Run to Ground (16 page)

"I'm sorry, sir," the operator broke in, interrupting the recording. "All our circuits into Santa Rosa show up busy at the present time."

"Is that unusual?"

"I really couldn't say."

He fought the urge to curse and shout at her, aware that it would gain him nothing. "Let's assume it
is
unusual," he said. "And let's assume that everybody didn't use their phones at once, okay? Is there another reason why the lines might show a busy reading?"

"Hypothetically, if there was damage to the lines, they might report as busy, sir."

"In that case, I would like to file a damage report and request immediate repair service."

"Are you in Santa Rosa, sir?"

"Of course not. How could I be calling Santa Rosa if I
was
in Santa Rosa."

"I'm sorry, sir, but you must be in Santa Rosa to request repairs on lines in Santa Rosa."

"How can I request repairs from Santa Rosa if the lines are down?"

"I'm sorry, sir..."

"Can you at least break in and see if anybody's on the lines from Santa Rosa?"

"We are not permitted to intrude on private conversations, sir, except in cases of emergency."

"All right. I'm Dr. Joseph Gray, and I have urgent business with the Santa Rosa Clinic. I take full authority for any inconvenience you might cause by breaking in..."

"I'll have to get permission from my supervisor, sir."

"How long will that take?"

"If you'll just hold on a moment, sir..."

The Jimmy had been gassed, its windshield cleaned and it was ready for the road. He slammed down the telephone receiver, aware that he could be in Santa Rosa by the time he got in touch with someone who had both authority and guts enough to break in on the busy lines from Santa Rosa. And if back-checks from a distance proved the lines were down, then what? The process would have wasted precious time, and gained him nothing. While he waited on the phone to speak with faceless supervisors, Mack was trapped in Santa Rosa, maybe fighting for his life.

He passed a wad of rumpled bills to the attendant, slid behind the Jimmy's wheel without his change, and put the vehicle in motion, headed east. Two hours, give or take, and there would still be daylight left when Johnny reached the killing ground. Still time to find his brother... or, at least, determine what had happened to him, the direction his killers might have taken. Not that there was any doubt about Rivera; he would run for home when he was finished, and the younger Bolan would eventually find him there. It might take time, but he had time to spare. It might take everything he had, in worldly terms, and it would still be cheap at half the price.

But helping Mack was the priority. If John could reach him while he lived, before it was too late, then he would find a way to pull his brother out of Santa Rosa, more or less intact. If battle had been joined before he reached the tiny crossroads, he would wade into the middle of it, strike whatever blows he could against Rivera's team. He might find unexpected allies in the populace, and then again...

It didn't matter, Johnny knew, if anybody stood with them or not. Together, he and Mack could choose their ground and make a stand their enemies would not forget. Together, they could take apart a strike force many times their size.

Together...

Johnny pictured Mack, stretched out and lifeless on some dusty sidewalk, while the locals gawked and fought for scraps of clothing from the famous dead. A three-ring circus, with Rivera in the role of ringmaster, calling the tune as his brother's corpse lay in state beneath the broiling sun.

Except that it would never be like that. The citizens of Santa Rosa would not have an opportunity to join the hunt, assuming that they had the urge. If they were cognizant of what was happening and free to talk about it, someone in the outside world would certainly have gotten word by now. The hamlet's several lines would not be engaged all day long if everyone in town was busy hunting Bolan in the streets. That left one possibility, and Johnny knew it was the truth before he ever set foot in the little town. He knew that Santa Rosa was besieged.

Rivera would be taking every possible precaution to ensure success and ward off interruptions. Taking down the phone lines would be basic, child's play, and it would prevent the citizens of Santa Rosa from communicating with the outside world when things got tight. Roadblocks were a possibility, although they might be subtle, letting unofficial traffic in and no one out. The heavy hardware would be closer in, downtown, prepared to move on contact with the Executioner. If John was cautious, if he kept his wits about him, there was still a decent chance that he could get inside the first perimeter, make contact with the enemy's main force before they knew that he was coming.

