Run to Ground te-106

by Don Pendleton

  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.

  Four gunners remained inside the small diner. For all Rivera knew, the others might have been annihilated on the street. Four men would have to do. If they followed orders, acted ruthlessly and with courage, he believed that four should be enough.

  He barked at Esteban and the others, ordered them to leave the cover of the restaurant and find some means of transportation, of escape. The pistoleros hesitated, whispering among themselves, until he turned his steely gaze upon them, cowing them with the force of his personality. They might have overpowered him with little difficulty, but they were accustomed to obeying his instructions, witnessing the fate of others who defied him, and they dared not turn against him now. Outside, their fate might be uncertain, but inside the diner, with Rivera, there could be no doubt about their fear.

  They clustered at the doorway, crouching, glancing this and that way, up and down the street. There was sudden gunfire from the direction of the service station, punctuated by the screams of frightened, dying men. Another moment, and the sounds were lost, devoured and swept away by the relentless desert wind.

  Esteban was the first to move. The others followed in a rush, and for a moment, in the stillness of the street, Rivera thought that they might make it. Sudden gunfire changed his mind — a pistol, joined by automatic weapons and a shotgun — and Rivera knew that he would never see his men alive again.

  He drew the nickel-plated automatic from his shoulder rigging and crossed the narrow room with long, determined strides. The waitress saw him coming, whispered something to the fry cook as Rivera closed the gap. He stared at them in silence for a moment, then reached out to grasp the woman's arm and pull her toward him. When his arm was wrapped around her waist and she was firmly in his grasp, he raised his weapon, sighted down its slide and shot the old man in the face.

  Two hostages would be unmanageable in his present situation, but a single woman, terrified and sobbing for her life, should fit his needs precisely. There was still a chance that someone on the street might fire on him, sacrifice the waitress to eliminate the last of their surviving enemies, but such an action would require the ruthless daring of a battle-hardened warrior. Peasants were conditioned to protect their women and their offspring, even at the cost of life itself. He would be stunned if anyone should risk a shot while he retained the woman as a shield, but if they found the nerve, he would at least enjoy the satisfaction of returning fire and watching one more peon die before they cut him down.

  Rivera dragged his sobbing, human burden toward the doorway, coughing as the smoke began to swirl around them, growing thicker by the moment. Santa Rosa, thus far, had been a disaster for him. He had gambled to regain his honor, save face, and he had lost. The best that he could hope for now was survival, but there was still an outside chance that he could make it home to Mexico.

  And what would he find waiting for him there? His other troops would be dismayed to learn of what had happened in the tiny hamlet. Some of them might leave him, if he gave them time to think, to reason out their doubts and fears. It would be necessary for him to react, now more than ever, after suffering an even greater loss of face. Whatever might be left of Santa Rosa must be razed, as an example to his enemies... and there was still the matter of the gringo who had dared invade his home.

  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.

  Epilogue

  "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.

  "I don't suppose..."

  He saw the question in her eyes, and knew the only answer that would serve. "I shouldn't think so."

  "No."

  The lady did not follow Bolan to the door, and it was just as well. The world had need of healers and of warriors, but they were different breeds. The healers settled, found themselves a home and served their neighbors with the skills they had learned, the talent God had granted them. A warrior, on the other hand, must be forever moving, seeking out his enemy, another killing ground.

  The enemy was waiting for Mack Bolan, and he did not have to ask about the setting of his next campaign.

  The goddamned war was everywhere.

  FB2 document info

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  Document version: 1

  Document creation date: 2006-07-13

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