They were beginning at the southern end of Main Street, going door-to-door from all appearances, and at their present rate they might not reach the clinic for an hour. Then again, Rivera had had ample time to scan the local telephone directory or question hostages inside the diner. He might know about the clinic, give it top priority, in case the wounded stranger had succeeded in his search for medical assistance.
If there was a stranger.
If he had ever been in Santa Rosa in the first place.
Vickers put the riddle out of mind. It did not matter in the long run if Rivera was correct or not. The bastard had already killed five people, maybe more that Vickers didn't even know about, and he was bent on wiping out the town to keep his bloody secret safe. The question of the stranger had become superfluous, irrelevant to everything that was about to happen. If he found the guy right now, this instant, and delivered him into Rivera's hands, the dealer would no doubt proceed with his annihilation of the town.
It was a no-win situation, but surrender only made Rivera's job that much, easier, and Grant was in no mood to make things pleasant for his enemy. He was about to light a fire beneath Rivera, and he hoped the dealer would go up in flames. If not, at least his pride might get singed around the edges, and he would remember Santa Rosa as a town where one man found his guts and made a stand.
One man.
It had a solitary ring about it, chilling Vickers to the bone. And there was no one he could turn to for assistance. Maybe, if Gib Schultz or Bud Stancell had still been alive... But they weren't, and there was no damned use at all in crying over spilled blood. The other able-bodied men in town were working on surrounding farms, some of them traveling as far away as Tucson for the daily grind, and by the time the first of them returned from work that evening, it would all be over. That left Vickers with a pool of children, housewives and a few old men to staff his army, and he knew it wasn't worth the time or effort to begin recruiting now. Whatever he accomplished, he would have to do alone, and that was fine. The lawman thought that he deserved no better, and the thought did nothing to improve his mood.
He put the cruiser in reverse and backed into the alley, cranking hard around until its nose was pointed toward the clinic. There might still be time to see that Becky Kent was safely under cover while Rivera's goons were busy canvassing the street for prey. He might succeed in persuading her to leave town, seek shelter...
They would have to take the girl, of course. He knew Rebecca would not leave a patient to the wolves; it was against her nature. Vickers didn't mind transporting Amy — they were in so deep already that it couldn't get much worse — but what if Becky's patient was not fit for travel? Could they somehow fortify the clinic, drive Rivera's raiders back before they got inside?
It was a fantasy. One man, a woman and a wounded girl could never hope to stand off an army. He might take down the scouts, but once Rivera's reinforcements arrived, the outcome would be swift and certain. Still, the prospect of a valiant sacrifice possessed a certain morbid charm. It would be bitter irony if he became a hero, after selling out the town for so damned long, but stranger things had happened.
Too bad, Grant thought, that he had lost his faith in miracles. He could have used one now. Hellfire, he could have used a dozen.
* * *
As he passed the pharmacy, Rick Stancell hesitated on a hunch and tried the back door, found it open. Locking doors had never been a top priority in Santa Rosa, where security came first from knowing everyone in town, and people found their solace in the thought that neighbors wouldn't steal. Such thinking wasn't always accurate, but there had been no ugly incidents within Rick's memory. Until today.
Today had ruined everything, thrown trust into the trash, along with justice, honor, decency. Rick knew that he would never trust another stranger, but it scarcely mattered, since his life was measured out in moments now. Men with automatic weapons were already moving door-to-door on Main Street, in search of someone Rick had never seen. Unless he missed his guess, they would be killing as they came, eliminating witnesses in what would surely be a full-scale massacre before they finished.
Standing on the threshold of the pharmacy with two guns tucked inside his belt, Rick felt like an invader, as if he had somehow joined the enemy. It did no good to tell himself that he was fighting for the town where he was born and raised. In truth, he knew that he was seeking plain old, everyday revenge. For Amy. For his father. There was something painful in the knowledge, something guilty, but he pushed the thought away and concentrated on his mission, on his enemies.
They would be close at hand. They had begun at this end of the street, and he was standing in the third shop on a north-south axis formed by Main Street. A feed store and a tiny Laundromat, both out of business, were the only structures to the south, and it would not take long to scour their interiors. He would be stunned if either building hid the Mexican's stranger, but Rick knew it would not matter either way. The gunmen had to make a clean sweep and they were coming, even if they found their prey the first time out.
As if on cue, the front door opened to admit a pair of grim-looking thugs, and Rick stepped back behind a stack of cartons, scrutinizing them. One had a shotgun propped casually across a shoulder, his partner had an automatic pistol tucked behind the buckle of his belt, easily accessible. As they sauntered toward the register, Rick knew instinctively that he would have to neutralize the shotgun first. The handgunner would require some time, however brief, to draw and fire, but his companion only had to drop the weapon from his shoulder, point and squeeze the trigger.
Though a novice when it came to firearms, Rick was conscious of the captured automatic pistol's greater rate of fire and stopping power in relation to his father's .38. He had already checked over the pistol, satisfied himself that it was loaded, with the safety off, and now he drew it from his belt, the hammer locking under pressure from his thumb, one eye closed as he sighted down the slide. He aimed directly at the shotgunner's chest, following his target as the goon stopped short before the counter, lowering his weapon, grinning at the pharmacist, the man he was prepared to kill.
