Santa Rosa.
He had driven through the town prior to scouting Rivera's stronghold, and the trip had taken barely twenty seconds. He recalled a service station and garage, a diner and a hardware store, a combination pharmacy and post office, a grocery store, a small saloon adjacent to the permanently vacant "motor inn." A scattering of weathered mobile homes and fading stucco houses on the outskirts finished off a classic portrait of the great Southwestern boom town gone to seed.
Was there a doctor in the tiny town? If not, he would be forced to raid the pharmacy for medical supplies, obtain some wheels and hope that he could make it to a larger settlement in time. Before his time ran out. Before Rivera's hit team overtook him on the road.
And if he found a doctor, then what? There were laws regarding gunshot wounds that required an immediate report to the authorities. He could demand the medic's silence, back it up with hardware while his wounds were stitched and cleaned, but he was not prepared to kill a man of medicine to keep him off the telephone. As soon as Bolan left the doctor's office, probably before he had the chance to find a car, the local law would be alerted. He did not remember seeing a jail or sheriff's station, but the town might have a marshal or a deputy in residence. In any case, he would be forced to deal with that eventuality when it presented itself. Anticipation was of value only if it helped a warrior to prepare himself, and at the moment there was nothing for the Executioner to do except continue to walk while he had the strength.
The doctor might not be a problem after all. If Bolan never reached the town, there would be no report to file, no deputies to be avoided. He could lie down here in the desert, surrender to the waves of dizziness that came from loss of blood, and wait to see if final darkness or Rivera's gunners overtook him first.
With iron will, the soldier thrust his morbid thoughts aside and concentrated on the sandy soil in front of him. Another step. One more. Another. It was light enough to see the rocks and cactus clearly now, allowing him to move with greater confidence, and soon the rising sun would start to drive away the chill that penetrated to his very bones. The sun would help, he thought — at least until its heat began to sap his remaining strength.
But that was hours yet, and Bolan knew instinctively that it was not a problem. Long before the desert sun could reach its zenith, he would be in Santa Rosa...or he would be dead.
And, then again, he might be both.
Rivera's gunners might have found his car. They might have pushed ahead to lay an ambush for him at the crossroads, loitering in Santa Rosa for the first appearance of a stranger desperate for blood and medical attention. They would not have any clear description of him, but they wouldn't need one. Santa Rosa was a fly speck on the map; it saw few motorists, and even fewer lone pedestrians from nowhere, boasting bullet wounds and packing pistols. If Rivera's scouts were waiting for him, he would stand out like an alien from Jupiter, and they would have him in a flash. But if he reached the hamlet first there was a chance, however slim, that he could pull it off. With little more than sheer audacity to carry him, he knew that it would be a near thing, either way, but it was not in Bolan's nature to abandon hope. While life and strength remained, the Executioner would not surrender.
Sudden writhing movement in the sand before him stopped the soldier in his tracks. His hand was on the AutoMag before he recognized the speckled gila monster waddling across his path, a kangaroo rat hanging limply from its bulldog jaws. The lethal reptile flicked a glance in his direction and continued on its way as if the man did not exist, intent upon its meal, survival in a world where there were only predators and prey, with nothing in between.
The chunky lizard posed no threat to Bolan, and he let it go. He was the prey this time, with hungry predators intent on running him to earth and finishing the kill before he had an opportunity to share his information with the world. It was survival of the fittest, but at a level far removed from simple maintenance of any food chain. And at the moment the Executioner was none too fit.
As if to emphasize his weakness, Bolan reached the border of a shallow gully, carved by flash-flood waters sometime in the distant past. No more than six feet deep, it posed an obstacle to Bolan in his present weakened state, and he could feel his energy escaping through his ragged wounds. The gully ran in each direction to the limits of his sight, considerably deeper on his left and closer to the highway on his right. Avoiding it might take him miles out of his way, and Bolan knew he did not have the stamina to strike off in a new direction, leaving Santa Rosa for a stroll around the open desert. He would have to cross the gully, and do it while he had the strength.
