Run to Ground (20 page)

He lightly stroked the 93-R's trigger, ripping off a 3-round burst that caught the foremost gunner in the chest and knocked him backward, off his stride and off his feet. He jerked and twitched for a moment, like a viper with a severed head, and then lay still. His partner, meantime, leaped across the new obstruction, desperate to stay in motion, counting on the Dumpsters for his own protection. He pegged a shot at Bolan, missing him by yards, undoubtedly aware that he could never make it, that his life was measured out in fractions of a heartbeat.

Bolan put a 3-round cluster through the runner's throat and nearly took the man's head off in the process, the lethal impact spinning his assailant right around and hurling him against the wall of an adjacent shop. Rebounding, Bolan's late opponent left wet traces of himself behind, like abstract artwork on the dusty stucco, drying quickly in the desert heat.

Four down, but there had been another, and before the thought had time to form, he was aware of subtle movement there, behind another Dumpster, halfway down the alley's length. A head and shoulders were revealed, hands interlocked around a pistol aimed at Bolan from a range of fifty feet. He squeezed the trigger of his AutoMag three times in swift succession, heard the heavy boattails clang against the siding of the Dumpster, drilling through, and then the silhouette of his assailant seemed to sag, collapsing, disappearing by degrees. The hands veered skyward, swinging up the pistol into close alignment on the sun, while head and shoulders kept on sinking, out of sight. Another moment passed, and the lifeless hands had disappeared as well.

He didn't bother checking on the guy. If his target was not dead or dying, he was out of it, so far as any action was concerned. Whatever happened to him now, the Executioner had business elsewhere, and Rivera's goon would have to look out for himself, if he was still alive.

Beyond the roofline of adjacent buildings, Bolan saw the rising smoke of shops on fire and knew the town was dying while he watched. Its death might be a swifter one, more merciful than lingering extinction brought on by neglect, but he could not escape a pang of guilt. If not for him, Rivera would have shown no interest in Santa Rosa, and the blight of Bolan's private war would not have fallen on so many other lives.

But there was no time to wallow in self-condemnation now that it was done. Survival was the top priority, for Bolan, for the citizens of Santa Rosa. Some of them, at least, were standing tall against the enemy; continued firing from the Main Street battleground informed him that Rivera's men had not found it easy going. He thought about Grant Vickers, the elusive sniper on the roof of the garage, and wondered if there might be others, fighting even now to save the town that was their home.

He hoped so, realizing that the only hope for Santa Rosa lay within her people. If they cared enough to stand and fight, there might still be a chance. If they did not, then the town and all had been long dead before Rivera ever showed his face and called for Bolan's blood on Main Street.

Concentrating on Rivera, the soldier knew his best and only chance of ringing down the curtain on the dealer's game was through a confrontation with the man himself — a confrontation in which only one of them would walk away.

There might still be a chance to keep Rivera from annihilating everyone in Santa Rosa, if the Executioner was swift enough and sure enough about his tactics. He would have to find a way inside the diner, first of all, or force the dealer to emerge... but, then again, the latter course of action might not be the problem that it seemed. Rivera had already been deprived of transportation, and the town was burning down around him. He would have to find some wheels, unless he meant to hang around and fry, or wait for the eventual arrival of the state police. But to acquire another car, or cars, it would be necessary to dispatch his gunners, singly or in teams. And if they failed to reappear...

Rivera would be forced to do it himself.

It was a plan, but Bolan knew that his success in pulling off the scheme was far from guaranteed. He might yet fail, and failing, he would lose it all: his war against Rivera's filthy empire, his crusade against the broader evil of the savages. He knew that death had been inevitable from day one, but the reality was something else entirely. Bolan was not ready to surrender by any means, but it was time to face the fact that he was not immortal, that he might not make it out of Santa Rosa.

He might die here, and with the town in flames, Rivera's troopers on the prowl, there was a chance his death might never be officially discovered. Johnny would suspect, of course, suspicion growing into certainty with time, and he would pass the word to Hal and the team at Stony Man. It did not matter to the Executioner that he might die unheralded, unnoticed by the world; what bothered Bolan was the thought that he might die in vain.

If he allowed Rivera to escape, resume his dirty trade from the Sonoran rancho, then he would have failed. It would not matter if he killed off half the dealer's troops and left the others scattered in the desert. The viper's lethal head might still survive, unless he crushed it totally, without remorse.

And that brought Bolan back to penetration of the diner, or a suck play that would draw Rivera into the open. There appeared to be no third alternative available within the time remaining.

He was conscious of the seeping blood inside his shirt, the denim sticking to his ribs and underneath his arm. He would not bleed to death before he finished with his work, but it was a distraction, and it weakened him by slow degrees.

No time to waste, then. If he meant to do it right, he had to do it
now.
The soldier turned to face the alley's southern mouth... and froze. His eyes were riveted upon the muzzle of an automatic pistol, aimed directly at his face from fifteen feet away.

"You're not one of them," Rick Stancell said.

"You got that right," the stranger answered, seeming to relax a bit.

