Don Pendleton - Run to Ground

"I understand."

"How are you with that thing?" the tall man asked. His eyes were on the automatic pistol.

"Fair. I've killed four of them, maybe five."

The man called Bolan looked surprised, but there was something else — could it be sadness? — in his eyes. "I'd say you've done enough."

"Not yet." He let the automatic's muzzle dip a fraction. It was pointed at the stranger's navel, now, but Stancell did not plan to use it. Not unless the man proved to be an enemy. "How did you now about my father?"

"I was at the clinic when you brought him in."

"I didn't see you."

Bolan shrugged. "You weren't supposed to. I was hiding."

"From this guy Rivera?" Bolan nodded, and for the first time Rick noticed that a crimson stain was spreading underneath his arm. "You're hurt."

"It looks worse than it is."

"You ought to let the doctor..."

"There's no time, Rick."

Stancell found that he was not amazed to hear the stranger speak his name. If Bolan had been hiding in the clinic when he brought his father in, he would have heard it there.

"What can I do to help?" he asked.

The tall man shook his head. "I don't want your blood on my hands."

"They're killing everybody," Rick informed him. "I won't stand around and watch it happen. If I can't help you, I'll face them on my own."

"They'll kill you, Rick."

"So far it's been the other way around. Besides, I don't much care."

"Okay." The stranger shrugged. "But what about Amy? She's lost her family already. If she loses you, what's left?"

Rick turned it over in his mind. So far his only thoughts of Amy had been inspirational, propelling him to seek revenge against the animals who had abused her, killed her parents and his father. Now, with Bolan's words in mind, he saw her in a different light, as someone who required protection. Still, if the invaders were not killed or driven out of town, it would not matter. They would all be dead.

"I've still got work to do," he said. "If we don't stop these bastards, there won't be a thing that I can do for Amy."

It took the big man half a dozen heartbeats to decide. "Rivera's in the diner. He's already lost his wheels, and now he'll have to find replacements. It's our job to cut him off before he does."

"Why don't we just go in and get him?"

"Hostages. If they're alive, I'd like to see them stay that way."

"That means we have to wait for him to show himself."

"It won't be long. And waiting doesn't have to be the same as standing still."

"All right," he said. "Just tell me what to do."

"For starters, you could drop the gun."

The voice was strange, originating from behind him. Stancell turned — but carefully — and saw a young man with a futuristic-looking shotgun pointed at his face. He seemed to read Rick's mind.

"Don't even think about it, kid," he said.

"It's okay, Johnny. He's with me."

The younger Bolan glanced at Mack, took in his haggard face, the bloodstain spreading underneath his arm. Reluctantly, he swung the SPAS off target, saw the kid relax a fraction, but he could react with swift and lethal force to any sudden, hostile move the boy might make. A rapid scan informed him that the youth was carrying another pistol, tucked inside his belt, beneath the cover of his shirttail. Despite his age, John marked the boy as being dangerous.

"What's happening?" he asked.

"We're working on a way to flush Rivera from the diner," Mack replied.

"I'm in."

"Okay. He has to find himself some wheels. I want you out there, waiting, when he sends his people shopping."

"Do you think he'll tag along to keep them company?"

The warrior shook his head. "He'll save the personal appearance as a last resort. Right now he's holding hostages. He feels secure."

"But not for long?" John didn't know precisely what his brother had in mind, but he could hear the mental wheels in motion.

"He's already set the town on fire," Mack answered. "Who knows what might happen if we had a shift in wind direction."

"Right."

The boy was nodding earnestly. "I know just how to do it," he declared. "The air-conditioner's around back, and all I have to do is..."

"I was hoping you'd be out in front with Johnny," Mack responded, trying to be tactful. "We'll need someone who can recognize the locals when it comes to spotting hostages."

The boy was glancing back and forth between them, finally nodding. "That makes sense, I guess."

"We don't want any accidents."

"All right."

"Be careful on the way," Mack cautioned. "There's a sniper on the service station's roof."

"We've met," John answered.

"That's Old Enoch Snyder," said the boy. "He used to spend a lot of time around the station... with my dad. He was some kind of hero during World War Two. I guess the war's not over yet."

"You're right again," Mack said. "I'll give you five to get in place, and then I start to smoke Rivera out."

"We'll be there," Johnny promised him. The boy was moving out already, toward the nearest access onto Main Street. Hanging back a moment, Johnny stood beside his brother on the killing ground. "You want the KG-99?" he asked.

"No, thanks. You'll need the extra punch out front. I'm getting by with what I have."

"Be careful."

"You the same."

Their eyes locked for an instant, and the younger Bolan knew that there was nothing more to say. He set off, following the boy, and overtook him at the entrance of a narrow alley opening on Main, between two vacant stores.

"The diner's four doors down, this side," the boy explained, and Johnny let him talk. "To cover it, I think we need to cross the street."

"I'd say you're right. You ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

"Okay." He swept the sidewalk with a glance in each direction, spotting no apparent ambush. Then again, it was the ones you didn't see that killed you. "On three."

He started counting down, hit "three," and then they both exploded out of cover, charging for the far side of the street. A stuttering report of automatic fire erupted on their right, from the direction of the diner and the burning cars, immediately answered by a crack of rifle fire from Johnny's left. The service-station sniper was providing cover, pinning down the opposition, and they made it to the grocery store intact, burst through the open doorway, weapons scanning for a sign of hostile gunners, finding none.

A stray round cracked the grocery's plate-glass window, and they went to ground behind a broad display of produce. The diner was across the street and clearly visible behind a line of burned-out cars.

"What now?" the boy asked, sounding very young for one who had already seen so much of death.

"We wait," he said. And he wondered if they might be waiting for an opportunity to die.

Atop the service station, Enoch Snyder fed his hot M-l another clip and brought an ought-six round into the firing chamber. All around him cartridge cases littered the flat, dusty roof, and half a dozen bodies littering the street below were silent testimony to his marksmanship. The bastards would be running out of reinforcements soon, unless he missed his guess, but Enoch wondered if it would be soon enough.

They were inside the station, even now. They had been smart enough to force him to keep his head down, raking automatic fire along the cornice every time he showed himself until a team had worked its way across the street and slipped inside. It wouldn't help them, he reflected, since there was no inside access to the roof, but there were other tricks that they might try to force him down.

He wished them luck. All bad. He had survived the beach at Tarawa, but he did not intend to see the sun go down this day. Before he even climbed the ladder, pulled it up behind him, he had known the odds against survival and accepted them. Old Enoch was not looking for a medal this time; he was looking for revenge, a chance to even up the score for Bud, the others who were murdered or abused by the invaders. So far he had done all right, but he was definitely running out of time.