"You know why we are here, senor?"
Before the druggist had an opportunity to answer, Rick squeezed off two rounds in rapid fire. He was astonished by the recoil, thankful that the gun was braced in both hands, with his elbows locked. His first round drilled a hole in the gunner's chest and knocked him off his feet; the second missed completely, detonating bottles of cologne that were arranged behind him on a shelf. The empty cartridge cases struck the wall to Stancell's right, rebounded, clattering around his feet.
The second gunner was already digging for his weapon, scanning for the source of danger, when Rick put a bullet through his gut. The human target staggered, reeling, but he somehow kept his balance, hauling on the pistol that protruded from his belt. He had it now, and bloody hands were tracking onto target acquisition when a lucky second round sheared through his throat and slammed him backward into a display case, which collapsed beneath his weight.
Aware that time was counting down, Rick stood above his kills and scanned the battleground. The shotgunner was still alive, but fading fast, and Stancell did not waste a mercy round on what was soon to be a corpse. He pried the 12-gauge pump from flaccid fingers, moving on to claim the second gunner's pistol. He turned toward the counter and slapped the automatic down in front of Arnie Jefferson, the druggist.
"Use it if they come again," he said, and put the place behind him without waiting for an answer. There was too much left to do and he had only made a start. There was no time to waste in idle conversation, trying to convince a frightened man that it was preferable to stand and die than take it on your knees. If Jefferson could find the strength to fight, so be it. If he chose to die without a whimper, then the choice was his, and it would not affect Rick's future in the least.
Uncertain of his enemy's reaction to the burst of gunfire, Rick was conscious of a need to keep himself in motion and pr
event the hostile guns from fixing his position. He had taken out three so far, which left God knew how many still on their feet and up for battle, anxious for a chance to bag themselves a gringo. Stancell had no doubt that one of them would nail him soon, perhaps the next time that he showed himself, but fear played no part in his thinking. He was numb, burned out, experiencing nothing in the way of terror at his prospects or elation at his recent victories. If they picked him off before he had a chance to do more damage, then at least he would have tried to even up the score. Three lives for one, and for the damage that the animals had done to Amy.
Rick was cursing as he put the pharmacy behind him. He wanted all of them, goddamn it, stretched out lifeless at his feet. If there had been time, he would have paused to mount their heads on poles, for all the town to see, but Stancell knew that he would have to be content with simply killing them, their deaths the only monument that he could hope to leave behind.
He was surprised to note that killing did not seem to faze him. He experienced no nausea, no dizziness, no nagging pangs of guilt so often emphasized in movies and on television. There was nothing, other than the cautious satisfaction of a job well done, a job Stancell knew was not complete.
The others would be waiting for him when he showed himself. They would not know his name, might not be conscious of his physical existence at the moment, but it would not take them long to realize that someone was resisting, fighting back in Santa Rosa. They would be on guard, prepared for trouble, as the milk run turned into a contest for survival. Three of them would not be going home alive, and that would have to give the others pause. If they were frightened, if they hesitated on the firing line or wasted rounds on shadows, Stancell would be points ahead. He could not hope for victory, but there was still a chance to shave the odds before he cashed it in.
And every gunner that he dropped was one more victory. Another strike against the animals who had destroyed his world. It was the least that he could do, all things considered, and the former high school football star was gratified to learn that he could do it fairly well. He wasn't equal to the pros, but he wasn't doing badly, either. Three of the exalted pros were dead already, and he was not finished yet, by any means.
In fact, Rick had the feeling he had only just begun.
* * *
Rebecca Kent was startled by the muffled sound of gunfire that came somewhere to the south on Main Street. Turning to the Executioner, she swallowed hard and said, "It's started."
Bolan did not answer her directly. He was buckling on his web belt, with the giant silver handgun in its leather holster dangling on his hip. She watched him, silent, as he drew the weapon, checked its load, returned it to its sheath. "They're starting to the south," he said. "That gives us half an hour, max."
"For what?"
"To make this place defensible. Do you have any weapons on the premises?"
The doctor thought about it briefly, finally shook her head. "No, nothing."
"Tools or instruments?" he prodded. "Anything at all?"
"I have a set of scalpels," she responded hesitantly. "There should be a hammer and some other tools back in the pantry."
"Anything at all," he said. "And while you're at it, think about your drug stock, any sort of lethal chemicals or heavy sedatives. If you could mix a killer cocktail and have it ready in syringes..."
"No!" The vehemence of her reaction startled Dr. Kent, and that, in turn, was mortifying. He was asking her to kill with medicine, and for the barest fraction of a heartbeat she had actually considered it. "I can't do that."
"Fine." He did not seem inclined to argue with her. "You won't mind if I look through your stock, for something that could save our lives?"