And if they tried to stop him on the highway, he would find a way inside, in any case. He would not let them turn him back when he had come this far, endured this much, to reach his brother's side. He was prepared to charge the gates of hell, if necessary — and, the warrior knew, it just might come to that. But hell was only frightening to those who feared the flames, and Johnny Bolan had been burned before. He recognized the heat, accepted it, and it held no more terrors for him.

He was ready for anything Rivera might have waiting on the streets of Santa Rosa. And if death was waiting for him there, as well, so be it. Every man had an appointed hour of destiny, but few were privileged to choose the ground, the cause in which they fell. It came as a relief to know that he would not be swept away by circumstance, the victim of some random accident or careless Sunday driver. Death was too important to be left to chance.

If it was time, the younger Bolan meant to make his final hours count for something. And Rivera would remember him, whichever way it went in Santa Rosa. He would rue the day when he had taken on the Bolan brothers, even with an army at his back.

The fire was waiting. John could feel its heat already, drawing closer, and he craved it now, to keep him warm.

Sitting in his cruiser on the northern edge of town, Grant Vickers knew that there was nowhere left to run. His effort to negotiate a cease-fire with Rivera had been doomed from the beginning. There was nothing he could do to save his town from ruin, nothing he could do to save himself. But he could still resist, make things a little tougher for Rivera on the road to final victory. With any kind of luck at all, he might get one clean shot off at the man himself.

With luck.

The lawman's luck had been all bad, so far, and he did not anticipate a change, but it did no harm to be ready, just in case. With leaden fingers, Vickers freed the 12-gauge pump gun from its dashboard rack and retrieved the box of surplus shells from the cruiser's glove compartment. He worked the Remington's slide, chambering a live round, then withdrew another magnum cartridge from the box and fed the shotgun's tubular magazine. It gave him seven rounds, for starters, and if he could not hit someone with a shotgun, at the range he had in mind, he might as well give up.

He set the riot weapon's safety, laid it to the side, and set the open box of cartridges beside him on the seat. There would be no question of reloading if he stumbled into any kind of ambush situation, but it never hurt to be prepared. And if he played his cards right, he might lay an ambush of his own. Rivera might get careless and drop his guard enough for Vickers to attempt a kill. It was a long shot, granted, but it might be their salvation if he came up empty on more practical ideas. And in the meantime, there was Becky Kent, her teenage patient, and the clinic to be watched, protected.

Scanning with binoculars, the lawman watched Rivera's gunners scatter from their tight perimeter around the diner, fanning out across the street. It was beginning, and he didn't care if there was a stranger hiding out in Santa Rosa. It was
his
town, not Rivera's, and
he
carried the law, in his badge and in the swivel holster on his hip. It didn't matter that he had spent years ignoring portions of his duty; he was ready
now
to take a stand, and if he was too late to win, at least he knew that it was not too late to try.

They were beginning at the southern end of Main Street, going door-to-door from all appearances, and at their present rate they might not reach the clinic for an hour. Then again, Rivera had had ample time to scan the local telephone directory or question hostages inside the diner. He might know about the clinic, give it top priority, in case the wounded stranger had succeeded in his search for medical assistance.

If there
was
a stranger.

If he had ever been in Santa Rosa in the first place.

Vickers put the riddle out of mind. It did not matter in the long run if Rivera was correct or not. The bastard had already killed five people, maybe more that Vickers didn't even know about, and he was bent on wiping out the town to keep his bloody secret safe. The question of the stranger had become superfluous, irrelevant to everything that was about to happen. If he found the guy right now, this instant, and delivered him into Rivera's hands, the dealer would no doubt proceed with his annihilation of the town.

It was a no-win situation, but surrender only made Rivera's job that much, easier, and Grant was in no mood to make things pleasant for his enemy. He was about to light a fire beneath Rivera, and he hoped the dealer would go up in flames. If not, at least his pride might get singed around the edges, and he would remember Santa Rosa as a town where one man found his guts and made a stand.

One man.

It had a solitary ring about it, chilling Vickers to the bone. And there was no one he could turn to for assistance. Maybe, if Gib Schultz or Bud Stancell had still been alive... But they weren't, and there was no damned use at all in crying over spilled blood. The other able-bodied men in town were working on surrounding farms, some of them traveling as far away as Tucson for the daily grind, and by the time the first of them returned from work that evening, it would all be over. That left Vickers with a pool of children, housewives and a few old men to staff his army, and he knew it wasn't worth the time or effort to begin recruiting now. Whatever he accomplished, he would have to do alone, and that was fine. The lawman thought that he deserved no better, and the thought did nothing to improve his mood.