With effort and considerable pain, he sat down on the lip of the ravine, legs dangling in space. The bottom of the gully was a six-foot drop from where he sat. He had to gauge the distance, brace himself to take the pain of impact, keep his grip on consciousness no matter what. If Bolan lost it here, he lost it all, and he was not resigned to death yet.
A sudden drop might finish him, and so the soldier wriggled forward slowly, inch by inch, until he was supported on his elbows with his legs and buttocks stretched out on the slope of the ravine. When he was ready, Bolan simply raised his arms and slithered down the bank, his trench coat bunching up around his hips and snagging sagebrush all the way. He landed in a crumpled heap, legs folded under him, and waited for the flares of pain to gradually subside. His touchdown startled several quail from cover and they scattered skyward, beating at the dawn with frantic wings.
Phase one had been the easy part, and Bolan knew it would be harder climbing out than it had been falling in. He waited out the giddy rush that followed in the wake of pain and crossed the bottom of the gully on his hands and knees, ignoring stones and thorns that tore his palms. He did not need to turn and look to know that he had left a crimson trail behind him in the dust.
The gully's northern bank was not as steep — no more than forty-five degrees — and Bolan noted little burrows scattered up and down its face, which he could use as handholds for his climb. The burning pain had momentarily receded to an angry whisper, and he knew that there was no time like the present to begin.
Slowly, hand over hand, Bolan tackled the slope, ignoring fresh alarms of agony that emanated from his wound. New blood was warm and wet against his skin, and he ignored that, too, aware that he would die in the ravine and rot there if he let the pain and blood deter him. Twice he lost his grip and slithered backward, eating sand, and twice he started over. When he finally dragged himself across the lip of the ravine, he was exhausted, and he knew he dared not stop to rest.
So close. He was so close that he could taste it now, and if he lay there, let the weariness devour him, he had no chance at all. His coat was open, and Bolan saw the bright, fresh blood that soaked his skinsuit, further evidence that he was slowly dying, being drained of his lifeblood. There still might be a chance, but only if he stood, continued walking. Only if he made it into Santa Rosa. Soon.
He made it to his feet, somehow defying gravity and the shining motes that swam before his eyes. For several seconds Bolan felt light-headed, and he struggled to resist the sweet, seductive darkness that was waiting for him just behind his eyelids. Gradually the feeling passed and Bolan found that he was still standing. Satisfied with that, he used the highway and the rising sun as reference points for geographic north and started to walk. One foot placed before the other. One step at a time.
It took fifteen minutes for the Executioner to travel ninety yards and top a gentle rise of sandy ground. Below him, still a mile away and dusty-pale as no oasis ought to be, was Santa Rosa. Somewhere in the predawn darkness, he had crossed the border out of Mexico and into the United States. Without a map and compass to assist him, he had never known the difference.
Neither would Rivera, Bolan realized, with so damned much at stake. The niceties of jurisdiction would not faze his enemy this time. The hunters would be coming, could be there ahead of him and waiting at the tiny village, ready for the kill.
The Executioner was walking into Santa Rosa with hell-fire lapping at his heels.
2
They found the car at 4:15 a.m. The driver's effort to conceal it had been hasty, ineffective, and Rivera's pointmen spotted it where he had coasted off the road, behind a stand of Joshua trees and sage. The convoy slowed, pulled over, six cars now, including the pale-green cruiser they had picked up at the borderline. Their altercation with the patrolmen had slowed them down, but not disastrously, since their quarry was on foot.
On foot and wounded.
