Run to Ground (5 page)

Not yet.

In time, perhaps, when they had spent a bit more time together, it would seem more natural for him to ask about her past. He knew she was a local girl who went away to med school in Los Angeles and wowed them with her smarts. She'd done some time at one of those big hospitals, more nurses on the staff than there were people in the whole of Santa Rosa, but it hadn't lasted. Vickers wondered if there might be some connection, linking Becky's job with her uneasiness toward men. It didn't seem to make much sense, but you could never tell.

If the vehicle had been passing through a couple hours later, he might have overlooked it. There was more traffic as the day wore on, but at the moment Vickers was all alone... until the dark sedan turned out in front of him, emerging from a narrow side street, and the driver swung around in his direction. In a single glance, he made the plates — from Mexico. The driver slowed a little as he came abreast of Vickers's squad car, smiling at him like a hungry weasel, nodding as though they ought to be the best of friends from way back. Vickers gave the man the evil eye but did not turn around to follow them or pull them over. They were cruising well below the limit, and he did not want to start his day by hassling nationals.

Grant Vickers did not know the driver or his passengers, but he could place the type. They came across the border on occasion, passing through, cold men in hot machines who rarely stopped in Santa Rosa, moving on toward other destinations in the north. Sometimes they passed the other way, toward Mexico, and he was never sad to see them go.

He did not know the strangers, but he had a fair idea of who they worked for, yes indeed. Thus far, their business interests had not clashed with his, and he would like to see things stay that way. He liked the hometown nice and peaceful, where the women and their kids were free to walk the streets. He wouldn't want it to become a shooting gallery, a modern Tombstone with himself in the unlikely role of Wyatt Earp.

Grant Vickers was a lawman who had come to terms with his limitations. He was not a hero, not an athlete, and he certainly would never pass for Sherlock Holmes. He had the common sense to recognize a lethal situation when he saw one, and whenever one confronted him, he had the brains to back away. If he could turn a dollar on the side, for doing what came naturally anyway, well, that was icing on the goddamned cake.

He curbed the cruiser, waited for the dark sedan to grow smaller in his rearview, but it turned instead of heading north. He frowned at that, and tried to put himself inside the driver's mind, discover what the bastard might be up to.

They were hunting, obviously. Here in Vickers's town. But who? And why? He would have known if there were any personal or business links to Santa Rosa, and he would have taken steps to sort it out, to warn the foolish locals off. But there was nothing. Zip. And that was what had Vickers worried as he put the cruiser back in motion and continued on his way.

The guns were out, and they were hunting. In his town. For someone Vickers didn't know. There was a wild card in the game, from out of frigging nowhere, and he didn't like the way that changed the odds. If they got lucky, if they made their tag in Santa Rosa, there would have to be an inquest, an investigation. He would have to act, and who the hell knew what might happen then?

His digital read 7:45. Old man Beamer would be open now. Grant Vickers cranked the squad car hard around and gunned it toward the diner, hoping that a cup of coffee might do something for his stomach. It was rolling now, as if he had consumed a couple bowls of Beamer's Texas chili, but without the pleasure that preceded heartburn. For a moment Vickers wondered if he might be working on a goddamned ulcer, finally deciding that it didn't matter either way. Some Rolaids ought to ease him through the afternoon, at least until he found out what — or whom — the Mexicans were looking for.

And once he knew... then what? Would he have nerve enough to throw their asses out of town? If they got lucky, dare he push the matter with indictments and arrests?

He had no answer at the moment, and he put the problem out of mind. He hoped the man they were searching for was a thousand miles away by now and running for his life. It wouldn't do him any good, of course, but once beyond the city limits he was someone else's problem. Someone else would have to scrape the victim up when the Mexicans were finished, and investigate the crime.

As long as it did not occur in Santa Rosa, Vickers would be satisfied. He was an easy man to please.

Darkness, and he was naming toward the light of leaping flames, prepared to dodge each time a muzzle-flash cut through the night and angry hornets swarmed around his head. He answered fire when targets showed themselves, but they were few and far between. The hostile gunners had grown cagey, scoping out his battle plan and lying back to wait for him within the shelter of the shadows. If he wanted them, if he was going to complete his mission, he would have to seek them in the fire.

The heat was strong already, even at an estimated range of thirty yards. He raised one hand to shield his face, aware that he was framed in silhouette for any gunners who might choose to take advantage of the moment. Still, the fire was central to his strategy, his needs. And while he could not have explained his purpose at the moment, there was something in his gut that knew why he was here.

It was essential that he find Rivera, he remembered that much, but the man was laughing at him now, his low, reptilian chuckle emanating from the darkness. No. It was emerging from the flames, the very white-hot heart of what appeared to be a burning warehouse, miles across. A blazing structure that might stretch forever, from horizon to horizon, if he dared to look. He didn't, concentrating on the evil laughter, eyes like slits against the heat as he attempted to pick out his nemesis.

Just there: a movement in the fire. He hesitated, strained against the baking heat to make out shapes and sizes, finally deciding that the form was human, more or less. Too wide, perhaps, but otherwise complete with head and arms and legs, all wreathed in flame and moving jerkily, as if the puppeteer was having trouble with his strings. He waited, felt the figure drawing closer, though it scarcely seemed to close the distance for the longest time. At last, when he could tell the gap was narrowing, he braced himself, prepared for anything that might emerge out of the fire.

