Don Pendleton - Run to Ground

He was about to turn away when movement on the rooftop of the service station froze him in his tracks. The sniper had emerged from cover once again, and he was sighting down the barrel of an M-l rifle, straight at Johnny's face. The younger Bolan brought his shotgun up, his finger tensing on the trigger, wondering if there was any chance at all for him to drop the rifleman before a bullet cut him down. He didn't think so.

Suddenly the sniper lifted off his stance, the M-l's muzzle veering skyward. With a grin, the wiry figure thrust one fist at Johnny, thumb extended in a high-sign of congratulation. Bolan gave him back the same, and watched the sniper drop from sight again, prepared to wait for other enemies to show themselves.

It was a luxury Johnny Bolan could not well afford. If he stood still and waited for the enemy to find him, he would forfeit any chance he might still have of finding Mack alive. Such a chance existed, he deduced from the continued sound of automatic weapons hammering away behind the storefronts on the far side of the street. The warrior headed in that direction, moving out to find the sole surviving member of his family. Failing that, he was prepared to find the fires of hell, and carry them against his enemies, until no trace of them remained.

Camacho snapped off two quick rounds, then ducked back quickly, diving behind the garbage Dumpster as a bullet sliced the air above his head. He cursed the gringo's aim, his obvious proficiency with firearms, and a sudden thought intruded on Camacho's mind: he wondered if they might have found the bastard they were hunting.

He had not seen the gringo clearly; just a glimpse of denim clothing, which was not the garb their enemy had worn last night. He could have changed, of course, but when they glimpsed him, he had not been moving like a wounded man already at death's door. He had been sprinting like an athlete, running serpentine to spoil their aim, and when he turned to face them, there was thunder in his hands.

Two of Camacho's men had fallen in the first exchange of fire. That left him only two, and they were staying safely under cover now, reluctant to expose themselves and tempt the gringo. Scowling at their cowardice, Rivera's crew chief risked a hasty glance around the Dumpster, scanning for his enemy, retreating quickly as a flicker of movement at the far end of the alley caught his eye. He waited for incoming rounds, then crouch-walked backward to the Dumpster's other end, abruptly popping up with pistol leveled to surprise the gunman.

Nothing.

The top flaps of a cardboard box were fanning in the arid breeze where he had imagined human movement seconds earlier. Camacho scowled, aware that he had almost wasted precious ammunition on a paper target while his enemy was safely hidden, waiting for the sound and muzzle-flash to offer him a target. Ducking back, Camacho knew that he would have to break the stalemate soon or risk disaster in the form of a surprise attack by other townspeople.

Behind him, from the general direction of the street, he could hear heavy firing, concentrated near the diner where Rivera would be waiting for him to report. Unless the other troops were emptying their guns at shadows, they must be meeting stiff resistance, and he wondered how much longer it would be before the angry citizens of Santa Rosa found him in the alleyway, cut off, with only two men to assist him. What had seemed a simple hunting party at the outset had degenerated into something desperate, something deadly, and Camacho had begun to wonder if he would survive.

It was the first time he had questioned the pronouncements of Luis Rivera, and the first time in at least decade that Camacho had been doubtful of his own ability to do a job. It had been simple: find the gunman, capture him and take him home for questioning at the estanda. As time went by, and they encountered marginal resistance, he had drawn another relatively simple job: burn down the town. But now, instead of herding frightened peons to their deaths like sheep to slaughter, he was pinned down in an alley, smelling garbage, fighting for his life. Camacho wondered, briefly, where he had gone wrong, and gave it up at once in favor of considering a different strategy against his enemy.

He snapped his fingers twice, attracting the attention of his two surviving gunners, who cowered on the far side of the alley. They were less than twenty feet away, but now they squinted at him, as if he were standing on the far side of a giant chasm. He directed them to rush the enemy's position, root him out. Camacho would be right behind them, bringing up the rear. He would be present at the kill.

They gawked at each other, whispering, and then they shook their heads in unison, a negative response for which Camacho was completely unprepared. He felt the color rising in his cheeks, restrained himself from shrieking at them with an effort. In the place of angry words, he raised his automatic pistol, trained it on their faces and repeated his instructions in a somber tone. The pistol's cold, unblinking stare left them in no confusion as to the alternative should they defy his orders.

Hector kept his finger on the trigger as they tottered to their feet, aware that they might turn on him, trusting in the strength of two-on-one to save their lives. He was prepared to kill them, if he had to, but it would not solve his problem. Rather, it would leave him all alone to face his adversary, and that was precisely what Hector wanted to avoid.

His men were cowards, anxious to retreat and save themselves. Camacho, on the other hand, was simply exercising the prerogatives of his command, employing solid logic. Two-on-one might take the gringo, although it was doubtful when Camacho thought about his swift response to five-on-one a moment earlier. If nothing else, the rush would force him to reveal himself, and when he rose from hiding to annihilate the others, Hector would be waiting for him, safely under cover, with his pistol primed and ready for the kill.

It was a simple plan, and therefore nearly foolproof. Any latitude for failure would be interjected by the sorry soldiers under his command. He waited, gestured with his pistol when they hesitated in the starting gate, then watched with satisfaction as they set out, one behind the other, running awkwardly, crouched, shouting, firing blindly toward the far end of the alleyway. A pair of Dumpsters stood together there, and Hector's enemy was bound to be behind them, certainly, unless...

No time for supposition now, as Hector stood erect, his pistol braced in both hands, elbows locked and resting on the hard edge of the garbage bin. He sighted down the automatic's slide with both eyes open, ready for minute adjustments when the gringo showed himself, prepared to empty out the whole damned clip in rapid fire and send his adversary off to hell without a face to call his own.

He waited, smiling, knowing that his time had come to shine.

The wound in Bolan's side had opened when he landed on his hands and knees in the alleyway, but he was scarcely conscious of the pain as he waited for the enemy to rush him, finish off the job. He had exhausted the supply of ammunition for his captured automatic weapon, and he had discarded it before the hunting party overtook him in the alley, firing wildly, closing fast. It had been luck as much as skill when had Bolan dropped a pair of them with hasty rounds designed to frighten more than kill, and now he waited for the final rush, a pistol in each hand, fresh blood like sticky perspiration soaking through his denim shirt.

He heard them coming, knew that they were making for the Dumpsters, counting on him to be there, relying on the greater cover to conceal their enemy. They would not spare a second glance for ancient, battered trash cans farther down the alley, where the Executioner sat, his back against a picket fence that bordered brown, withered grass, the small backyard of a deserted mobile home.