He put the cruiser in reverse and backed into the alley, cranking hard around until its nose was pointed toward the clinic. There might still be time to see that Becky Kent was safely under cover while Rivera's goons were busy canvassing the street for prey. He might succeed in persuading her to leave town, seek shelter...

They would have to take the girl, of course. He knew Rebecca would not leave a patient to the wolves; it was against her nature. Vickers didn't mind transporting Amy — they were in so deep already that it couldn't get much worse — but what if Becky's patient was not fit for travel? Could they somehow fortify the clinic, drive Rivera's raiders back before they got inside?

It was a fantasy. One man, a woman and a wounded girl could never hope to stand off an army. He might take down the scouts, but once Rivera's reinforcements arrived, the outcome would be swift and certain. Still, the prospect of a valiant sacrifice possessed a certain morbid charm. It would be bitter irony if he became a hero, after selling out the town for so damned long, but stranger things had happened.

Too bad, Grant thought, that he had lost his faith in miracles. He could have used one now. Hellfire, he could have used a dozen.

As he passed the pharmacy, Rick Stancell hesitated on a hunch and tried the back door, found it open. Locking doors had never been a top priority in Santa Rosa, where security came first from knowing everyone in town, and people found their solace in the thought that neighbors wouldn't steal. Such thinking wasn't always accurate, but there had been no ugly incidents within Rick's memory. Until today.

Today had ruined everything, thrown trust into the trash, along with justice, honor, decency. Rick knew that he would never trust another stranger, but it scarcely mattered, since his life was measured out in moments now. Men with automatic weapons were already moving door-to-door on Main Street, in search of someone Rick had never seen. Unless he missed his guess, they would be killing as they came, eliminating witnesses in what would surely be a full-scale massacre before they finished.

Standing on the threshold of the pharmacy with two guns tucked inside his belt, Rick felt like an invader, as if he had somehow joined the enemy. It did no good to tell himself that he was fighting for the town where he was born and raised. In truth, he knew that he was seeking plain old, everyday revenge. For Amy. For his father. There was something painful in the knowledge, something
guilty,
but he pushed the thought away and concentrated on his mission, on his enemies.

They would be close at hand. They had begun at this end of the street, and he was standing in the third shop on a north-south axis formed by Main Street. A feed store and a tiny Laundromat, both out of business, were the only structures to the south, and it would not take long to scour their interiors. He would be stunned if either building hid the Mexican's stranger, but Rick knew it would not matter either way. The gunmen had to make a clean sweep and they were coming, even if they found their prey the first time out.

As if on cue, the front door opened to admit a pair of grim-looking thugs, and Rick stepped back behind a stack of cartons, scrutinizing them. One had a shotgun propped casually across a shoulder, his partner had an automatic pistol tucked behind the buckle of his belt, easily accessible. As they sauntered toward the register, Rick knew instinctively that he would have to neutralize the shotgun first. The handgunner would require some time, however brief, to draw and fire, but his companion only had to drop the weapon from his shoulder, point and squeeze the trigger.

Though a novice when it came to firearms, Rick was conscious of the captured automatic pistol's greater rate of fire and stopping power in relation to his father's .38. He had already checked over the pistol, satisfied himself that it was loaded, with the safety off, and now he drew it from his belt, the hammer locking under pressure from his thumb, one eye closed as he sighted down the slide. He aimed directly at the shotgunner's chest, following his target as the goon stopped short before the counter, lowering his weapon, grinning at the pharmacist, the man he was prepared to kill.

"You know why we are here,
senor?"

Before the druggist had an opportunity to answer, Rick squeezed off two rounds in rapid fire. He was astonished by the recoil, thankful that the gun was braced in both hands, with his elbows locked. His first round drilled a hole in the gunner's chest and knocked him off his feet; the second missed completely, detonating bottles of cologne that were arranged behind him on a shelf. The empty cartridge cases struck the wall to Stancell's right, rebounded, clattering around his feet.

