Run to Ground te-106

by Don Pendleton

  Before they spotted him, he might have time to crank a whole clip off. Once he was seen, his fate was a foregone conclusion, but they would not take him easily, not like they took his friend. By God, he meant to make them dance before they brought him down, and no mistake.

  His sunglasses were old and scratched, providing some protection from the glare but hindering his aim. He took them off and tossed them back across his shoulder, knowing that he would not need them anymore. Old Enoch waited, squinting through his lashes until he had grown accustomed to the light, and then he poked his head above the cornice for a quick look.

  Downrange, the hunters were already kicking doors, ransacking shops and homes in search of their elusive prey. Old Enoch didn't know who they were hunting, but he wished the man well. He hoped they never found the poor, doomed bastard, that he got away scot-free and left them running empty circles in the desert. In the meantime, Snyder had a present for them, and he did not plan to keep the sons of bitches waiting any longer.

  Scooting forward, so that he could rest his elbows on the cornice of the roof, Old Enoch eased off the M-1's safety and raised it to his shoulder, nestling his cheek against the stock the way a man might rest his head against a woman's shoulder.

  Two gunners were emerging from the Laundromat, disgusted after learning that the place contained nothing but dust. They were jawing back and forth, unmindful of the danger they were in, when Enoch sighted quickly, easily, and shot the taller man in the face. You didn't need a fancy telescopic sight to see his forehead blossom scarlet, scalp and brains exploding as if the guy were snorting cherry bombs.

  The dead guy's partner did a hasty double-take and dug a pistol from underneath his shirttails. It was far too little, much too late, and Enoch knew the bastard never heard the round that killed him, punching through his chest at more than a thousand feet per second, slamming him against a lamppost, spinning him around to drop down on the pavement.

  Two for two, and six rounds left before he needed to reload. He scanned the street, alive with gunners now as they responded to the sound of gunfire. The muffled sound of shots came somewhere from the south, and Enoch wondered if somebody else had found the courage to resist, or if the bastards had begun to murder hostages.

  In the long run it didn't affect Snyder's stand. He wasn't going anywhere until they hauled him down, and from his crow's nest, he had ample targets. It was just like a goddamned turkey shoot. Except that this time, all those goddamned turkeys could shoot back, which at least kept the contest interesting.

  Lining up another target, Enoch started squeezing off in rapid fire. And watched the bastards dance.

  17

  Luis Rivera pressed his face against the diner's window, shrugging off Camacho's hand as Hector sought to pull him back from the expanse of glass. From outside, the echoes slightly muffled, came another burst of heavy-caliber gunfire. As he watched, one of Rivera's pistoleros took a shoulder hit that knocked him sprawling, leaving him to wriggle for the cover of a nearby car like some amphibian deprived of water.

  There had been shooting as soon as the sweep had begun. Pistol shots at first, sedately muted, and he had assumed they marked the deaths of the townspeople. Almost immediately, from a different quarter, the reports were followed by a shotgun blast, and he was not so sure. Then came the rifle fire, and he was certain: his forces were under attack.

  From where he stood, Rivera could see two bodies lying in the street, as well as the wounded gunner who had made his way to cover. He would have to act on the assumption that there might be other losses, but he dared not falter now, or he would lose momentum, lose it all.

  His other guns were under cover now, a few of them returning fire in the direction of a rooftop, somewhere to his left, beyond Rivera's line of sight. No doubt they had already found the sniper's nest, and they would root him out before he could do further damage.

  Sudden hope was kindled in Rivera's breast. Suppose the sniper was none other than his quarry, cornered now and fighting for his life? It would make everything so very simple; kill the man, then turn in righteous rage and kill the town that had sheltered him. So easy.

  But the sniper had not fired those muffled pistol shots, the shotgun blast had preceded his initial fusillade. Assuming that Rivera's quarry had decided on a last-ditch stand, there still remained a possibility of allies — or of locals acting independently, in the defense of families and homes. If the resistance should begin to spread....

