Run to Ground (11 page)

Smiling to himself, Rodriguez missed the woman's entry through an open doorway on his left. When she saw her fallen husband, she screamed. Rodriguez was already rushing toward her, gaining, when Ismael drew his nickel-plated .32 and put a bullet through the open oval of her lips. The little gun's report was understated, probably inaudible outside, but the projectile's impact was dramatic and completely final. Lifted off her feet, the woman struck a bank of shelves, rebounded like a rag doll, bonelessly crumpled to the floor.

Rodriguez did not waste a glance on the gunman, knowing he would have to punish Ismael if he saw his grinning face. The woman's life meant nothing — less than nothing — to Esteban, but a
pistolero
was supposed to follow orders. When they started killing on their own initiative, control was jeopardized, a precedent for independent thought established. He would have to nip it in the bud.

Already stalking toward the Main Street exit, Esteban tossed orders back across his shoulder. "Kill the other gringo, quietly, and get the weapons loaded. I will tell Luis what has happened."

In his heart, he knew Rivera would not mind the deaths of two more Anglos. They were nothing to him, and he would be pleased to hear about the guns. So far, the siege of Santa Rosa had been carried off without a hitch.

Amy Schultz was late, but she was certain that her parents would not mind. They made her work for spending money through the summer, but they never treated her like an employee, never nagged her if she was a little late, or left a little early, for a date with Rick. In fact, he was the reason for her tardiness; she had been trying to call him all morning, but there was no answer at home, no answer at the service station. That was strange: Bud Stancell never closed on weekdays, and he never had so many customers that neither he nor Rick would not hear the telephone.

If they had lived in Tucson or in Phoenix Amy might have worried, but in Santa Rosa, "trouble" meant a blow-out on the way to work, or something equally mundane. It was unusual that no one at the station would pick up the phone, but it was not mysterious. Most likely they were in back somewhere, or Rick had gone for lunch and Bud was tied up with a customer. No big deal.

She was looking forward to their date that night, their time alone together at the Ajo drive-in. Thinking of Rick's kiss, his strong, insistent hands, made Amy tingle with excitement, but she knew that she could not give in. Not yet. But soon, perhaps.

This time next summer they would both be packing up for college, and the thought of being separated from the only boy whom she had ever really loved made Amy nervous, cold inside. They had discussed applying to a list of colleges together, going with a school that would accept them both, but in reality, she knew that Rick would have to take the best deal he could get on an athletic scholarship. That shaved their chances of togetherness, and while her grades were good enough to win acceptance anywhere, she feared that something might prevent them from enrolling on the same campus.

Something like her father, for instance. He was fond enough of Rick, had nothing but the highest praise for Amy's choice, but she could tell that he was skeptical about their long-run chances of success. They were too young, he said, to really know their minds where romance and the future were concerned. Another year, another five years, and they might not feel the same about each other. In the meantime, it was vital that they not become too close and gamble everything they had upon a moment's pleasure.

She reached the hardware store at last and let herself in through the back. She heard her parents rearranging stock out front and called to them, a cheery greeting with a suitable apology for being late.

No answer.

Could they be that angry with her? Or were they preoccupied with taking inventory? Maybe her father was with a customer. She hoped so; they could use the money. Amy took her bright red smock off the hook and slipped it on. She left the storeroom to join her parents and was surprised to find a short man, Mexican by his appearance, standing at the rifle rack, two guns tucked underneath each arm. A callused hand was clamped across her mouth, a strong arm circling her waist and pinning both arms tight against her sides.

She struggled, kicking backward at her captor's shins until he gave her head a vicious twist and colored lights exploded on the inside of her eyelids. Amy felt as if she were about to faint, but she was clearheaded enough to see the short man lay his weapons down and approach her with sudden hunger in his eyes. She knew the look, although when Rick had looked at her that way there was a gentleness in his eyes instead of cruelty. She knew precisely what the stranger wanted, and she tried to kick at him, humiliated when her legs would not respond to orders from her brain.