The doctor blushed bright crimson, bit her tongue and handed him the key to her drug locker. Bolan turned his back on her, opening the whitewashed cabinet and scanning the contents of its shelves, selecting half a dozen bottles and arranging them along the countertop. She saw that one of them was hydrochloric acid, and she closed her eyes, refusing to participate by indirection in the grim perversion of her healing tools.
"You'll need to move the girl," he told her after several moments. "She's exposed right now. Pick out an inside room and get her moved while there's still time." Almost as an afterthought, he added, "She'll be safer on the floor."
"How so?"
The warrior frowned, reached out and rapped his knuckles on the nearest wall. "Too thin," he said. "A burst of automatic fire will cut through this like it was paper. On the floor, she'll have the added cover of your cabinets, baseboards, furniture. It isn't much, but it's the best we've got."
"I see."
"We haven't got a lot of time to waste."
"I'm going!"
She had finished moving Amy, settling her in a corner of the third examination room, when she was conscious of a rapping on the clinic door that fronted Main Street. Moving cautiously toward the reception room, she heard the Executioner fall in behind her. From the side of the waiting room, she saw two men outside the door and knew that they were members of the raiding party that was laying siege to Santa Rosa.
She half turned toward Mack Bolan. He had drawn the pistol from his shoulder holster, and he held it with its muzzle toward the ceiling, one hand cupped around the other, in an attitude of readiness. "What should I do?"
"Go on and let them in," he said, "then hit the deck as if your life depended on it."
She had no doubts whatsoever that her life depended on following his orders precisely, and she nodded dumbly, conscious of the fact that he was using her to kill these men whom she had never seen before today. She salved her conscience with the knowledge that these men were no doubt murderers themselves, that they would kill her, and her patient in the other room, if they were not prevented by brute force. She recognized the grim necessity of what the soldier was about to do... and still it was no easier.
Her hand was trembling as she gripped the doorknob, turned it, swung the door wide open to admit her uninvited visitors. They shouldered past her, brandishing their weapons in her face, the taller of them reaching out to slam the door behind. His companion was examining Rebecca with disturbing frankness, grinning like a hungry jackal. "Muy bonita," he informed his sidekick, reaching out to cup her breast through the material of her blouse and lab coat.
Sudden panic gripped her, and she batted at his hand, her nails raking at his face. He caught her by the jacket, but she brought her heel down on his instep, grinding with all the pressure she could manage, and he gasped in pain, released her with a violent shove that sent her sprawling to the floor.
It was the shove, she later realized, that saved her life. Behind her, Bolan had emerged from hiding, leveling his pistol at the human targets, and she would have been directly in his line of fire if she had not been thrust aside so violently. The Hispanic gunmen saw Death coming, tried to beat the Reaper's time, but they were still off balance from the scuffle on the threshold, tracking with their weapons while the soldier was already squeezing off. It was no contest, and Rebecca watched them die.
The first round drilled her attacker through the forehead, exiting in a crimson mist that etched a grisly pattern on her wall. The dead man tumbled backward, jarring his companion's aim and giving Bolan time to place another round on target, this one drilling through the taller gunman's chest and slamming against the doorframe, pinning him in place while Bolan put another slug between his eyes.
Rebecca felt her stomach heaving, casting up its meager contents, choking off a startled scream as number two collapsed across her legs and briefly pinned her to the floor. She kicked out, desperately, and freed herself before Mack Bolan had a chance to reach her. He was bending down to offer her his hand when they were mutually startled by the back door's sudden and explosive opening. It slammed against the wall, the doorknob buried deep in plaster, and a crouching figure sprang across the threshold, sweeping left and right with what appeared to be a submachine gun.
Bolan was a
lready pivoting to face the unexpected enemy, releasing Becky's hand, his weapon rising into target acquisition much too late, when thunder seemed to rip the corridor apart. Their adversary was immediately airborne, hurtling toward Bolan, spinning into rough collision with a wall and toppling to the carpet. Smears of blood stained the plaster where his shoulders had made contact with the wall.
They waited, frozen — Bolan in his combat crouch, Dr. Kent still on her knees beside him. He was poised to fire as yet another silhouette blocked out the doorway's light... and then he recognized the lawman's uniform.
It was Grant Vickers, with a shotgun cradled in his arms.
"You two all right?" he asked, and tension underlay his normal drawl.
"We're fine," she answered, glancing up at Bolan, leaning on him as she scrambled to her feet. The soldier stood erect, but he kept his automatic pistol in his hand, prepared for anything.
"We're getting by," the Executioner agreed.
* * *
The radio had told him that it was a hundred in the shade, but Enoch Snyder could not find a patch of shade up on the roof of Bud's garage. Some of the other structures lining Main Street might be taller, and they might have offered better cover, but he had been limited in time as well as in mobility. The laundry sack that covered his Garand would not fool anyone, and so he had been forced to scuttle like a pack rat through the alleys, ducking out of sight whenever anybody showed their face along his route. He dared not cross the street to find a better vantage point, with all those hostiles on the prowl. And it struck Old Enoch as poetic justice that the wrath of God should fall upon Bud's killers from the rooftop of his own garage. It just felt right.
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