lawman had more sense than that. He also had no doubts about the form Rivera's "invitation" would be bound to take. And he was not excited by the prospect of a shooting war in Santa Rosa.
"So, what makes you think your man came here?"
"We found his vehicle abandoned on the highway south of town," Camacho answered. "Also, he is wounded and in need of medical attention. He could not go far."
He thought of Becky first, and wondered if the guy would try to get in touch with her for help. She would be bound by law to let him know about a bullet wound, but Vickers thought that maybe he should stop in at her office, just in case. If nothing else, it would provide him with a fine excuse to see her, pass the time of day.
The sound of Hector's voice snapped Vickers from his reverie. "How's that?"
Camacho's scowl was withering. "I asked if you have seen a stranger, anything unusual this morning."
Vickers shook his head in an emphatic negative. "I'll keep my eyes peeled, but the kind of man that you're describing won't be dropping by the diner here to catch himself a BLT. He'll go to ground somewhere, most likely. Try to flag himself an outbound ride."
"We have anticipated that," Camacho told him. "I am certain that Senor Rivera would appreciate your help. In case a stranger should present himself to you..."
"I've got your number," Vickers told him. "I know how to handle it."
"Of course. Good hunting."
"Listen, Hector, I don't want a lot of fireworks here in Santa Rosa, if you follow me."
"We do what must be done."
He didn't like the sound of that at all, but Vickers knew that it would do no good to argue with the gunman. Nodding solemnly, he waited until Hector stepped aside, then unlocked the car door and eased behind the squad car's wheel and fired her up. Before he had a chance to pull away, Camacho snapped his fingers and a dark sedan appeared from out of nowhere, nosing in to block the cruiser at the curb. Camacho took his place beside the driver, flashed a hungry smile at Vickers, and then the wheelman put his wagon through a sharp, illegal U-turn, headed north again, in the direction of the highway.
It was too much to expect that they were leaving town. He knew Camacho well enough to realize the gunner would not go home empty-handed. Hector and his sidekicks would be hanging in until they found their man, or until they satisfied themselves that he had slipped away.
Camacho had been right, of course. If he was wounded and on foot, their quarry could not have gone far. His hopes of flagging down a ride this time of day were slim and none, but even if he tried he would be forced to show himself along the highway, and the vultures would be waiting there to pick him off. If he had gone to ground somewhere in Santa Rosa, on the other hand, he would be hungry, thirsty, maybe dying from his wounds. The guy would have to try to get in touch with someone who could patch him up, at least enough for him to travel.
And his thoughts came back to Becky. As the only doctor in a radius of about thirty miles, she stood a decent chance of meeting Mr. X before he tried to hit the road. If he was armed and desperate, she might be in a dangerous predicament. Held hostage, maybe, in her own damned office by a raving lunatic.
It might be the solution to his problems, Vickers thought, if things worked out that way. He'd have a chance to rescue Becky, earning her eternal gratitude, while taking out Camacho's man without a lot of fireworks from the border rats. He would be forced to shoot the guy, of course; he couldn't have Rivera's people coming for him at the jail, and if Rivera didn't like it... well, he'd have to live with it.
Grant Vickers reined in his wild imagination before it had a chance to carry him away. He had no proof as yet that the stranger was in town, forget about the Dirty Harry number out at Becky's. Still, it wouldn't hurt to warn her, just in case. It was his duty as the law in Santa Rosa, and no one could ever say that he had left his duty unfulfilled.
Bud Stancell was surprised to hear the bell that signaled customers in need of gas this early in the morning. He continued to open at seven every morning, even though he seldom turned a dollar prior to noon, and lately there were days when only one or two loyal patrons — locals — stopped at all. Sometimes he thought he should have sold the business after Ellen died, and tried his luck in Phoenix or Las Vegas, but he could not bring himself to leave.
He had grown up in Santa Rosa, as his parents had before him, but the town was different in those days. There was more border traffic in the years before the interstate had placed a quarantine on smaller towns, conducting tourists in their air-conditioned Cadillacs to Tucson and points east without a necessary stop in Santa Rosa. Time had been when stores were flourishing on Main Street, dealing souvenirs and cactus candy, buckskin duds and beadwork from the Papagos, but that was old news now. A few more years, he thought, and Santa Rosa might dry up and blow away, another ghost town swallowed by the creeping desert, lost to living memory.
Bud Stancell would remain because it was his home, but he had other dreams for Rick, his son. Already taller than his father, Rick had been starting quarterback for Ajo's high school football team last fall, and if he kept his grades up, he was looking at a scholarship, no sweat. It made a father proud to realize his son was strong and smart, a combination noticeably lacking in a number of his teammates. Once he went away to college, Rick would have a new perspective on his life, a view of something outside Pima County, even outside Arizona. He would see there was a big, wide world out there, and no mistake.