The man's hands were on her now, inside her smock, and Amy heard him shred her blouse. His laughter was a mocking sound, indecent, and she cursed herself for weakness as the angry, helpless tears welled up beneath her eyelids. Desperately she made another bid to break the grip that held her fast, expecting yet another twist to strain her aching neck. Instead the faceless stranger let her go. Before she had a chance to see if she would stand or fall, the short man stepped in close, still grinning, cocked his fist and struck her squarely in the face.

The drab linoleum that she had mopped a hundred times rushed up to meet her, but the impact failed to put her under. Amy Schultz was conscious when the rough hands turned her over, pinned her to the floor, and started ripping at her clothes. She thought of Rick, for just the barest fraction of an instant, and then, hopelessly, began to scream.

Johnny Bolan picked the trooper up a few miles east of Yuma, clocking close to eighty-five on Interstate Highway 8. He had been careful in the towns, obeying posted limits and avoiding notice, but the interstate had been his chance to make up time, unwind the Jimmy's power plant and let his mind free-float toward possible solutions for his problem. Thus preoccupied with private thoughts, he missed the tiny winking lights at first, receiving no warning from his radar detector. The cruiser had been parked along a side road, screened by billboards and accumulated tumble-weeds. Its driver had been on the verge of dozing when the Jimmy hammered past him, giving him a final chance to make his quota for the day.

The patrolman had closed his distance to a hundred yards when Johnny caught it, and the younger Bolan spent a heartbeat weighing possible reactions. He could always stop and take the ticket, but there might be other problems if he did. The radar-sensitive "fuzz buster" mounted on his dashboard was illegal in several states, and if the cop took umbrage to it now, there might be an arrest, a comprehensive search that would uncover weapons and explosives, sundry other gear. Above all else, an interruption of his journey put more heat on Mack, and that was Johnny's prime consideration as he floored the 4x4's accelerator.

He would have to lose the tail, and while that would involve a detour, some wasted time, it had to be a damn sight faster than submitting to a search and possible arrest. Whatever, he was in it now, the Jimmy pulling slowly but inexorably out in front, the squad car dwindling in his rear-view mirror as he held the pedal to the floor.

The patrolman would not be shaken off easily. Engaging the Police Pak in his cruiser, he was after Johnny like a shot, his siren whooping in syncopated rhythm with the flashing colored lights. A straight shot into Pima County on the interstate would gain him nothing but a caravan of cruisers, Johnny knew, and long before he got that far, there would be roadblocks waiting for him on the highway. He would have to lose his tail, and soon, then settle down somewhere to wait it out while troopers scurried up and down the highway, searching for their prey. They would grow tired of it eventually, but it was a nuisance, and he didn't like to think what might be happening in Santa Rosa while he dawdled in the desert, wasting time.

Above all else, he did not want to think about what might already have transpired in Santa Rosa. Knowing that he might be too late, that the aborted phone call might have been the last that he would ever hear from Mack, he could not let it go. While there was any hope at all, he would continue, and when hope was gone, he would begin the task of dishing out revenge.

But at the moment he was searching for a side road, anything to get him off the interstate and offer him some room to run. A half mile farther he caught one, cranked the Jimmy through a hard left turn, fishtailing as his tires bit into dirt and gravel, spewing shrapnel in his wake. The trooper nearly overshot his turnoff, but he made it with a scream of tortured rubber, jouncing after Johnny on the one-lane track. The younger Bolan was already generating clouds of choking dust, and while it would not put the trooper off his track, it had to slow the opposition down a little.

Johnny took advantage of his lead, accelerating, conscious of the fact that if he blew a tire or fouled his engine with accumulated dirt and sand, he would be finished. No more speeding ticket, now; he would be on the hook for reckless driving, resisting arrest and any other charges the trooper could dream up before they reached the local jail. A search of his belongings would be mandatory, and from there, the list of charges would begin to snowball, adding felonies to misdemeanors, piling time on top of time.

And time was something the younger Bolan did not have.

Another dirt road branched off the first, and Johnny took it on an impulse, following the rutted tracks that other off-road drivers had prepared for him. The cruiser on his tail was built for highway driving, flat-out speed, but it was not a rover. Lacking the Jimmy's four-wheel drive, stronger springs and armored undercarriage, it should not be able to compete long-distance over rugged, rocky ground.