The second gunner was already digging for his weapon, scanning for the source of danger, when Rick put a bullet through his gut. The human target staggered, reeling, but he somehow kept his balance, hauling on the pistol that protruded from his belt. He had it now, and bloody hands were tracking onto target acquisition when a lucky second round sheared through his throat and slammed him backward into a display case, which collapsed beneath his weight.

Aware that time was counting down, Rick stood above his kills and scanned the battleground. The shotgunner was still alive, but fading fast, and Stancell did not waste a mercy round on what was soon to be a corpse. He pried the 12-gauge pump from flaccid fingers, moving on to claim the second gunner's pistol. He turned toward the counter and slapped the automatic down in front of Arnie Jefferson, the druggist.

"Use it if they come again," he said, and put the place behind him without waiting for an answer. There was too much left to do and he had only made a start. There was no time to waste in idle conversation, trying to convince a frightened man that it was preferable to stand and die than take it on your knees. If Jefferson could find the strength to fight, so be it. If he chose to die without a whimper, then the choice was his, and it would not affect Rick's future in the least.

Uncertain of his enemy's reaction to the burst of gunfire, Rick was conscious of a need to keep himself in motion and prevent the hostile guns from fixing his position. He had taken out three so far, which left God knew how many still on their feet and up for battle, anxious for a chance to bag themselves a gringo. Stancell had no doubt that one of them would nail him soon, perhaps the next time that he showed himself, but fear played no part in his thinking. He was numb, burned out, experiencing nothing in the way of terror at his prospects or elation at his recent victories. If they picked him off before he had a chance to do more damage, then at least he would have tried to even up the score. Three lives for one, and for the damage that the animals had done to Amy.

Rick was cursing as he put the pharmacy behind him. He wanted all of them, goddamn it, stretched out lifeless at his feet. If there had been time, he would have paused to mount their heads on poles, for all the town to see, but Stancell knew that he would have to be content with simply killing them, their deaths the only monument that he could hope to leave behind.

He was surprised to note that killing did not seem to faze him. He experienced no nausea, no dizziness, no nagging pangs of guilt so often emphasized in movies and on television. There was nothing, other than the cautious satisfaction of a job well done, a job Stancell knew was not complete.

The others would be waiting for him when he showed himself. They would not know his name, might not be conscious of his physical existence at the moment, but it would not take them long to realize that someone was resisting, fighting back in Santa Rosa. They would be on guard, prepared for trouble, as the milk run turned into a contest for survival. Three of them would not be going home alive, and that would have to give the others pause. If they were frightened, if they hesitated on the firing line or wasted rounds on shadows, Stancell would be points ahead. He could not hope for victory, but there was still a chance to shave the odds before he cashed it in.

And every gunner that he dropped was one more victory. Another strike against the animals who had destroyed his world. It was the least that he could do, all things considered, and the former high school football star was gratified to learn that he could do it fairly well. He wasn't equal to the pros, but he wasn't doing badly, either. Three of the exalted pros were dead already, and he was not finished yet, by any means.

In fact, Rick had the feeling he had only just begun.

Rebecca Kent was startled by the muffled sound of gunfire that came somewhere to the south on Main Street. Turning to the Executioner, she swallowed hard and said, "It's started."

Bolan did not answer her directly. He was buckling on his web belt, with the giant silver handgun in its leather holster dangling on his hip. She watched him, silent, as he drew the weapon, checked its load, returned it to its sheath. "They're starting to the south," he said. "That gives us half an hour, max."

"For what?"

"To make this place defensible. Do you have any weapons on the premises?"

The doctor thought about it briefly, finally shook her head. "No, nothing."

"Tools or instruments?" he prodded. "Anything at all?"

"I have a set of scalpels," she responded hesitantly. "There should be a hammer and some other tools back in the pantry."

"Anything at all," he said. "And while you're at it, think about your drug stock, any sort of lethal chemicals or heavy sedatives. If you could mix a killer cocktail and have it ready in syringes..."

"No!" The vehemence of her reaction startled Dr. Kent, and that, in turn, was mortifying. He was asking her to kill with medicine, and for the barest fraction of a heartbeat she had actually considered it. "I can't do that."