He had joined his soldiers on the highway north of town, a small concession to impatience. Fully conscious of the risks involved, the greater distance to his native Mexico, he was determined not to miss the action if their quarry broke and ran. If anyone attempted to escape from Santa Rosa, he would be there, waiting with his men.
Another team still watched the highway to the south, and with Camacho's squad in Santa Rosa, that made a good-size army. It was enough to handle any threat that might arise, Rivera thought, and he was not without his friends inside the town itself. Strategic cash investments over the years had given him a lock on local law enforcement, scarcely worthy of the name, but if it came to violence, he was protected by the frail legitimacy of a tarnished badge.
Rivera checked his Rolex, scowling at the time. What could be keeping Hector and his crew? They had a radio; they should have been in touch by now, with some report of progress. Vickers should be helping them to search the tiny town, a task that might require an hour, two at the outside. Their prey was stranded, badly injured. How could he elude a team of able-bodied men?
Rivera lit a thin cheroot to calm himself and concentrated on the certainty of ultimate success. The time was not important; if it took an hour or an afternoon, it would be all the same to him. His honor would be salvaged, his supremacy assured. Competitors would have to reconsider their positions when they witnessed how he coped with grave adversity, the retribution he dealt out to his enemies at any cost.
Rivera hoped it would be possible to hunt down the American, retrieve him with a minimum of fuss and carry him back home for questioning. Ideally, no one in the tiny border town would know that he had passed among them, hunting for his prey. But he was ready for a siege. If necessary, he would level Santa Rosa, burn it to the ground and grind the ashes under foot. If Vickers could not help him by the authority of his position and his knowledge of the town, then he would cast the useless man aside and do it on his own.
Luis Rivera had not come up from the streets through countless brutal conflicts only to be beaten by a stranger he had never met. The gringo had some grudge against his operation, or against Rivera personally, but before the day was out he would know everything about his enemy. The man's own mother would not recognize him when Rivera finished drawing out the story of his life. And then, when he was finished, he would bring that story to an end.
Soon he would have his revenge. His reputation would be saved. No man would look upon Rivera as a weakling, someone to be trifled with, insulted by a member of the peasant class. He would again command the respect that was his due. He was the commander of a private army large enough and fierce enough to rule some modern nations, and if any of his rivals needed a refresher course in grim reality, he was prepared to tutor them in person.
Once again he checked his wristwatch. Seven minutes had elapsed, the seconds creeping past like hours as he waited for Camacho to report. Rivera arbitrarily picked out a deadline. Noon. If he heard nothing from his scouts by twelve o'clock, he would go looking for them, search the town himself if need be. One way or another he would see this matter finished, done.
He had more pressing business in Sonora, contacts to be made, incinerated merchandise to be replaced. His buyers in the States would not be sympathetic to an overlong delay; they might turn elsewhere for supplies if he could not fulfill their needs on time.
The present interlude was a distraction, though a necessary one. Soon Rivera could return to what he did best: generating wealth and enjoying the pleasures it could bring. It was his destiny.
But first, the American. First, the taste of sweet revenge. When he had had his fill, Rivera could relax and concentrate on business. When his thirst for vengeance had been slaked, his rage appeased.
Soon, now.
So very soon.
8
"What changed your mind about that call?"
Rebecca forced herself to meet her patient's eyes. "I haven't changed my mind. Not yet. It's just that... well, I'd like to try and understand you, why you do these things."
"Somebody has to do them."
"No." She shook her head emphatically. "I don't believe that. We have courts and laws to deal with criminals."
Mack Bolan smiled, without a trace of rancor. "Sure. And look how well they've done so far."
"We can't revert to vigilantism."
"I'm no vigilante. I'm in pest control."
"That's very glib, but we're discussing murder."
"Execution," he corrected her.
"The only legal executions are performed by order of the court, in manners prescribed by law."
"The law can't cope with syndicated crime," he said. "These savages have been evading laws and buying off the courts for something like a century, and that's just here, in the United States. In Sicily it dates back to the middle ages."
"Everyone has rights. The Constitution guarantees..."
"These so-called people threw their rights away," he interrupted her, "the minute that they started selling drugs to children, torching crowded tenements for the insurance, selling teenage runaways like cattle to the pimps in half a dozen countries. They convict themselves by every word they utter, every move they make. Their lives are one long guilty plea."
"And you're the self-appointed judge."
He shook his head. "I'm not their judge, Doc. I'm their judgment."
He was exasperating, so committed to his cause that everything she said was turned against her, twisted to become an argument on his behalf. And still she made no move to call Grant Vickers and report her wounded patient. She wondered if it might be something in herself that stayed her hand. Was she remembering the rage, the urge to kill that possessed her for a time, just after...
"This can't be much of a life," she said, determined to distract herself.
"It's not, but I get by."
She was amazed by Bolan's lone of resignation. "You've just been shot. You're stranded in a strange place, being hunted like an animal. I wouldn't call that getting by."
"I'm still alive," he told her. "What else is there?"
"Peace and quiet," she responded. "Home and family. A life without the guns and killing."