Luis Rivera opened the driver's door and peered inside. He did not give a second thought to fingerprints. The car was his, and a "stolen" report would be filed with the federales in due time. For now, establishing the name and destination of his enemy was more important. If the gringo bastard managed to escape with what he obviously knew about Rivera's operation in Sonora, he could make sufficient noise to rouse the Mexican authorities, compel them to forget the years of rich mordida they had accepted from Rivera as compensation for selective blindness. If Rivera's enemy escaped, if he was free to talk, then it was finished. Loss of merchandise worth millions was enough to put the man on Rivera's hit list, but the drugs could always be replaced. Provided that he was free to make the deal. But he would not survive in prison, even with his wealth to shelter him from harm. His empire would be picked apart by jackals in his absence, and he would be left alone to face the years of isolation, fighting for his life against the animals inside.
It was too much. Rivera pushed the image out of mind and concentrated on the car. The body armor had deflected several dozen rounds, as it was meant to do. The windows had cracked into tiny cubes in back and on the driver's side, but they had held. Rivera smiled and made a mental note to have another set of wheels just like it readied for his use within the week. There might be something they could do about the undercarriage to prevent a ricochet from wreaking havoc underneath the hood as this one obviously had. In any case, the shield around the gas tank had prevented an explosion, stopping several rounds, and there were still a few miles left in the puncture-proof tires.
What interested Rivera most, however, was the blood. Great blotches of it soaked into the cushions of the driver's seat, eliminating any notion that his enemy had slipped away unscathed. Someone had tagged the bastard, and the gunner would receive a bonus if Rivera could identify him. If he was alive.
He had already lost nine men, and while their lives meant nothing to Rivera in the abstract, he considered it a loss of face, a personal affront that must be rectified with blood. A man in his position must not let himself be vulnerable. He must have the wherewithal to stand against an army of his enemies. Humiliation by a single man would be unthinkable, the end of everything that he had worked for all these years.
But now his enemy was wounded and on foot. He had already lost a lot of blood, and every step would cost him more. He might already be delirious from pain and shock, condemned to wander aimlessly until the deadly sun finished him. The desert would kill the gringo, given time... but Rivera knew that he could not afford to wait.
He straightened and scanned the dark sandy wastes on each side of the highway, hoping against hope that he might see the bastard, spot his lurching shadow or the huddled corpse he would eventually become. The empty landscape mocked him, its mute rejoinder spelling out what he already knew: that they were dealing with no ordinary man.
This one was special, certainly. No ordinary man had cracked Rivera's security, blown his merchandise sky-high and eliminated nine of his most trusted soldiers before escaping in his Mercedes. It required a special man to drive away — and then to walk away — despite his wounds, the shock and loss of blood. He might not last a mile on foot, but while he lived, he was a mortal threat to everything Rivera owned, the empire he had created. While the intruder survived, Rivera was a man on borrowed time.
He had been thinking of the man as a gringo, but Rivera wondered now. The hit man was tall and he was dressed in black, his face obscured by cosmetics. For all Rivera knew, he might have been a black or a tall Chicano. Doubly thankful that the man had taken a bullet, he knew that it would make their manhunt that much easier. Whoever or whatever he might be, the enemy was badly wounded, perhaps mortally, and he would wear that wound as a distinctive badge of his identity. They could not miss him.
Unless the desert swallowed him alive.
If his enemy was rational and strong enough, he would be making for a settlement, a doctor, anyone who might possess the necessary skills to save his life. But if he was delirious he might walk around in circles till he dropped, covering miles with lifeless, zombie strides until his blood and strength gave out. If he had wandered off without a destination in mind, Rivera knew that they might never find him.
Even searches from the air might fail to spot the obvious, and he was on the wrong side of the border for any sort of massive sweep. He must be circumspect, discreet, but thorough.
Above all else, he must be thorough.
Killing those patrolmen at the border had been risky, but Rivera had no choice. Their cruiser might be useful, especially if his enemy should reach the sanctuary of a town. Official trappings could not hurt, and while the uniforms had been a bloody write-off, he still had the car, their weapons, badges. These objects might provide Rivera with an edge, if he was forced to deal with any other Americans in his search. They would not fool a lawman, but with civilians they might be enough to buy some time.
