"I will take that chance." Rivera checked his watch and frowned. "Your people have five minutes left before I must begin to search myself. I have allowed myself to hope that it would not be necessary, but I see now that I have been foolish, treating peasants as if they were equals."
"People in this town won't take a roust like that without a fight."
"Then they will die."
It was his last word on the subject, and the lawman knew that there would be no point in reasoning or pleading with Rivera. There were too damned many witnesses already; all of them would have to die before Rivera's army headed home. There would be questions, either way, but with survivors there were likely to be answers, and the dealer could not take that chance. Investigation of a massacre in the United States might force the government of Mexico to take another, harder look at the Sonoran empire that Rivera had constructed for himself. With diplomatic protests flying, routine payoffs would not do the job. There would be too much blood to cover with mordida. But sometimes blood washed blood away, and if you spilled enough of it, you covered up your tracks.
Rivera would be capable of wiping out the town, Grant Vickers realized. The dealer would not lose a moment's sleep about a few more lives — or deaths. How many people had he killed already in the name of "business"? Hundreds? Thousands?
Grant Vickers had an obligation to the town of Santa Rosa, to its people. He had abused their trust, but until this afternoon, the payoffs, lies and secret dealings with Rivera had done nothing to diminish his performance as protector of the tiny town. He had performed with honor, and if certain shipments of narcotics passed through town, northbound, without a second glance from Vickers, it was nothing to the people whom he served. The drugs would not be dealt in Santa Rosa, and it was not Vickers's job to second-guess the DBA boys by obstructing traffic at the border. If the Feds could not prevent Rivera from importing dope, how could a small-town lawman hope to stem the tide?
Rivera smiled across the table, and his grin reminded Vickers of a hungry shark. "Relax, amigo. We are partners, si?"
Grant forced himself to smile and nod as though he were buying it, when all the time he knew it was a crock of shit. Rivera had him measured for a box already, with the rest of Santa Rosa's citizens, and Vickers knew that he could never hope to save the town unless he saved himself as well. No matter that he didn't feel worth saving. It was simple: dead men couldn't fight, and they were way beyond negotiations with Rivera now.
He rose to leave and felt the dealer's weasel eyes like gun sights boring in between his shoulder blades. He reached the exit, waited with a hand out for his Python, while the sentry glanced back at Rivera for instructions. At a nod, the gunner shrugged and gave the Colt to Vickers, stepping back to let him pass. Outside, the noonday heat struck Vickers like a fist above the heart.
It was as hot as hell already, but he knew that it would be a damned sight hotter in the coming hours. When it was done, he might just have a chance to sample hell and make a real comparison. Unless he found some luck he didn't know about. Unless he found the nerve, the guts, to stand against Rivera's men and make it stick.
It was as good as suicide, but Vickers knew he had no choice. He owed the town that much, at least. He owed that much to Becky Kent.
* * *
Luis Rivera lit another of his cheroots and blew a cloud of acrid smoke in the direction of the diner's ceiling. Vickers would bear watching; he could feel the man about to break, and when it happened, Vickers might surprise him. Weak men sometimes found an inner well of courage, strength that they, themselves, had not been conscious of until a crisis brought it forth. Such men were dangerous, but only if you let them take you by surprise.
It would have been so easy to eliminate the constable just now. A simple gesture to his men and Vickers would have been cut down before he cleared the exit. Simple. But the dealer had more pressing matters on his mind, and Vickers was not going anywhere. His life was here, in Santa Rosa, and he clung to foolish hopes that something might be salvaged from the town. If nothing else, he cherished hopes of personal survival, counting on his past association with Rivera to secure his life. The gringo might not realize that their connection marked him as a liability; while Vickers lived, the secret of this day would not be safe. Rivera had not reached his present age and station by allowing loose ends in his business dealings. Careless errors were often fatal, and the dealer planned to reach a ripe, old age.
