Don Pendleton - Run to Ground

Rivera felt as if a century had passed since he'd laid eyes on Santa Rosa, since the hellish siege began. The time might have been measured out in hours, but it had been a lifetime for his troops, and for an unknown number of the locals. They had managed to surprise him this time, but Rivera had them locked into his memory forever, waiting for the day when retribution would be his.

There would be some delay, of course, while the police investigated, took photographs and made their empty statements to the press. Aside from the elusive gringo, Vickers was the only man in Santa Rosa who had known Rivera's name, and he would not be making any statements to the state police. In that respect, the lawman's fiery suicide had been fortuitous, for all the havoc it had wreaked upon Rivera's transportation.

If he could make it out of Santa Rosa, back across the border to Sonora, he was safe. The burned-out vehicles would be no problem; fire had taken care of any fingerprints. As for the men that he would leave behind, they all had prison records for assorted violent crimes, and none of them would cause a ripple by their passing. If police in Mexico suspected some of them were on Rivera's payroll, extra bribes should keep the matter quiet — just as long as he, himself, was not accused by law-enforcement officers in the United States. Without the threat of diplomatic pressure from the north, the federales would have nothing to concern themselves about.

If he could just escape...

He held the woman closer, concentrating on her cheap perfume and trying to ignore the smoke. If he allowed it to grow thicker, offering him better cover, the gunmen on the street might not detect his hostage soon enough to stay their hands. If he was going, it had best be done at once.

"This way, chiquita." Nudging one plump breast with the muzzle of his automatic, he propelled the waitress toward the door of the diner.

Mack Bolan slid the 93-R back into its shoulder rigging, hefting the big .44 in his fist. The trash fire he had built beside the air-conditioner was burning down, but it had done its job; from where he stood, the Executioner could see smoke curling from the windows of what seemed to be a rest room, and he knew the atmosphere inside the diner would be getting thick by now.

He tried the back door, found that it had not been locked, and entered in a combat crouch, ignoring spastic pain that emanated from his wounded side. The smoke was sharp inside his nostrils, and it burned his eyes, but Bolan took his time, maneuvering along a narrow corridor that linked the exit and employee rest rooms with the kitchen and the diner proper. Probing with the AutoMag, allowing it to lead him, ready to respond in case of any challenge from the enemy, he sought Rivera in the dealer's own command post.

He had heard the burst of firing moments earlier, on Main Street, followed swiftly by a single shot inside the diner. It had been the latter that propelled him into motion, worried that Rivera would begin to sacrifice his hostages in desperation. Bolan had no firm idea of the employee head count for the diner, but he estimated that there must be two or three, at least. One shot, so far, meant hope of rescuing survivors.

As he edged into the diner, Bolan made out figures moving through the smoke. A man and woman, from the look of it, and if he was not very much mistaken, that must be...

"Rivera!"

At the sound of his name, the dealer whirled, a woman clutched in front of him to form a human shield. Rivera held an automatic pressed against her cheek, the hammer back, his finger on the trigger.

"So." There was a note of triumph in Rivera's voice. "I knew you were alive."

The soldier came erect, advancing slowly through the smoke. "That's one of us."

"You have embarrassed me," the dealer said.

"It was the least that I could do."

"I have no choice but to kill you."

"You've been trying that all day."

"This time I will succeed."

"The woman has no part in this."

Rivera smiled, a canine grimace. "But we mean so much to each other."

"Let her go."

"Not yet. I have to ask you something, gringo."

"Ask."

"Who sent you after me? Who pays you?"

"No one paid me. It's a freebie."

"All of this, you do without a hope of payment? Have I harmed you in some way?"

"That's right."

"What have I done to you that you should take such risks?"

"You breathe. You walk the earth with human beings. You infest the planet."

"You are an idealist?"

"A realist," the soldier told him flatly. "I don't start a job unless I have a decent chance of getting through it."

"You have failed."

"I'd say you need to look around."

"You cannot hold me here."

"I don't intend to hold you anywhere."

"You are — how is it called? — a vigilante?"

"I'm a soldier. You're the enemy. It's simple."

"So. And there is nothing more to say?"

"I can't think of a thing."

Rivera's move was sudden, swift, but Bolan had been waiting for it. As the dealer shoved the waitress out in front of him, retreating toward the door, he raised his shiny automatic, snapping off two rounds at Bolan through the smoke. By that time, though, the warrior had already gone to ground; he felt the slugs slice air above him as the AutoMag responded, bucking once in hard, reflexive fire.

The heavy slug ripped through Rivera's shoulder, nearly severing his arm. The impact drove him backward, through the open door and out onto the sidewalk. Somehow he regained his balance, staying on his feet and staggering away, his limp, left arm in bloody tatters while the right one fought to bring his pistol into target acquisition. Lurching off into the smoke, he fired three more quick rounds at Bolan through the vacant windowframe. And he was gone.

The Executioner was on his feet and moving toward the door when hell broke loose outside. A pistol started cracking out in rapid fire, immediately answered by Rivera's automatic, both side arms eclipsed and silenced by the roaring of a 12-gauge, semi-automatic shotgun. Bolan froze, relaxed, aware that there was no more hurry, that Rivera wasn't going anywhere.

He stooped to help up the waitress, aware of panic in her eyes. "It's all right, now," he told her softly, and he meant it.

It was very nearly finished for the Executioner in Santa Rosa.

"See to it that he gets some proper rest this time," Rebecca Kent told Johnny Bolan sternly. Turning toward the Executioner as she began to stow her instruments, she softened slightly. "Doctor's orders."

"How can I refuse?"

The younger Bolan cleared his throat. "I'll get the Jimmy."

"Fine."

When he was gone, Mack Bolan faced the doctor with a solemn smile. "I owe you one," he said.

"You owe me nothing. It's my job."

"Okay." He hesitated, and the silence stretched between them like a frail suspension bridge. "About the girl... we've got a CB, and I'll send the cavalry first thing, soon as we're clear."

The doctor nodded thoughtfully. "Those things I said before, about the way you live..."

"Forget it, Doc. You called it right. I lead a miserable life."

"I don't believe that anymore. You help. You stand with people when they seem too weak to stand alone."

"You do a decent job of standing up yourself."

She blushed. "I haven't got your courage. I couldn't do... the things you do."

"The world needs healers, too," he said.

"About Grant Vickers... was he... I mean..."

"Brave?" the soldier finished for her, knowing it was not precisely what the lady had in mind. "I'd say he qualified. Whatever else he may have been or done, the guy came out a winner."

"Thank you."

Bolan heard the Jimmy grumble to a stop out front. "That must be me," he said.