Don Pendleton - Run to Ground

He pushed the train of thought away. Three men and two machines were standing in the way of a reunion with his brother, and he made his mind up that it would not be enough. With cool deliberation, Johnny put the Jimmy back in gear and rumbled toward the roadblock at a careful forty-five, both hands set firmly on the wheel. He guessed that they would speak to him, at least, and try to turn him back before they opened fire. If they didn't, he would deal with that eventuality when it arose.

The gunners scrambled to a ragged semblance of attention as the Jimmy closed to thirty yards, the leader stepping forward, both hands raised, to flag him down. No hardware was in evidence yet, and Johnny took it as a hopeful sign. If they were forced to start from scratch, the lag time would provide him with a lethal edge that they might never overcome.

He rolled the window down and waited for the leader to approach him, frowning with a simulated curiosity, the VP-70 in hand, poised below the windowsill and out of sight. The spokesman's companions were behind him, taking up positions for triangulated fire if they should be compelled to flash the hardware.

"What's the problem?" Johnny asked.

"We have been forced to quarantine the town, senor." The gunner jerked a thumb across his shoulder, indicating Santa Rosa, still invisible beyond the rise. "An accident with chemicals."

"No shit?" He gawked in what he hoped was a convincing imitation of concern. "My brother lives there."

"I understand, senor, but no one is allowed to pass."

"Well, rules are rules, I guess."

He raised the VP-70 and shot the gunner squarely through the forehead, blowing him away and tracking on before his two companions could assimilate the fact. The nearest stood his ground, one hand beneath his shirt and digging for his pistol. His partner sought security in motion, fading to the right and weaving while he wrestled with a handgun in the left hip pocket of his slacks.

John shot the nearer gunner first, two parabellum manglers ripping through his chest and lifting him completely off his feet. He was dead before he hit the ground. His sidekick stumbled, going down upon one knee, both hands outflung to break his fall, and it was all the edge that Johnny needed, granting him the time to aim and punch a bullet through the fallen runner's temple. He was quivering as Bolan stepped across his prostrate body, moving toward the cars. The keys were still in both ignitions, and he backed the larger vehicle — a Caddy — over to the shoulder of the road. When he had cleared a lane, he tramped back to the Jimmy and proceeded toward Santa Rosa.

In one respect the roadblock was a hopeful sign. If they were finished with his brother, done with Santa Rosa, they would not have posted guards to close the highway. Something must be happening, if nothing more than a mop-up, and he still had time to join the party. There was still a chance for him to bag Rivera before the man could retreat to Mexico. And there was still a chance that he might find his brother. A slender chance that he might find Mack alive.

He would have to be prepared for whatever waited for him in the streets of Santa Rosa. A hundred yards beyond the roadblock, still before he had a glimpse of town, he pulled the Jimmy over once again and walked around the back to choose his weapons. He lifted out the KG-99 and extra magazines, then hesitated, finally choosing the SPAS as well. Between the two, he had power and speed, a lethal combination any way you sliced it. There was still a chance it wouldn't be enough, but he was not intimidated by the odds.

His brother had not come this far by playing safe, and Johnny Bolan knew the odds against him going in. It was a losing game, no matter how you read the stats, with death the only certainty, and Johnny had resigned himself to falling in the cause. But not just yet, if there was any way to put the Reaper off. In lieu of lasting victory, he would accept postponement of the inevitable, another chance to face the savages and drive them back into their burrows, purge them with the cleansing fire.

He knew enough, from following his brother's war, that there would be — could be — no final victory against the cannibals. But he could singe their asses here and now. And he could do a great deal more, if he had come too late for Mack.

Rivera had arrived expecting to annihilate a town. Instead the dealer and his troops might be annihilated if a man had guts enough to stand before the gates of hell. As Bolan dropped the Jimmy into gear, he knew that he had the guts.

"I didn't mean to shave it quite that close," Grant Vickers said.

Mack Bolan held the lawman's eyes. "I'm not complaining."

"Reckon you're the fella that Rivera's all revved up about."

"You know his name?" the lady asked.

The constable seemed to pale beneath his desert tan. "We've met," he answered curtly, and he could not seem to meet the woman's gaze.

"But how..."

"We haven't got much time," the soldier interrupted, and he thought the officer looked grateful as he raised his eyes. "Rivera may not notice, but his people on the street will know they didn't fire that shotgun blast."

"I thought of that." The constable was looking Bolan over, closely. "As I recollect, he said that you were wounded. Are you fit to travel?"

"I'll survive. I couldn't say about the girl."

They turned to Dr. Kent, who shrugged dejectedly, still studying the lawman's face. "I've given her a sedative. We'd have to carry her."

"Too risky," Bolan told her. "I'd suggest a suck."

"I beg your pardon?"

"A diversion. Something that will draw the enemy away and keep them busy elsewhere. If we play our cards right, we could lay an ambush, turn it to our own advantage."

"Now you're talkin'," Vickers said, but there was less enthusiasm in his eyes than in his voice.

Before the warrior could elaborate, he heard the sound of rifle fire, immediately answered by the growl of automatic weapons. From the tempo of the gunfire, its direction, Bolan knew the rifleman was not a crony of Rivera's, but a sniper who had brought the raiders under fire.

"We've got some company."

"I'll be goddamned." The constable's amazement was entirely genuine; he had had a passing thought that his constituents might rebel, but he had honestly not expected it. "Who would have thought? I wonder who the hell..."

"Whoever," Bolan cut him off, "they won't hold out for long. We need to put the ball in motion if we plan on walking out of this one."

"Walking out?" The lawman seemed confused. "You mean you think we gotta chance?"

"We're not dead yet."

Grant Vickers seemed about to argue, but he let it go. It struck Mack Bolan that the constable had no intention of surviving through the night. He wondered briefly what had driven Vickers to the point of suicidal heroism, and he let it go. It didn't matter now, and if his first suspicions of the lawman were correct, the answer might be better left alone for now.

"You've got your cruiser?"

Vickers nodded. "Half block down the alley."

"Good. We'll need the lights and siren."

"Say the word."

He turned again to Dr. Kent. "Is there an inside way to reach the roof?"

She nodded. "There's a skylight in the main examination room. You'd need a ladder, though."

"I'll use the furniture."

"Your side..."

"Will have to take its turn. We're out of time."

The lady was about to speak, but kept it to herself. He turned to Vickers. "Give me five, and I'll be looking out for that diversion."

"I'll be there."

The constable was leaving when the lady caught his arm. "Be careful, Grant," she said.

"Hell, yes. You know me, Becky."

As he disengaged, the lawman's eyes met Bolan's, locked there for an instant, and the Executioner saw death, as cold and certain as the print on last night's headlines. Vickers might not let him down, but he had no intention of returning from his mission. He was cashing in, for reasons that the soldier did not have the time or will to contemplate.