Don Pendleton - Run to Ground

Sudden movement at the door, a hand upon the knob, and she was on the verge of crying out before she recognized Rick Stancell. Tears were in his eyes, but he was bearing up remarkably, all things considered.

"They just left with Dad," he told her. "I'll be driving up to Tucson in a little while to stay with him, but first I've got to do some things around the station, shut it down and all."

"That's quite a drive. Do you feel up to it?"

"I'm fine," he said. "No problem."

"Please be careful, Rick."

"I will."

And he was gone. The door had barely closed behind him when she was aware of movement on her flank. She turned to find the Executioner regarding her with cautious interest, looking almost folksy in her father's clothes. It was peculiar, but she never really thought of him as being gone, until some forcible reminder struck her square between the eyes.

"That's twice," the soldier said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Twice you haven't turned me in. Why?"

"I really couldn't say."

And that, at least, was true. Rebecca could no more offer him a definition of her motives than she could take wing and fly. Above all else, she could not voice the dark suspicion that Grant Vickers had aroused. "Someone saw a stranger down on Main Street." Injured. Yet the constable had failed to offer a description, and his witness, if he existed, plainly had not marked the "stranger's" destination.

Why was she suspicious? She had lied to Grant, denied the presence of another patient in her clinic. Why should he have wasted time describing someone who, according to her own report, she had not seen? Was she becoming paranoid, infected by the mind-set that had kept Mack Bolan one short step ahead of execution squads throughout the years?

"You didn't trust him," Bolan said, and her reaction gave the lie to any answer her lips might form. It was as if the wounded man had looked inside her mind to read her private thoughts.

"I guess I'm getting jumpy, after everything that's happened."

"You've got reason," he replied. "I didn't trust him, either."

"Why?"

"There wasn't anybody on the street this morning. All the shops were closed. I didn't see a soul... except the people who are looking for me."

"No." Although her mind was edging toward the same conclusion, it was different, somehow, when he spoke the words aloud. She would not let herself believe that Grant could be allied with criminals of any kind. It was preposterous. Absurd. "I know what you're about to say. I don't believe it."

"How well do you know the constable?"

"We're friends." But Bolan's eyes elicited a more detailed response. "We've dated once or twice. It's nothing steady."

"But you like him."

"Yes, I guess so."

"And, for all of that, you thought that there was something strange about his questions, his behavior."

Bolan had her there. She tried to meet his eyes and failed, eventually focusing upon the IV rack.

"Are you feeling stronger?"

"I'm all right."

It wasn't true, of course. He must be weakened by the loss of blood, by shock, the trauma of his wound and all that happened afterward. He should have been in bed, and preferably in a hospital, but she did not waste breath on the impossible suggestion.

"You should rest."

"No time. The opposition won't be taking any coffee breaks."

"And if you leave? Where will you go?" He had no answer for her, and she forged ahead. "You said yourself, they may be watching all the roads. Suppose you took my car, or someone else's. How far would you get before they ran you down?"

Again, no answer from the Executioner.

"And when they see your bandages, the sutures, they'll be certain that you've seen a doctor. When they trace the car, whoever you decide to steal one from, that makes another witness to eliminate." She paused for breath, and felt him watching her. "One man has been severely injured as it is. How many others will it take?"

The soldier frowned. "You aren't exactly safe right now, with me around."

"I fooled the constable. I'll manage."

Bolan shook his head. "I'm not so sure you sold your friend on anything, but that's beside the point. You had a look at the mechanic, Doc. For all the good it did, he never laid eyes on me in his life. Imagine what they'll do to someone who has all the answers."

"So, I'll have to be convincing."

"These men aren't renowned for graceful losing, Doctor. They don't take no for an answer when it is the answer."

"So, help me. Tell me who 'they' are."

The soldier hesitated, staring hard, as if he meant to read her soul. And then he said, "All right."

Luis Rivera stubbed out his cheroot and shifted in his seat, uncomfortable after two long hours of waiting. Hector should have been in touch by now; regardless of the motive, his continued silence was not comforting. Rivera had been stewing in the desert heat too long, without reports of progress from his men in Santa Rosa, and his mind was turning slowly, inexorably, toward revenge against his own subordinates. If Hector did not call in, say, within another twenty minutes... "Mira!"

Instantly alert, Rivera saw the ambulance from half a mile, its multicolored lights revolving, flashing, their display diminished by the glaring sun. He stepped out of the car, his gunners following. Other doors were slamming behind him, his men taking up their stations on the baking pavement. Someone drove one of the backup cars diagonally across the road, blocking both lanes.

The driver of the ambulance applied his brakes fifty yards from the roadblock. He had his window down, red-faced and growling as the van decelerated, coasting to a stop no more than twenty feet from where Rivera stood, his men already closing in to surround the new arrivals.

"What the hell you think you're doin', boy?" the driver shouted, glancing left and right, his anger losing steam as hardware was displayed. "I'm on official business. An emergency."

"I also have a small emergency," Rivera told him, smiling in anticipation of the kill. "We need to see your passenger."

"The hell you do! This man's en route to Tucson. He's hurt bad."

"I have the cure for his distress." Rivera nodded, and the nearest of his gunners put a bullet through the driver's forehead, silencing his arguments forever. Others had the rear doors open; an automatic weapon stuttered briefly as the paramedic riding with the patient was eliminated. Anxiously, Rivera circled to the rear and thrust his men aside to face his enemy, now helpless on a gurney in the ambulance, his arms strapped down.

Except that this was not the man. He was too short, too heavy, almost certainly too old. His injuries, while numerous, did not include a bullet wound.

Rivera drew his pistol, leaned inside the ambulance, and cured that omission on the spot. He felt the others watching him, prepared to carry out his orders, but the dealer found himself dumbstruck, immediately at a loss for words. He had been certain that the ambulance was carrying his enemy away from Santa Rosa, bound for some emergency facility and treatment that would save his life. It would have been the perfect wrap-up to a miserable morning, but, instead, he was confronted with an aging stranger, almost certainly the victim of a savage beating, unrelated to the man he sought.

Rivera thought at once of Hector and the others, reasonably certain that he recognized their handiwork. They had encountered a suspected witness, he surmised, proceeding to interrogate the man, and they had foolishly allowed him to survive. Hector and his men were still hunting, with information gathered from their victim or without it, using precious time.

"The radio," he snapped, his pistol bolstered now, one empty hand outstretched and waiting. Someone handed him the walkie-talkie and he keyed the button for transmission, speaking with his lips almost against the mouthpiece. "Hector, do you hear me?"