Rick kept the big man covered, anyway, uncertain of himself now that another player had been dropped into the game. His father's death was proof enough that no one could be trusted absolutely. Granted that this man was not with the invaders — and he must not be, for Rick had watched him kill a number of them in the alley — he was obviously dangerous, for all of that. An unknown quantity at present, he might prove to be another enemy.

"Who are you?"

"I'm the one they're looking for."

"That doesn't tell me anything." Rick held the captured automatic steady, leveled at the stranger's face.

The big man thought about his answer for a moment, as if cooking up a lie inside his mind, but when he spoke again, Rick thought his words rang true enough. "My name is Bolan. I've been working to eliminate Rivera's operation in Sonora. He's the leader of this gang, the one who made the speech on Main Street."

"I was there."

The stranger nodded solemnly. "I saw you. I'm sorry about your father... and the girl."

Rick stared, dumbfounded, at the older man. How could he know? Instead of asking, Stancell simply said, "Her name is Amy."

Bolan nodded. "She's all right, for the moment. It's important that Rivera's men don't get a chance to check out the clinic."

"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.

The ammunition would not be a problem. He had better than a thousand rounds left, after all the firing he had done, and with a bit of luck, he just might drop a few more of the bastards yet before they brought him down. He was encouraged by the fact that there were others in the game now. Vickers, with his suicidal banzai charge that left the sons of bitches minus transportation, or the stranger with the fancy hardware who had shown up on the street a short while earlier. God knows where
he
had come from, but he wasn't taking any shit from the invaders, and it had been good to see a real, live fighting man in action.

Enoch risked a peek above the cornice, just in time to see Rick Stancell and the stranger break from cover down below, both of them sprinting for the grocery like the hounds of hell were snapping at their heels. An automatic weapon started spitting at them from the doorway of the diner, and Old Enoch snapped his rifle up, unmindful of the danger to himself. He cranked off one quick round to spoil the gunner's aim, then started firing for effect, his bullets chipping masonry and bringing down the diner's plate-glass window in a frosty avalanche. The gunner staggered, wounded, going down, and Snyder nailed him with the last round in his clip, rewarded by a spray of blood that streaked the diner's wall.

The empty clip ejected automatically, and he was fishing for another in his pocket when he caught a hint of movement at the edge of sight, a figure stepping into view below him, to his right. He knew at once that it was trouble, that it could be nothing else, and he was reeling backward, seeking cover, when the bullet ripped into his side, beneath his arm. The impact drove him backward, saved him from other rounds that crackled overhead, but one could do the job, and Snyder knew that he was badly wounded. Sudden difficulty with his breathing told the combat veteran his lung was punctured, and he felt the telltale pressure of internal bleeding. He could not locate an exit wound, and that was something to be thankful for, reducing blood loss to a single hole instead of two, but mounting dizziness informed him that the wound was serious enough.

Old Enoch managed to reload his rifle, chambering a round, and he was crawling slowly, painfully, in the direction of the cornice when he smelled the smoke. He had been smelling smoke all afternoon — the burning cars, at first, and later from the shops downrange — but this was different. Closer. Pausing, taking time to test the air, he realized that it was coming from beneath him, rising from the garage.

The bastards meant to smoke him out or fry him where he lay, but Enoch wasn't having any of it. Even with a bullet rattling around inside him, he would not lie back and wait for death like some poor invalid who couldn't lift a finger to defend himself. Whatever happened, he would go out fighting, and the men who took him down would know, by God, that he had been alive and kicking to the bitter end.

They could not stay inside the station after setting it afire. He knew that much, and realized that it could work to his advantage. Enoch used his rifle as a crutch, aware that he was losing blood as he staggered to his feet. In a few more moments, he would not be needing any blood at all.

He stepped up to the roof's edge, paused with one foot resting on the cornice. Down below, the gunner saw him coming, raised his submachine gun for the killing burst, and toppled over backward with a bullet in his face. Old Enoch had not even bothered aiming; it had been that easy.

Frightened voices babbled in Spanish from the doorway just below him. It was getting hot in there, with wisps of smoke already snaking from the doors and windows. He could picture them inside the smoky cave of the garage, beginning to believe they might be trapped. He laid the rifle down, removed the old Colt automatic from a pocket of his coveralls, and thumbed the hammer back. A sudden hush below informed him that the enemy had come to a decision.

Standing on the cornice, Old Enoch was amazed at just how easily he kept his balance. Anyone could pick him off but they wouldn't. Snyder had a job to do.

Number one erupted from the doorway of the station, gagging on the smoke, immediately followed by another gunman and another. Enoch smiled, and fell upon them like the wrath of God.

Luis Rivera smelled the smoke before Esteban called his name and pointed to the ceiling vents. He had not seen Camacho or the others recently, had no idea if they were still alive, but somehow sparks had crossed the street and kindled on the diner's roof. Rivera thought he recognized the stench of burning shingles, insulation, and he knew that they would all be trapped like rats if he did not take some decisive action soon.