  He swiveled, snapping orders at Camacho, satisfied when Hector jumped as if he had been stung and hastened to obey. They must initiate a swift and stunning counterstroke before the enemy could organize and take heart from early victories. If necessary, he would burn the town and grind the ashes under foot before he let the people make a fool of him. In fact, a touch of fire might be the best idea of all.

  He caught Camacho halfway to the door and issued further orders, watching Hector's face light up as he imagined Santa Rosa burning to the ground. It was the kind of thing Hector normally enjoyed, and he would have no qualms about destruction of the village, the annihilation of its residents. If anything, he would enjoy the sport.

  Rivera moved back from the window, keeping Esteban beside him. The sniper had been spotted, soon he would be rooted out and killed, but there was still no point in taking chances. Any stray round crashing through the picture window might prove fatal, and Rivera had no wish to die — by accident or otherwise. He had too much to live for in Sonora, at the heart of his illicit empire.

  Glancing at the waitress, he decided she would have to die with the rest of Santa Rosa. He could kill her now, but there was still an outside chance that he might need a hostage if he had to escape from the village, and together with the grizzled cook, she was the only ace he held. It seemed improbable, a morbid nightmare, but Rivera would not waste his hole card yet, before he had the situation well in hand and Santa Rosa was in flames.

  When the town began to burn, its citizens would scatter, screaming, to their shops and homes. They would forget about resistance in their haste to rescue children, pets and prized belongings. They would be completely at his mercy, then, but there would be no mercy for the peasants who had dared to stand against Luis Rivera. Opponents were like insects, to be crushed and then forgotten, thoroughly eradicated. If any one of them survived, his raid on Santa Rosa would have failed, and he would be in grievous jeopardy.

  There was no extradition treaty between Mexico and the United States, but the Americanos would not have to bring him back to make life difficult. A little diplomatic pressure, if strategically applied, might do the trick, compelling venal federates to forget about their bribes for once and launch a real investigation. The annihilation of a town, if traced directly to Rivera, just might be enough to put a temporary clamp on foreign aid, for example, while a case was built against him in Sonoran courts. Rivera would not normally have feared a prosecution — he was strong enough and rich enough to keep the sentence short, and he could run his empire from a cell as well as from his plush estancia— but this would be a different sort of prison time. If the United States employed its full resources to "persuade" his native government that stringent measures must be taken, there was ample evidence available to lock him up for life, without parole, in squalid quarters where his cash would do him little good. And it would not be long, if he was jailed, before the hungry sharks would start to circle, snapping pieces from his empire, claiming territories for themselves.

  Survival hinged on Santa Rosa, and he could not escape that elementary fact, no matter how he tried. If anyone from Santa Rosa lived, he might be doomed. If two or three of them survived, he was as good as dead. There would not be a second chance, no way to make it up, repair the damage from afar. His life, his empire, everything depended on what happened in the next few hours, on the main street of a town too small to be charted on many road maps. If Rivera lost it here, he lost it all, and there would be no point in going home.

  The dealer made u
p his mind swiftly. If he dared not lose, he would not lose. He would destroy his enemies, and let their dying stand as an example to the world.

  He would prevail.

  * * *

  Johnny Bolan saw the roadblock from a mile off, a darker blotch against the heat haze of the far horizon, polished metal glinting in the sun. He pulled the Jimmy over, scrutinized the barricade through his binoculars, and saw that two cars had been parked across the road, their drivers and a third man lounging in the meager shade provided by the vehicles. None of them were in uniform, and none of them were Anglo. Johnny knew instinctively that none of them were lawmen.

  They would be Rivera's men, detailed to seal off the town from the north, allowing no one in or out until the dealer's business had been settled, finally, with all concerned. The younger Bolan knew what that might mean, and he could not afford to let the barricade delay him any more than absolutely necessary.