Bud Stancell's time away from home had been accumulated in Korea, at the Chosin killing grounds, and he was grateful to return and find Santa Rosa more or less unaltered in his absence. All the changes had come later, after he had married, sunk his final dollars into the construction of a service station and garage. In those days, "service" meant precisely that; a patron didn't have to kiss your ass to get the windshield cleaned, and gasoline was nowhere near the price of liquid gold. Sometimes Bud wondered what had happened to America, allowing little piss-ant countries where they couldn't even grow a decent weed to treat the richest nation in the world like she was second-class.
Perhaps Korea was the straw that broke the camel's back. He heard a lot of people bitch and moan about the beating taken in Vietnam, but the States had settled for a draw at Panmunjom some twenty years before the Nixon pullout from Saigon. Sometimes, especially when he'd had a beer or three too many, Stancell thought the creeping weakness might have started in Korea, taking years before it surfaced, like some kind of virus that lies dormant in your system, waiting for your natural resistance to break down. When the virus hit full-strength, it surely knocked the bottom out of StancelPs business, out of Santa Rosa as a whole.
He ambled toward the service island, hoping that it wasn't Charlie Maddox, not at this time of the morning. That old boy could talk your leg off, and he had a damned opinion about everything. You couldn't wish him Merry Christmas that he wouldn't let you have both barrels, running down commercialism or the heathen nature of the holiday. Bud wasn't up to Charlie's shit this morning, and if it was Maddox, if he started in on some wild hare or other, Bud would have to tell him so.
Except it wasn't Charlie. Hell, it wasn't even close.
Four Mexicans, all piling out of a late-model Chevrolet with plates that put them on the wrong side of the border. Stancell didn't mind, if they were paying cash, but there was something in their eyes that made him just the slightest bit uneasy. Something hard and hungry, like a pit bull's eyes before he took a piece out of your leg.
"G'mornin'. Need ta fill 'er up?"
The tallest of the men shook his head. "We're looking for a friend of ours. We were supposed to meet him, but his car broke down back there." A lazy thumb was cocked across one shoulder, indicating some point farther south. "Maybe you've seen him, eh?"
"Can't help you," Stancell said. "Nobody's been in here today, besides you-all."
"This hombre would be gringo," the interrogator said, as if Bud had not answered him already. "Tall. He might be looking for another car. You seen a man like that?"
"I told you, you're the first ones in today."
The tall man rattled something off in Spanish, shook his head again as if in weary disappointment. "It's important that we find this hombre," he explained. "We got some business with him."
Stancell didn't want to know about their business. He was smelling trouble now, the short hairs rising on his neck. He wished that he was in the station's office, where he kept the Smith & Wesson .38 tucked in a drawer underneath the cash register.
"I wish that I could help you," he responded, hoping that he sounded earnest. "If I see your friend, I'll tell him you were lookin' for him."
"Maybe you won't mind if we should take a look inside?"
"What for? I told you that there's no one here."
"A little peek, okay?"
They were advancing on him, slowly, closing in a pincer movement. Stancell dared not turn his back to run. Instead he started walking backward, toward the open door of the garage. If he could make it that far, he could duck into the office, get his gun and hold them off until he raised Grant Vickers on the phone. And if he couldn't make it to the office, there were wrenches, other tools, with which he could defend himself.
One of the Mexicans was about to cut him off, when Stancell bolted. Never mind the office, he was making for the tool rack, fingers outstretched for the pry bar when a flying tackle brought him down. He hit the concrete deck with someone riding his back, the impact emptying his lungs.
Before he could recover, they had jerked him to his feet. Two of the goons immobilized his arms and held him upright, almost at attention. While a third began to poke around his shop, the leader took a stance in front of Bud and kicked him squarely in the groin.
He would have fallen if the goons hadn't been supporting him. They couldn't stop his throwing up, a hearty breakfast splattering the leader's shoes before he stepped back out of range. Bud Stancell's lower body felt like broken glass.
"We need to find this hombre," he repeated patiently.
Bud gasped for breath. "The bugger hasn't been here!"
"Ah."
The man stepped closer and swung from the cellar with a fist encased in brass. One punch broke Stancell's cheekbone, and he felt his mouth fill with blood.
From that point on, Bud Stancell couldn't have responded to their questions even if he knew the answers, and they seemed to know it. Three of them were on him all at once, with fists and feet, and then the fourth was wading in from somewhere, getting in his licks while there was something left to kick around. They worked in silence, angry, driven by frustration, as they played a brutal game of soccer with his body.
Somewhere in the middle of it, after something like a minute, Bud got lucky and lost consciousness. Another seven minutes passed before his visitors got tired and ambled back in the direction of their Chevrolet.