His men were rummaging inside the car, retrieving a submachine gun — empty — from the floorboards on the passenger's side, stripping the glove compartment of registration papers and any other documents. Beneath the dash they found Rivera's nickel-plated automatic pistol still in place in its special holster, undiscovered by the enemy, and one of them handed it to Rivera with a deferential, almost reverent, gesture.
He weighed the weapon in his hand, removed the magazine to verify that it was still loaded and tucked it inside the waistband of his slacks. His enemy had left one weapon empty, missed another, but they could not leap to the conclusion that he was unarmed. He had been carrying explosives at the rancho and he might have other lethal tricks in store for anyone who got too close. Despite his wounds and loss of blood, despite the distance he would have to travel and his loss of the machine gun, he was dangerous. This one would be dangerous until he died.
They were no more than sixty miles from home and yet Rivera felt the chasm widening, experienced the sense of distance that he always felt on entering the States. He was light-years removed from childhood in Nogales, running with the other homeless gutter rats who joined together for survival on the streets. As best Rivera knew, his mother was a prostitute who had been murdered by a gringo when her only son was eight years old. His father was a faceless shadow, never seen and seldom thought of. Rivera had survived without maternal or paternal care, and he had grown up hard, accustomed to the violence of the slums, where life was cheap and love was a commodity on sale.
At nine he had been picking pockets in Nogales, trusting in his size and speed until he grew proficient at the art, acquiring skill enough to dip the fattest wallet without ruffling its owner. Street gangs fought for territory, coveting the districts where the gringos came to spend their dollars, and before he was eleven, Rivera was a grizzled veteran of those wars. At twelve he killed a man — a boy, really, three years his senior — and ascended on the basis of his growing reputation to a leadership position in the gang he ran with. No longer forced to work the streets himself, he had instructed others in the art of picking pockets and began to cultivate a taste for certain minor luxuries.
The members of his gang had always handled pills and marijuana on a small scale — for the tourist trade — but in the early sixties, with the rise of "flower children" in America, Luis had recognized the drug trade's great potential. He had put his troops to work for men who farmed cannabis, had studied them and learned the rope
s, until he was prepared to take over the business for himself. It had not been an easy move. There had been bloody work involved, but by the time a certain Dr. Leary had begun to preach the doctrine of "Tune In, Turn On, Drop Out," Rivera had been ready to provide the children of Aquarius with all the marijuana they could handle. In the circles where he traveled, he had been respected and admired for his achievements. He was seventeen years old.
The marijuana trade was still important to Rivera, but his fortune had been tripled by the traffic in cocaine and heroin. The latter poison he refined himself, from poppy fields in the Sierra Madre, but the coke required a loose alliance with suppliers in Bogota. It was a risky enterprise with Colombians involved — people who were quick to launch a shooting war for no apparent reason — but again Rivera had survived. He was a multimillionaire who purchased politicians and policemen as another man might purchase cigarettes, and now it galled him that he had to do this butcher job himself. If it had not been so important...
But it was. The economic loss that he had suffered was sufficient to demand revenge against his enemy, but it was not his prime consideration. He had suffered a loss of face, and while the Oriental concept was an unfamiliar one, no Hispanic male grew up without a sense of pride, machismo, which demanded retribution for an insult. If Rivera let his enemy escape, competitors would think that he was vulnerable, weak. In time they would begin to test him, ripping off consignments, threatening his trade and territory, making inroads with his customers. The fire last night had cost him several million dollars, but it would be nothing in comparison to losses he would suffer if he had to start from scratch, establishing his territories through protracted warfare with the competition. Esquilante in Chihuaha, Lopez in Coahuila, Quintana in Durango: any one of them, or all of them together, would be glad to see him fall. Without Rivera in the picture, there would be more money for the smaller fish, more trade to go around.
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