"Peace and quiet are expensive," Bolan said. "Somebody has to pay the tab. Besides my family's all gone."
"I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault," he countered. "The responsibility for that one's been assessed, the tab collected. It's old business."
"So, you're fighting for your family? For revenge?"
"In the beginning," he admitted. "But it didn't take me long to realize the savages were everywhere. My family's loss has been repeated every day, in every major city, since the mob got organized. If they're not bad enough, you've got the terrorists of various persuasions, racist groups and half-baked 'revolutionaries' killing for a cause that changes every hour, on the hour. Faces change, the propaganda varies, but they're all the same at heart. All savages."
"You're taking on the world."
"Not quite. I still believe that the majority of people would prefer to lead their lives without the threat of being raped or robbed or murdered. Live and let live. But before we get to that point, certain people have to die."
"And so you kill them, just like that?"
He thought about it, finally nodded. "Just like that."
"Because they're evil?"
"No. Because they're predators, and while they live, they have to feed. Unfortunately you and I are on the menu."
She was startled by a sudden frantic rapping on the door, and realized that she hadn't opened up the clinic. So distracted was she by her wounded patient that she had ignored the time.
The pounding was repeated, a percussion beat of desperation. She was halfway to the door when something made her hesitate and glance at Bolan.
"My guns," he snapped. "Where are they?"
The doctor shook her head. "I won't have killing here."
"You may not have a choice."
"Lie still. I'll h
andle it."
But she was trembling as she crossed the waiting room, caught up in Bolan's story, frightened by the thought of gunmen waiting on her porch. Would they have bothered to knock? Frozen with one hand upon the latch, she nudged the blinds aside and risked a peek, expecting burly ruffians with weapons drawn and poised to fire. Instead she saw Rick Stancell, slumped beneath his father's weight, supporting Bud with difficulty, smeared with blood that must have been the older man's. She hit the latch and threw the door back, stepping out to help Rick guide his father through the doorway.
"Rick, what happened?"
"Someone beat him up." The adolescent's voice was taut with grief and rage. "I found him like this, back at the garage."
"This way."
Without a second thought, she led her latest patient toward the tiny operating room. She thought of Bolan just before they crossed the threshold, almost steered the Stancell's back to one of her examination rooms.... and then she saw that Bolan had removed himself. The IV tube was clipped against its standing rack, where he had left it, and his bloody skinsuit lay folded on the counter, but the man himself was nowhere to be seen.
She and Rick helped Bud onto the table, then the boy backed off to let her do her work. A brief examination was enough to show Rebecca that she could not deal with Stancell's injuries in Santa Rosa. Both his hands were crushed, he almost certainly had broken ribs, and bleeding from the ears suggested damage to his skull. A neurosurgeon would be needed if her worst suspicions were confirmed, and there might be internal damage to Bud Stancell's lungs or other vital organs, suffered when his ribs were broken.
"I can clean him up and give him something for the pain," she told the young man, "but he needs treatment in a hospital as soon as possible. I'll make the call to the Grundys."
Amos Grundy was the chief of the volunteer fire department. His brother, Thane, had gone to paramedic's school in Tucson. They owned an ambulance, which they had purchased with the aid of county funds, and now monopolized the trade in patients being hustled off to hospital. They ran a decent service, Amos driving like a demon while his brother sat in back and tended to their passenger, and they had never lost a patient. Yet.
She snared the telephone receiver, raised it to her ear and waited for the dial tone. Nothing. She drummed the switch hook with impatient fingers, waiting, but to no avail. The line was dead.
* * *
From Bolan's hiding place inside a pantry room adjacent to the surgery, he could observe Rebecca Kent and eavesdrop on her conversation with the late arrivals. He was watching, listening, when she replaced the telephone receiver without dialing, turning with a frown to face the boy.
"The lines are crossed or something," she informed him. "Can you run on down to the Grundys? It would save us time."
"I'm gone," the boy replied, already suiting words to action as he raced out through the nearest exit, pounding out of sight beyond the windows.
Bolan stepped out of his hiding place, still woozy from the loss of blood and local anesthetic he had received. "You have that problem often?" he inquired.
The doctor almost jumped, then shook her head, returning to her battered patient on the operating table. "Once or twice," she said. "It's not unheard of."
"You assume it's a coincidence?"
"What else?"
He did not answer her directly, moving to stand beside the table. Dressed in Jockey shorts and bandages, he felt no chill. It was already hot outside, and Santa Rosa's clinic did not have the benefit of modern air-conditioning. An old swamp cooler labored on the roof, providing circulation for the rooms, but it would never be accused of freezing anyone to death.
"Who's this?" he asked.
"Bud Stancell, owner of the local service station." Dr. Kent glanced up at him, countless questions in her eyes. "Why do you ask?"
"Just curious. You get a lot of beatings here in Santa Rosa?"
She hesitated, even though she clearly did not have to think about her answer. "No."
"You've got a busy morning on your hands. A gunshot wound, a beating and your phone goes dead."
It hit her then, and she stood up to face the Executioner directly. "You believe there's some connection?"
"I'd give odds."
"Why would — whoever — want to hurt Bud Stancell? He has no connection with your private war."
