Don Pendleton - Run to Ground

"Esteban!"

The gunner moved to stand before him, almost at attention. Even under pressure, he took care to show Rivera the respect that he deserved. "Si, jefe?"

"When Camacho and the others start to burn the buildings on this side, we must be ready to depart." He nodded toward the hostages and said, "These gringos will be coming with us, for security."

Esteban smiled approval of the plan. "Si, jefe. As you say."

"Be ready when I give the order."

"Si."

Rivera turned back to the windows and the street beyond, a gesture of dismissal that Esteban took in stride. The gunner moved away and left Rivera with his thoughts of life and death, defeat and victory.

He could prevail against the peasants, if his luck had not gone sour. He was not a superstitious man, but he had seen enough of life to know that even preparation might not always be sufficient to ensure success. There was an element of chance, or risk, in every human undertaking, and the odds grew worse as each new person was involved, each wild card added to the deck. Within established limits, it was possible to stack the deck somewhat, but you could never totally eliminate the element of chance. Dumb luck might cause the best of plans to go awry, and he was looking at a situation now where Fate had seemingly stepped in to lend a hand.

But if Rivera was not superstitious, neither had he ever been a man of faith. Predestination was a concept foreign to his thinking; he did not believe in a supreme intelligence or guiding hand behind the workings of the universe. Raised in poverty and filth, he put no stock in gods or idols, carrying a lifelong grudge against the notion of a great Creator who would leave the world in such a state. Within the limitations set by chance, coincidence and pure dumb luck, man was the captain of his fate, achievements limited by individual intelligence, initiative and drive.

Rivera knew that he possessed those qualities, and he had every confidence that they would help him to survive. If not, God help the peasants who were sent to bring him down.

As he approached Santa Rosa, Johnny Bolan realized the town was burning. Smoky columns rose above the crossroads, staining what had been a pristine sky. He was downwind and driving with his window open; half a mile from town he caught the stench of burning gasoline and rubber.

Cars. But buildings were involved, as well. However it had started, Santa Rosa was in flames, and Johnny saw no evidence of anyone attempting to control the conflagration. Standing on the gas, he powered through the outskirts, passing ancient mobile homes, a vacant stucco dwelling gone to ruin in the baking desert heat. He entered Santa Rosa from the north and found himself inside a combat zone.

Downrange, a line of cars were smoldering against the curb outside a diner. Just across the street several shops were burning furiously, pouring smoke into the street and sky. He caught a glimpse of figures moving through the smoke in furtive rushes, scuttling back and forth without apparent destinations. Closer to his own position, on the roof of a garage a half block down, he saw a wiry figure with a rifle rise out of concealment, snap off three quick rounds in the direction of the running men, and duck back under cover.

Mack would be somewhere in the middle of that chaos, whether he was still alive or not. The younger Bolan sat for several seconds, watching Santa Rosa die, a passing thought to the images of Dante as the smoke curled toward him, driven on the desert wind. That wind would also be propelling flames, and in a few more moments half the shops in town would be on fire.

It would be suicidal, Johnny knew, to drive his Jimmy through the heart of town, attracting hostile fire from every side. He dropped the vehicle into reverse and powered backward, cranking on the wheel and gunning back into a narrow alleyway between two vacant shops. It would be safe enough, until the fire was close at hand, and he would be back well before that time. If he was coming back at all.

He slung the SPAS across his shoulder, grabbed the KG-99 and stuffed the extra magazines inside his belt. He locked the driver's door and set the tamperproof defense against intruders. If a car thief tried to break the lock, a loud alarm would sound; if he succeeded, it would blow up in his face, with force enough to flatten anyone or anything inside a radius of thirty yards.

He hit the street and homed in on the sound of automatic weapons. Santa Rosa was a tiny town, and he could see from one end to the other, barring interference from the smoke, but now the racket raised by autofire was coming from behind the shops that lined the west side of the street, as though a portion of the battle had moved on, retreating toward the desert. Johnny was about to follow, hoping for a chance encounter with his brother, when another portion of the war erupted in his face.

Above him, and to Johnny's left, the filling station's rooftop sniper sprang erect to bring his adversaries under fire once more. No sooner had he showed himself than a half dozen gunners broke from cover in a shop across the street, advancing at a run and firing as they came. They were Hispanic, dressed like street thugs, and it took no giant intellect to realize that they must be Rivera's men.

The sniper saw them coming, swiveling to drop the pointman in his tracks and ducking out of sight again before they started scouring the roof with autofire. One of them hesitated, stooped to check for vitals on his friend, and Johnny blew the gunner's face off with a well-placed parabellum round. The others scattered, laying down a screen of cover fire and racing for the sanctuary of surrounding shops, but Johnny bagged another on the run, the impact of a bullet in the spine propelling him against a lamppost with concussive force. The dying gunner slumped into a kneeling position, slowly toppled toward the street and finally lay still.

Not his three companions. They were bobbing in and out of cover, potting rounds at Johnny as well as the rooftop where the sniper had been seen. The younger Bolan knew they could not reach him where he was, but neither could he find his brother while they pinned him down. A change of strategy was called for, and he slipped the KG-99 across his shoulder on its sling before he snapped the safety off his SPAS.

In military parlance, the weapon was a Special Purpose Assault Shotgun, and it was something of an engineering wonder, capable of switching back and forth from semi-auto fire to slide action at the press of a button. Johnny's SPAS was set for semi-auto now, with seven rounds of double-ought inside the magazine and one more in the chamber. He did not unfold the weapon's stock, but rather used the tension of its sling to hold it steady as he peeked around the corner, marking targets, making ready for his move.

He let the gunners throw a few wild rounds his way and then erupted from his hiding place, the awesome shotgun tracking, seeking a target. The nearest gunner was sequestered in a doorway, on his own side of the street, and Johnny triggered off a blast that struck the alcove like a whirlwind. Sweeping on, without a backward glance, he caught the second pistolero just emerging from his place behind a pickup truck, his weapon poised to fire, and Johnny took his head off with a quick, reflexive blast.

The third man up was opting for the better part of valor, taking to his heels, when Johnny swung the SPAS around and helped him with a charge of shot that riddled him from neck to knees. The impact lifted him completely off his feet and pitched him forward, facedown on the faded center stripe of Main Street.

Awkward, clumping movement sounded on his flank, and Johnny pivoted to find the gunner from the blasted doorway lurching into view. He had been hit, more than once, but he was walking on his own and very capable of using the revolver that he carried. Bolan hit a combat crouch and squeezed the trigger of his riot gun, a stunning double-punch that blew the shooter backward through the doorway where he had been previously concealed.