John lost him at the next branch in the road. It came upon him suddenly, without a hint of warning, and he took the south fork, curving back in the direction of the interstate by slow degrees. A quick glance through the driver's window showed him that the narrow track lay close beside a deep ravine, all choked at the bottom with tumbleweeds and cactus, the remains of some forgotten, prehistoric stream. Behind him, choking on his dust and blinded for the moment, his pursuer overshot the track, his squad car losing traction, nosing into empty space and tilting crazily before it made the twelve-foot drop. The highway patrolman might scramble free with only minor whiplash to serve as a reminder of the episode, but it would take a wrecker to extract his cruiser from the steep ravine.

They would be hunting for him on the highway, soon, from Yuma eastward, all eyes searching for a Jimmy bearing California plates. It had to figure that the trooper had his number, that it had been broadcast well before the cruiser had been taken out. It was a problem he could live with, given time to make some superficial changes to the 4x4, and while he was reluctant to invest the time, he was not willing to accept the grim alternative.

He drove another seven miles on dirt and gravel, running roughly parallel to Highway 8. He found a row of dunes to screen him off from prying eyes along the road and pulled between them, shutting down the Jimmy's engine and climbing out to stretch his legs. He opened up the back and rummaged underneath the spare for tools and backup plates, selecting Arizona's from the several sets he kept on hand against emergencies. Five minute's work, and they were mounted, California tags sequestered with the other spares beneath the Jimmy's carpeting. He couldn't change the paint job, but there had to be a thousand similar vehicles on the road in Arizona, and the troopers would be looking for specific plates. Before he reached the highway, the new tags would be as dusty as the car itself, and no one would be able to detect the switch without a thorough search.

When he was finished, Johnny returned to the highway, drove another twenty miles to Wellton and found a drive-in restaurant. He killed an hour with a burger, fries and milk shake, watching squad cars rocket past, westbound for Yuma. When Bolan was halfway through his meal, a motorcycle officer pulled in behind him, eyed him hard for several seconds, then revved up his Harley and continued on his way.

The younger Bolan felt as if he might have aged a decade in that hour, waiting for a fraction of the heat to dissipate.

He would be forced to watch his speed from here on, avoiding further contact with the state patrol. He had already used his quota of luck for one day, borrowing against tomorrow, and he didn't need another run-in with the law to make that point. He still had miles to go before he reached the killing ground in Santa Rosa, and he had already wasted too much time.

Grant Vickers returned the microphone to its hook, frowning as he leaned back in his swivel chair and cocked his boots up on a corner of his desk. The sheriff's deputy had been properly solicitous, reminding Vickers that there wasn't much for them to do without at least a general description of the suspects or their vehicle. It was a not-so-subtle way of telling Vickers he was wasting everybody's time, and they would doubtless share a laugh at his expense in Tucson, but he had been left with no alternatives. Emergency receiving would report Bud Stancell's injuries, and it would be peculiar if the local law did nothing in a matter of felonious assault. His contact with the sheriff was routine, and he would let the matter rest right there unless somebody on the home front started asking questions. If it came to that, he knew that he could always stall them, falling back on lack of evidence, descriptions, and the like to camouflage his own deliberate inaction on the case.

He had gone looking for Camacho after leaving Becky at the clinic, and had been relieved to find the bastard gone. There was no sign of Hector, his companions, or the souped-up Chevy they had driven into Santa Rosa. Maybe they had gotten lucky, Vickers told himself; they might have found their pigeon, wrapped him up and hauled him back across the border to Rivera. Maybe.

But he didn't think so.

It would take a sheer, remarkable coincidence to put the stranger in their hands. Bud Stancell hadn't seen him, Vickers would have bet his life on that. Camacho had been angry and frustrated when he turned the jackals loose on Stancell; if their quarry had been hiding out at the garage, they would have simply murdered Bud, to silence him, before they stuck their excess baggage in the Chevy's trunk. The beating, Bud's survival, were a testament to Hector's failure in the hunt, and while he might have been recalled, Camacho's absence did not mean his boss was giving up, by any means. There would be other hunters, other crews, and that meant Becky Kent was still in jeopardy.