  Reaching underneath the driver's seat, he freed the Heckler & Koch VP-70 from its hidden rigging, easing off the safety as he placed it in his lap. The pistol's magazine held eighteen parabellum rounds, with number nineteen in the chamber; it was double-action all the way, and Mack had modified it personally to reduce the normally resistant trigger-pull. At any decent pistol range, it was a killer, and the extra loads would keep him firing when most adversaries had been forced to scramble for a backup magazine. With any luck at all, the piece would be enough. And if his luck ran out...

  He pushed the train of thought away. Three men and two machines were standing in the way of a reunion with his brother, and he made his mind up that it would not be enough. With cool deliberation, Johnny put the Jimmy back in gear and rumbled toward the roadblock at a careful forty-five, both hands set firmly on the wheel. He guessed that they would speak to him, at least, and try to turn him back before they opened fire. If they didn't, he would deal with that eventuality when it arose.

  The gunners scrambled to a ragged semblance of attention as the Jimmy closed to thirty yards, the leader stepping forward, both hands raised, to flag him down. No hardware was in evidence yet, and Johnny took it as a hopeful sign. If they were forced to start from scratch, the lag time would provide him with a lethal edge that they might never overcome.

  He rolled the window down and waited for the leader to approach him, frowning with a simulated curiosity, the VP-70 in hand, poised below the windowsill and out of sight. The spokesman's companions were behind him, taking up positions for triangulated fire if they should be compelled to flash the hardware.

  "What's the problem?" Johnny asked.

  "We have been forced to quarantine the town, senor." The gunner jerked a thumb across his shoulder, indicating Santa Rosa, still invisible beyond the rise. "An accident with chemicals."

  "No shit?" He gawked in what he hoped was a convincing imitation of concern. "My brother lives there."

  "I understand, senor, but no one is allowed to pass."

  "Well, rules are rules, I guess."

  He raised the VP-70 and shot the gunner squarely through the forehead, blowing him away and tracking on before his two companions could assimilate the fact. The nearest stood his ground, one hand beneath his shirt and digging for his pistol. His partner sought security in motion, fading to the right and weaving while he wrestled with a handgun in the left hip pocket of his slacks.

  John shot the nearer gunner first, two parabellum manglers ripping through his chest and lifting him completely off his feet. He was dead before he hit the ground. His sidekick stumbled, going down upon one knee, both hands outflung to break his fall, and it was all the edge that Johnny needed, granting him the time to aim and punch a bullet through the fallen runner's temple. He was quivering as Bolan stepped across his prostrate body, moving toward the cars. The keys were still in both ignitions, and he backed the larger vehicle — a Caddy — over to the shoulder of the road. When he had cleared a lane, he tramped back to the Jimmy and proceeded toward Santa Rosa.

  In one respect the roadblock was a hopeful sign. If they were finished with his brother, done with Santa Rosa, they would not have posted guards to close the highway. Something must be happening, if nothing more than a mop-up, and he still had time to join the party. There was still a chance for him to bag Rivera before the man could retreat to Mexico. And there was still a chance that he might find his brother. A slender chance that he might find Mack alive.

  He would have to be prepared for whatever waited for him in the streets of Santa Rosa. A hundred yards beyond the roadblock, still before he had a glimpse of town, he pulled the Jimmy over once again and walked around the back to choose his weapons. He lifted out the KG-99 and extra magazines, then hesitated, finally choosing the SPAS as well. Between the two, he had power and speed, a lethal combination any way you sliced it. There was still a chance it wouldn't be enough, but he was not intimidated by the odds.

  His brother had not come this far by playing safe, and Johnny Bolan knew the odds against him going in. It was a losing game, no matter how you read the stats, with death the only certainty, and Johnny had resigned himself to falling in the cause. But not just yet, if there was any way to put the Reaper off. In lieu of lasting victory, he would accept postponement of the inevitable, another chance to face the savages and drive them back into their burrows, purge them with the cleansing fire.

  He knew enough, from following his brother's war, that there would be — could be — no final victory against the cannibals. But he could singe their asses here and now. And he could do a great deal more, if he had come too late for Mack.