The peasants had refused to give up his quarry, but he was not persuaded by the lawman's arguments about the gringo dying in the desert, unobserved. Rivera felt his prey in Santa Rosa, knew that they were close, and if the people of the town would not cooperate, he would be forced to search the hamlet door-to-door until he found the soldier, trussed him like an animal, and took him home for the amusement of his troops. If he could not find out who had employed the man, Rivera thought that he might try another tack. It might be fun to issue invitations, bring his chief competitors together for a demonstration of his vengeance on the gringo warrior. One of them, at least, would get the message; all of them would realize that he was no one to be trifled with.
But first Rivera had to find the man.
He checked his watch again and saw that it was time. The townspeople had ignored his offer, spurned his generosity, and now the time had come for them to pay. It was a lesson Rivera knew he would enjoy.
He summoned Hector from his table near the diner's entrance, issued orders for the sweep to be initiated, starting from the north. Half of the gunners were to stay with him, securing the diner, while the others worked the street, checking every shop and home in turn. Before they finished, he would have his man in the bag, and then he would be free to finish with the peasants who had dared defy him.
Beckoning the waitress to his table, he requested beer and smiled at her, excited by the fear he saw behind her eyes. Again, Rivera thought that it might be amusing if she came with him to Sonora for a while. She would resist, but he would offer her an option: life or death. Reduced to basic terms, the most unpalatable notions grew persuasive, and if she resisted him in bed, so much the better. He enjoyed resistance, to a point; it made the ultimate surrender that much sweeter.
He waited for her to return and then ordered food. Rivera was not hungry, but he liked to watch her work, and he would have to keep his strength up for the test to come. They might be challenged yet, by one or another of the locals, and he wanted to be ready for the challenge, if and when it came. He might enjoy a contest, come to think of it... provided that the outcome could be guaranteed. It would not do for him to be embarrassed by the residents of Santa Rosa, not when so much was at stake.
He turned to face the diner's broad front window, watching Hector as he issued orders to the troops. The wholesale killing would not start until they had their man, but in the meantime, any obvious resistance would be dealt with harshly and irrevocably. If the townspeople wanted war, he would provide them with the opportunity for martyrdom. It was the very least that he could do, and it would be a pleasure.
And while he waited, there was still the waitress, curiously childlike and appealing in her linen uniform. Rivera teased himself with mental images of her, at home in his estancia. She might be good for more than momentary dalliance. She might...
But he was being foolish now. She was nothing, no more than a trifle in the scheme of things. Rivera might find time to play with her a little, but he dared not make more of her than she was. If he attached undue importance to the woman, he would have to think of her as human, and it would be that much harder to dispose of her when it was time. He could not let himself become attached to anyone or anything that he might later have to throw away.
Outside, his men were dispersing, moving out to start the sweep that could have only one result: the capture of his enemy and destruction of the tiny town that had inadvertently sheltered him. He felt no pity for the town; it had been dying over time, by slow degrees, and now Rivera had arrived to end its misery. H
e was performing something of a public service, eliminating what had come to be a laughingstock, an eyesore on the highway. In death the crossroads hamlet would achieve a fleeting place in history before it faded, out of sight and out of mind. Its fate would rank along with other legends of the desert: Superstition Mountain, the Lost Dutchman mine, the Seven Cities of Gold. For a time, men would speak the name of Santa Rosa with a kind of wonder, speculating on the perpetrators of amassacre that would make history. And gradually, when no answers were forthcoming, it would be forgotten like the desert's other unsolved mysteries.
In time.
Rivera was concerned about the present. If he could not unearth his quarry, it would matter little what became of Santa Rosa. With the gringo bastard still at large, his operation would remain in constant jeopardy from unknown enemies. If they could penetrate his best defenses once, they would be capable of doing it a second time, keeping on until they finished with him, left him empty, ruined, like the peasant he had been in childhood. Scowling, Rivera took a silent oath that he would not allow himself to be defeated by the faceless enemy. He would prevail and force the opposition to acknowledge his supremacy before he snuffed them out like cockroaches beneath his feet.