"He didn't, till this morning. At a guess I'd say you're looking at the end results of an interrogation. Someone has been making sure I didn't get my car repaired, or find another one to take me out of town."
"And these same people cut my phone lines?"
"Maybe. It's more likely that they took the main lines down, outside of town. If anybody's interested, I'll bet you couldn't place a call on any phone in Santa Rosa."
"That's preposterous."
"So, prove it. Step next door and use a neighbor's phone. I'll keep your patient company."
She hesitated, finally shook her head. "I don't have time."
"None of us do."
Rebecca Kent ignored him. Stepping to the drug chest and unlocking it, she filled a hypodermic, locked the cabinet again and slipped the needle into her patient with the expertise of someone who has done it a thousand times before. A moment passed before the man relaxed, and then his moans receded, fading, until they had ceased entirely.
"He'll rest easy on the ride to Tucson."
"If he gets there."
"What? Oh, it's an easy drive. We have an ambulance in town."
"I wasn't thinking of the transportation."
"Oh? What, then?"
"Whoever put him through the ringer may have backup waiting on the highway."
"Mr. Bolan, I believe you're paranoid."
He smiled slightly. "Well, just because you're paranoid, Doc, doesn't mean that no one's out to get you."
"Mmm. You'll pardon me if I don't check for gangsters underneath my bed tonight? I can't believe these nameless heavies have the town surrounded."
"They have names," the Executioner assured her. "For the moment, you can call them Trouble."
"You look chilly, Mr. Bolan."
"I'm afraid I didn't bring my wardrobe with me, Doctor."
"Try the pantry. You should find some things inside the closet there. They won't be your style, but they'll cover the subject."
He backtracked, found the closet and opened it to find a couple of men's denim shirts, two lab coats, blue jeans folded on a hanger and a pair of slacks. He opted for a denim shirt and the jeans, surprised to find they fit him fairly well.
"Your husband's?"
"No, my father's." There was something wistful in her voice. "It's been a while. I never had the heart to throw them out."
He finished zipping up and left the shirttails hanging out to minimize the pressure on his wounded side. When he rejoined the doctor, she was swabbing down her patient's face with hydrogen peroxide, cleaning off the crusty blood and dabbing at his wounds, a pinched expression on her face betraying sympathetic pain.
"You care about this town," he said.
"Is it that obvious?"
"I wouldn't want to see you hurt. I wouldn't want to see this town destroyed."
"We'll make it."
Bolan didn't share her confidence. He did not want to think about the other innocents, across the years, who had been slaughtered when their paths had crossed his own. How many deaths of good people on his soul thus far? Too many.
He should leave at once, retrieve his weapons or depart without them. Either way, the simple act of getting out might spare her something, draw the heat away from Dr. Kent, her battered patient, and the town that was her home. If necessary, he could let Rivera's gunners see him, lead them out into the desert, let them take him there if it came down to killing. And it would, he knew that much. It always did.
On second thought, however, Bolan wondered if evacuation would achieve the ends he desired. If he was right, Rivera's gunners had already beaten one man, unaccountably allowing him to live. They we
re endangered by a witness now, the threat compounded by their victim's contact with his son and Dr. Kent. The ambulance attendants, if they came, would stand as two more leaks to plague Rivera, granting always that they were allowed to leave.
It would not matter, Bolan realized, if he exposed himself to the Rivera hit team now, or not. They had to finish mopping up behind them, and in the process, they were likely to encounter other witnesses in Santa Rosa. The stage was set for a chaotic bloodbath, and the Executioner could not escape a feeling of responsibility for having set the wheels in motion. If there had been something, anything, that might have been done otherwise...
He pushed the morbid train of thought aside. Regrets and self-recriminations would do nothing to prevent a massacre in Santa Rosa. On the other hand, there might be something that the Executioner could do.
"I'll need those weapons."
"No." The doctor's tone was resolute, as if she knew he would not resort to force. "Not yet."
He frowned. What was she waiting for? Could he trust her to decide when it was time, without delays that might prove fatal to them all?
He could have torn the place apart and found the guns himself, no doubt, but Bolan hesitated. It could wait, however briefly, while he calculated odds and angles. In a few more hours, it might make no difference either way.
* * *
Rick Stancell hit the sidewalk running, closing off his mind to the incessant heat and keeping up a driving pace around the back of Dr. Kent's clinic toward Main Street. Grundys' combination home and office was positioned on the southern edge of town, perhaps three hundred yards away. The pavement in front of Rick gave off waves of heat that made the storefronts shimmer like hallucinations.
He bolted across the sidewalk, onto Main Street in full stride, without a backward glance. He heard the screech of brakes, an angry horn and raised one open hand by way of an apology as he hot-footed toward the opposite curb. He spared a sidelong glance for the sedan that slithered past, a big dark Chevy, four men riding low behind the slightly tinted windows, plates from Mexico. It wasn't all that odd, and Rick had put them out of mind before he cleared another twenty yards, the Chevy disappearing down a side street, rolling lazylike, as if the driver were engaged in looking for an address that he couldn't find.
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