  Rivera had arrived expecting to annihilate a town. Instead the dealer and his troops might be annihilated if a man had guts enough to stand before the gates of hell. As Bolan dropped the Jimmy into gear, he knew that he had the guts.

  * * *

  "I didn't mean to shave it quite that close," Grant Vickers said.

  Mack Bolan held the lawman's eyes. "I'm not complaining."

  "Reckon you're the fella that Rivera's all revved up about."

  "You know his name?" the lady asked.

  The constable seemed to pale beneath his desert tan. "We've met," he answered curtly, and he could not seem to meet the woman's gaze.

  "But how..."

  "We haven't got much time," the soldier interrupted, and he thought the officer looked grateful as he raised his eyes. "Rivera may not notice, but his people on the street will know they didn't fire that shotgun blast."

  "I thought of that." The constable was looking Bolan over, closely. "As I recollect, he said that you were wounded. Are you fit to travel?"

  "I'll survive. I couldn't say about the girl."

  They turned to Dr. Kent, who shrugged dejectedly, still studying the lawman's face. "I've given her a sedative. We'd have to carry her."

  "Too risky," Bolan told her. "I'd suggest a suck."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "A diversion. Something that will draw the enemy away and keep them busy elsewhere. If we play our cards right, we could lay an ambush, turn it to our own advantage."

  "Now you're talkin'," Vickers said, but there was less enthusiasm in his eyes than in his voice.

  Before the warrior could elaborate, he heard the sound of rifle fire, immediately answered by the growl of automatic weapons. From the tempo of the gunfire, its direction, Bolan knew the rifleman was not a crony of Rivera's, but a sniper who had brought the raiders under fire.

  "We've got some company."

  "I'll be goddamned." The constable's amazement was entirely genuine; he had had a passing thought that his constituents might rebel, but he had honestly not expected it. "Who would have thought? I wonder who the hell..."

  "Whoever," Bolan cut him off, "they won't hold out for long. We need to put the ball in motion if we plan on walking out of this one."

  "Walking out?" The lawman seemed confused. "You mean you think we gotta chance?"

  "We're not dead yet."

  Grant Vickers seemed about to argue, but he let it
go. It struck Mack Bolan that the constable had no intention of surviving through the night. He wondered briefly what had driven Vickers to the point of suicidal heroism, and he let it go. It didn't matter now, and if his first suspicions of the lawman were correct, the answer might be better left alone for now.

  "You've got your cruiser?"

  Vickers nodded. "Half block down the alley."

  "Good. We'll need the lights and siren."

  "Say the word."

  He turned again to Dr. Kent. "Is there an inside way to reach the roof?"

  She nodded. "There's a skylight in the main examination room. You'd need a ladder, though."

  "I'll use the furniture."

  "Your side..."

  "Will have to take its turn. We're out of time."

  The lady was about to speak, but kept it to herself. He turned to Vickers. "Give me five, and I'll be looking out for that diversion."

  "I'll be there."

  The constable was leaving when the lady caught his arm. "Be careful, Grant," she said.

  "Hell, yes. You know me, Becky."

  As he disengaged, the lawman's eyes met Bolan's, locked there for an instant, and the Executioner saw death, as cold and certain as the print on last night's headlines. Vickers might not let him down, but he had no intention of returning from his mission. He was cashing in, for reasons that the soldier did not have the time or will to contemplate.

  "Five minutes."

  "I'll be waiting," Bolan promised him.

  The lawman grinned, an easy smile this time, and said, "Let's kick some ass."

  And he was gone. Before Rebecca Kent could voice her questions, Bolan was in motion, moving toward the main examination room, the skylight that would put him on the roof with a commanding view of Main Street. Given half a chance, he would have opted for a big-game rifle, but the captured submachine gun, his AutoMag and the Beretta 93-R were the best that he could do, and they would have to serve. If used correctly, Bolan knew, they just might be enough.