Rivera thought that it would be a pleasure. And, in any case, he owed it to himself.
* * *
Two hours out of Santa Rosa, Johnny Bolan had to stop for gas. The station was a weathered, two-pump pit stop on the edge of nowhere, manned by a proprietor who seemed to have absorbed the brutal sun for years on end, his skin becoming taut and as brown as leather. Johnny left the guy to fill his tank and wipe the dead insects off the windshield, making for a phone booth tucked around the side. There was no trace of a directory, but Johnny punched up Information, receiving the area code for Santa Rosa, along with the numbers for the constable, a clinic and the only service station in the town. With quarters stacked in front of him, he tried them all... and each time heard a busy signal droning in his ear.
He gave it up and called the operator to get assistance with the call. He let her have the clinic's number, waited while she patched it through and grimaced as a recorded voice came on the line. "We're sorry," it informed him, "but your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please hang up, then check your number and try again. If you still cannot complete your call..."
"I'm sorry, sir," the operator broke in, interrupting the recording. "All our circuits into Santa Rosa show up busy at the present time."
"Is that unusual?"
"I really couldn't say."
He fought the urge to curse and shout at her, aware that it would gain him nothing. "Let's assume it is unusual," he said. "And let's assume that everybody didn't use their phones at once, okay? Is there another reason why the lines might show a busy reading?"
"Hypothetically, if there was damage to the lines, they might report as busy, sir."
"In that case, I would like to file a damage report and request immediate repair service."
"Are you in Santa Rosa, sir?"
"Of course not. How could I be calling Santa Rosa if I was in Santa Rosa."
"I'm sorry, sir, but you must be in Santa Rosa to request repairs on lines in Santa Rosa."
"How can I request repairs from Santa Rosa if the lines are down?"
"I'm sorry, sir..."
"Can you at least break in and see if anybody's on the lines from Santa Rosa?"
"We are not permitted to intrude on private conversations, sir, except in cases of emergency."
"All right. I'm Dr. Joseph Gray, and I have urgent business with the Santa Rosa Clinic. I take full authority for any inconvenience you might cause by breaking in..."
"I'll have to get permission from my supervisor, sir."
"How long will that take?"
"If you'll just hold on a moment, sir..."
The Jimmy had been gassed, its windshield cleaned and it was ready for the road. He slammed down the telephone receiver, aware that he could be in Santa Rosa by the time he got in touch with someone who had both authority and guts enough to break in on the busy lines from Santa Rosa. And if back-checks from a distance proved the lines were down, then what? The process would have wasted precious time, and gained him nothing. While he waited on the phone to speak with faceless supervisors, Mack was trapped in Santa Rosa, maybe fighting for his life.
He passed a wad of rumpled bills to the attendant, slid behind the Jimmy's wheel without his change, and put the vehicle in motion, headed east. Two hours, give or take, and there would still be daylight left when Johnny reached the killing ground. Still time to find his brother... or, at least, determine what had happened to him, the direction his killers might have taken. Not that there was any doubt about Rivera; he would run for home when he was finished, and the younger Bolan would eventually find him there. It might take time, but he had time to spare. It might take everything he had, in worldly terms, and it would still be cheap at half the price.
But helping Mack was the priority. If John could reach him while he lived, before it was too late, then he would find a way to pull his brother out of Santa Rosa, more or less intact. If battle had been joined before he reached the tiny crossroads, he would wade into the middle of it, strike whatever blows he could against Rivera's team. He might find unexpected allies in the populace, and then again...
It didn't matter, Johnny knew, if anybody stood with them or not. Together, he and Mack could choose their ground and make a stand their enemies would not forget. Together, they could take apart a strike force many times their size.
Together...
Johnny pictured Mack, stretched out and lifeless on some dusty sidewalk, while the locals gawked and fought for scraps of clothing from the famous dead. A three-ring circus, with Rivera in the role of ringmaster, calling the tune as his brother's corpse lay in state beneath the broiling sun.