The lawman sat up straight and eased his gun from its swivel holster. Neither he nor the weapon had seen combat, but he knew the gun would do its job, provided that he had the nerve to use it. Opening the cylinder, he checked the load. He kept an empty chamber underneath the hammer, force of habit, even though he knew it wasn't really necessary. Now, considering the fact that he might actually have to fire the weapon, Vickers dug a box of ammunition from his top desk drawer and slipped another hollowpoint into the vacancy. That made it six potential deaths instead of five. Vickers thought it should have added more weight to the pistol, but he felt no change.

Six dead men in his hand. But would he have the guts to stand against Rivera? He had been on the bastard's payroll longer than he cared to think about, and there was every chance that he would be committing suicide by opposing Rivera's army. But if it came down to killing, and if he could get in close enough...

It all hinged on Rebecca Kent. If push came to shove, Vickers didn't give a damn about the town; a year or two at this rate, Santa Rosa would dry up and blow away. But Vickers held the woman in high regard. It would have been too much, perhaps, to say he loved her, but it could have come to that, in time. Unfortunately, time was something he did not have a surplus of just now.

It would be easier for all concerned if he could simply find the man Rivera's goons were looking for. He could arrest the stranger on some trumped-up charge, pretend that he was driving Mr. X to Tucson for safe keeping, and deliver him to Hector or whomever on the highway outside town. Unfortunately, Vickers had no more idea of where the stranger might be hiding than he had of where Camacho and his troops had gone. The bastard might be anywhere, assuming that he ever got to Santa Rosa in the first place.

Wounded, walking in from somewhere to the south, it would have been so easy for the pigeon to collapse and die before he reached the city limits. Hector might be wasting everybody's time and raising hell for no good reason, but the lawman knew Camacho and his boss would never understand that point of view. It would require a vast expenditure of time to search the desert thoroughly, and in the meantime, if the hunch was wrong, their quarry might be miles away and singing to the state police.

If only Vickers had some rough idea of who Rivera's men were looking for. A "gringo," sure, but what the hell did that mean in the States? It ruled out Mexicans and Indians, for openers, but Vickers knew that even blacks might be considered gringos, based upon the attitude of those applying labels at the moment. As a positive description, it was worse than useless, fitting four-fifths of the country's populace. He could go out in search of tramps, pick one at random, shoot him before he turned him over to the drug lord. But if Rivera had some means of identifying the man he wanted, it would be a wasted effort. And he knew that an effort to deceive Rivera, if discovered, just might get him killed.

There would be time enough for that, and if he had to risk his life, Grant Vickers did not plan to waste it on a goddamned tramp. He checked his watch, saw it was time to make another drive-by on the clinic, just to satisfy himself that none of Hector's goons had doubled back to play the answer game with Becky. If they touched her, tried to harm her... well, he would be forced to make a choice when that occurred. But in the meantime, there was time to kill, and he would kill it on the road.

Before he reached the sidewalk, Vickers turned and went back to his office. He opened the top drawer of his desk, withdrew the box of hollowpoints, another box of shotgun shells that lay half-hidden under rumpled correspondence. He would not be needing them, of course, but it was better to be cautious when tomorrow started looking shaky and you couldn't count on waking up to see the sun. The constable was not declaring war, by any means, but if war came, he meant to have an edge.

All things considered, Vickers thought it was the only way to fly.

"Why did you do it?"

Bolan did not have to ask what "it" was. They had danced around the subject of his occupation once before, and he had watched the lady chewing on it in the meantime, getting nowhere with her own attempts to put herself inside his mental process. Frowning thoughtfully, he cocked a thumb toward Main Street, baking in the noonday heat, and answered with a question of his own. "Why do you stay?"

She came back at him quickly, without hesitation. "People need me here. This is my home, I grew up just a quarter-mile away and went to school here, through eighth grade. Of course, there were more children then." She seemed to lose her thread of concentration for an instant, but she snapped back quickly. "I fulfill a necessary function."

Bolan spread his hands and offered her a weary smile. "My story in a nutshell."

Dr. Kent appeared incredulous. "You can't be serious. I help the sick, the injured. You kill people for a living. Any effort to compare the two activities is, well, ridiculous, that's all."

"Not really. Every time you clean a wound with antiseptic, you're killing germs. When you remove a limb that can't be saved, or cut a tumor out, you're acting in the interests of your patient... but you're also taking life."