Don Pendleton - Run to Ground

"Five minutes."

"I'll be waiting," Bolan promised him.

The lawman grinned, an easy smile this time, and said, "Let's kick some ass."

And he was gone. Before Rebecca Kent could voice her questions, Bolan was in motion, moving toward the main examination room, the skylight that would put him on the roof with a commanding view of Main Street. Given half a chance, he would have opted for a big-game rifle, but the captured submachine gun, his AutoMag and the Beretta 93-R were the best that he could do, and they would have to serve. If used correctly, Bolan knew, they just might be enough.

The lady had begun to follow him, but Bolan turned and froze her with his eyes. "Stay with your patient," he instructed. "Don't come out for anything or anyone, unless I call you or you recognize the state police."

"But what about..."

He handed her the stainless-steel revolver he had lifted from another of Rivera's goons. "Take this," he said, and forced it on her when she hesitated. "If anybody else comes through that door, remember what they've done already, what they mean to do."

"I will," she answered, and the warrior thought she meant it.

For her sake, and for the sake of her sedated patient, Bolan hoped she meant it.

They had already searched the long-deserted Laundromat, and Stancell knew that he would be as safe there, for the moment, as he would be at any place in town. The empty building had a dusty smell about, but the atmosphere was much too dry for mildew, and the place was relatively clean. It was ironic that the usual pests and insects moved away when man departed, following his trail of refuse. There were still a few spiders in the Laundromat, awaiting contact with the few odd roaches that remained, but Rick ignored them. It was his turn now, and he was hunting larger game.

There had been firing up the street; a muffled shotgun blast, and seconds later, rifle fire. The latter was continuing, the raiders firing back with automatic weapons, but Rick could not see the sniper from his place inside the Laundromat. He could see two of the invaders, stretched out on the opposite sidewalk, lying in spreading puddles of their life's blood, and he would give the unseen sniper credit for a sense of style. Whoever he might be, his help was welcome in the crunch.

Rick watched another gunman fall. He had been hit in the shoulder, and started to wriggle toward the cover of a car parked at the curb. His path would bring him into range, and Stancell stepped into the doorway, easing off the safety of the shotgun he had lifted from a dying adversary in the pharmacy. He wasn't a pro at this, but he had sense enough to know that bullets would not pass through glass without some measure of deflection, and he did not wish to waste a single round of precious ammunition. Fortunately, the invaders had already crashed the door, demolishing its lock and knocking out a section of its plate-glass in the process.

Standing in the shadows, Stancell raised his riot gun and sighted through the jagged ruins of the door. He let his target reach the curb, then squeezed the trigger, riding out the mighty recoil as a charge of buckshot drove the wounded gunman back into the street, a rag doll flopping in the desert wind.

He scanned the street immediately, waiting — hoping — for the other gunmen to respond. Across the street and three doors up, a pair of them were crouching in the meager shadow of the grocery store, attempting to escape the sniper's plunging fire. The blast from Stancell's shotgun brought their heads around, and one of them was pointing at him — or at an automatic weapon in the general direction of the laundry, squeezing off a burst that chipped the masonry outside, and then both men were firing for effect. Rick triggered two quick blasts, imagined that he saw one of them stagger as he hit the floor.

A lethal storm broke overhead, with bullets shattering the plate-glass windows, gouging plaster, whining off the pipes that once had been connected to a line of washers on the wall. Rick hugged the floor and crawled through the broken glass to find a vantage point from which he could return fire through the doorway. He had bagged no extra ammunition from the dying gunman, and he knew the shotgun must be almost empty, but he still had pistols, and if he was forced to make his last stand in the Laundromat, they would not find him easy.

Rick poked his head around a corner, found the angle that he wanted, sighted quickly and pulled the trigger. This time there was no doubt: one of the gunners took his blast directly in the chest and toppled backward through a window of the grocery, raining glass and day-old produce around his body. His companion scrambled clear as Stancell worked the shotgun's slide, squeezed the trigger and heard the hammer snap against an empty chamber.

"Shit!"

He tossed the empty gun aside and snagged the automatic from his belt, retreating several feet into the store as some unseen assailant poured another burst through the windows. The crack of rifle fire rang out in counterpoint to the staccato grumbling of automatic weapons.

It was time to cut and run before they trapped him, cut off his last retreat. If he could slip out through the back, he might have a chance to lay another ambush for them, choose another spot to make his final stand. At this rate, hell, they might be chasing him all day.

The thought of victory had never entered Stancell's mind. Survival had seemed so improbable that he had never given it a second thought. But after killing men, and facing death himself, the young man realized how very much he wanted to survive. There was so much to see and do out there, away from Santa Rosa.

Raw survival was the problem, though. He could not count on living through the next five minutes, let alone the afternoon. Evacuation of the Laundromat was a start, but Stancell still had work to do. The enemy was still out there. Waiting. And while any one of them survived, Rick knew that he would not be whole, would not be free.

He had a job to do, and it was getting late. He prayed that it was not too late, and took himself away from there. To find the enemy.

Vickers pulled the safety harness tight across his chest before he started the cruiser's engine. He wasn't concerned with safety — he just didn't want a lucky shot to knock him over, rip his hands off of the steering wheel before he had a chance to show Rivera something special. Glancing at his watch, the lawman saw he had four minutes, thirty seconds left to live, and he was startled to discover he was not afraid.

He put the car in motion, rolling slowly down the alley's length, aware that he had time to spare before the stranger's lethal deadline. It occurred to him that he had never asked the gunman's name, but he supposed it didn't matter. Rivera meant to kill him, kill them all, and any ally in the midst of danger was a welcome hand.

He reached the alley's northern mouth and paused again before he turned the cruiser east toward Main Street. Vickers eased the Python from his holster, placed it on the seat beside him, knowing he would never have an opportunity to use it. It made him feel a damn sight better, having it there, even if that made no sense at all.

He thought that Becky might have figured out his secret toward the end. The stranger knew for certain, somehow; he had seen it clearly, in those graveyard eyes. And yet the man had seemed to pass no judgment on him. Maybe, Vickers thought, the knowledge that he would be dead within five minutes made a difference. Maybe.

But he was relieved that Becky had not challenged him, that there had been no time for her to put the pieces in place. No doubt she would be able to deduce the rest of it, but he would not be there to see the accusation in her eyes, and Vickers hoped the manner of his passing might incline her to spare his soul a kindly thought from time to time.