Except that it would never be like that. The citizens of Santa Rosa would not have an opportunity to join the hunt, assuming that they had the urge. If they were cognizant of what was happening and free to talk about it, someone in the outside world would certainly have gotten word by now. The hamlet's several lines would not be engaged all day long if everyone in town was busy hunting Bolan in the streets. That left one possibility, and Johnny knew it was the truth before he ever set foot in the little town. He knew that Santa Rosa was besieged.
Rivera would be taking every possible precaution to ensure success and ward off interruptions. Taking down the phone lines would be basic, child's play, and it would prevent the citizens of Santa Rosa from communicating with the outside world when things got tight. Roadblocks were a possibility, although they might be subtle, letting unofficial traffic in and no one out. The heavy hardware would be closer in, downtown, prepared to move on contact with the Executioner. If John was cautious, if he kept his wits about him, there was still a decent chance that he could get inside the first perimeter, make contact with the enemy's main force before they knew that he was coming.
And if they tried to stop him on the highway, he would find a way inside, in any case. He would not let them turn him back when he had come this far, endured this much, to reach his brother's side. He was prepared to charge the gates of hell, if necessary — and, the warrior knew, it just might come to that. But hell was only frightening to those who feared the flames, and Johnny Bolan had been burned before. He recognized the heat, accepted it, and it held no more terrors for him.
He was ready for anything Rivera might have waiting on the streets of Santa Rosa. And if death was waiting for him there, as well, so be it. Every man had an appointed hour of destiny, but few were privileged to choose the ground, the cause in which they fell. It came as a relief to know that he would not be swept away by circumstance, the victim of some random accident or careless Sunday driver. Death was too important to be left to chance.
If it was time, the younger Bolan meant to make his final hours count for something. And Rivera would remember him, whichever way it went in Santa Rosa. He
would rue the day when he had taken on the Bolan brothers, even with an army at his back.
The fire was waiting. John could feel its heat already, drawing closer, and he craved it now, to keep him warm.
16
Sitting in his cruiser on the northern edge of town, Grant Vickers knew that there was nowhere left to run. His effort to negotiate a cease-fire with Rivera had been doomed from the beginning. There was nothing he could do to save his town from ruin, nothing he could do to save himself. But he could still resist, make things a little tougher for Rivera on the road to final victory. With any kind of luck at all, he might get one clean shot off at the man himself.
With luck.
The lawman's luck had been all bad, so far, and he did not anticipate a change, but it did no harm to be ready, just in case. With leaden fingers, Vickers freed the 12-gauge pump gun from its dashboard rack and retrieved the box of surplus shells from the cruiser's glove compartment. He worked the Remington's slide, chambering a live round, then withdrew another magnum cartridge from the box and fed the shotgun's tubular magazine. It gave him seven rounds, for starters, and if he could not hit someone with a shotgun, at the range he had in mind, he might as well give up.
He set the riot weapon's safety, laid it to the side, and set the open box of cartridges beside him on the seat. There would be no question of reloading if he stumbled into any kind of ambush situation, but it never hurt to be prepared. And if he played his cards right, he might lay an ambush of his own. Rivera might get careless and drop his guard enough for Vickers to attempt a kill. It was a long shot, granted, but it might be their salvation if he came up empty on more practical ideas. And in the meantime, there was Becky Kent, her teenage patient, and the clinic to be watched, protected.
Scanning with binoculars, the lawman watched Rivera's gunners scatter from their tight perimeter around the diner, fanning out across the street. It was beginning, and he didn't care if there was a stranger hiding out in Santa Rosa. It was his town, not Rivera's, and he carried the law, in his badge and in the swivel holster on his hip. It didn't matter that he had spent years ignoring portions of his duty; he was ready now to take a stand, and if he was too late to win, at least he knew that it was not too late to try.
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