Rivera smiled at him through withered lips, his eyes like livid coals beneath a blistered brow. The fire had taken its toll, but he was recognizable, still on his feet. Incredibly he seemed to feel no pain. And he was laughing, softly, with a grim malevolence that chilled the watcher's soul.

Rivera held a squirming figure in his arms. Somewhere along the line, he had acquired a female hostage, and although she kept her face averted now, there was something terribly familiar in her stance, her general form. Unlike her captor, she had not been blistered by the flames, but while Rivera seemed immune to pain, the woman writhed and whimpered as the tongues of fire reached out to lap around her ankles, leaving not a mark upon pristine flesh.

The watcher realized that she was naked, while Rivera still wore scorched and tattered clothing. He kept one arm around the woman's slender waist, the fingers of his free hand tangled in her raven hair.

"You want her," he demanded, "come and get her."

The watcher tried to move, but he found that he was rooted in his tracks, as if he had been standing overlong in fresh concrete and it had been allowed to dry. He twisted frantically, endeavoring to put one foot before the other, his exertions only drawing further laughter from Rivera.

"Guess you're stuck, man," he exulted. "Guess this bitch belongs to me."

One blistered hand slipped upward from the lady's waist until the blackened fingers reached a breast. Rivera's laughter had a different quality about it now, almost maniacal. The watcher raised his weapon, set for autofire, and held the trigger down, intent on cutting off that evil laugh at any cost. Instead his bullets seemed to veer off course before they reached Rivera, vaporizing in the heat from leaping flames.

"You can't kill me," he jeered, secure within the fire. "I'm all you live for, gringo. Me. And
this."

With one hand still caressing her breast, Rivera wrenched the woman's head back to expose her face. The watcher saw...

The ceiling.

Wide awake now, trembling as if with fever, Bolan knew that it had been a nightmare, nothing more. He tried to rise, but weakness and restraining hands prevented him. Above him, upside down, a woman's face intruded on his field of vision, giving Bolan something else beside the ceiling fan to focus on.

"You must lie still," she cautioned him.

"Who are you?"

"Dr. Kent. And who are you?"

The memories were flooding back to Bolan now, distinct from troubled dreams. He realized that he was lying on a padded operating table, with an IV drip plugged into his arm. His wounded side was numb.

"R. Kent, M.D.?"

"The
R
stands for Rebecca," she informed him. "We're in Santa Rosa, you've been shot, you broke into my clinic. Does any of this ring a bell?"

"How long have I been out?"

"You mean unconscious? I have no idea. It's been forty-five minutes since I found you on the floor. Of course, I wasn't here when you broke in."

"What time is it?"

She checked her wristwatch. "Eight o'clock. Expecting company?"

"I might be."

"Well, before they get here, I've got calls to make, and I'll need certain information. Like your name, for openers, together with an explanation of that gunshot wound."

He tried to rise once more, defeated by a giddy rush that might have been produced by chemicals or pure exhaustion. There was no pain in his wounded side now; in place of the incessant, burning ache, a pleasant numbness spread from hip to armpit. Dr. Kent was watching as he probed the bandaged wound with gentle fingers.

"Not to worry. It's a local anesthetic that I use with sutures. If you're smart, you won't disturb that IV hook-up. At the moment, you need all the blood that you can get."

"About those phone calls..."

"It's the law," she told him, "as I'm sure you're perfectly aware. All gunshot wounds must be reported by physicians in attendance."

"You're in danger here."

She stiffened, putting on a frown. "I don't respond to threats," she said. "I've put your guns away, and you're in no condition to go looking for them at the moment. If you can't behave, I'll have to offer you a sedative."

She was a gutsy lady. She was afraid, he felt it, but she hid her feelings well. And Bolan had no doubts that if it came to that, the sedative would be an "offer" he could not refuse.

"I wasn't threatening," he told her. "The men who shot me won't be satisfied until they're finished with the job. They might have traced me here already."

"All the more reason to call the authorities. They can protect you and sort this thing out."

The prospect of a small-town marshal guarding him against Rivera's army was so ludicrous that Bolan nearly laughed out loud. "The only thing they'll have to sort is bodies, if I'm found in Santa Rosa."

"Aren't we getting just the least bit overwrought?"

He glowered at her.
"We are
trying to prevent a massacre. If you prefer your killings wholesale, go ahead and make that call."

She hesitated, and the frown was deeper now. "Why should I buy all this? I still don't know your name."

He thought about it, finally figured
Hell, why not?
"The name's Mack Bolan. Ring a bell?"

From the expression on the woman's face, he knew that it was setting off a clamor of alarms. She almost took a backward step, but caught herself and stood her ground.

"The man they call the Executioner?"

"Some do."

"Assuming that it's true, what brings you into Santa Rosa?"

"Call it an unscheduled pit stop. If I hadn't stopped a bullet, I'd be somewhere else."

"My luck."

"You've got a chance to change your luck," he said. "That call you plan to make could get a lot of people killed."

"By you?"

The soldier spread his hands. "You've got my guns, remember?"

"Yes, and I intend to keep them safely under lock and key until the constable arrives."

As long as she was talking to him, she would not be on the phone, and Bolan knew he had to stall for time, attempt to win her over, or at least create a reasonable doubt within her analytic mind.

"The constable? What kind of force does he command?"

"You've seen the town," she answered. "It's a one-man show."

"I've got an army on my trail. Unless your constable's a kick-ass kind of guy, it might be better if you kept him in the dark. I wouldn't want to get him killed unnecessarily."

"All killing is unnecessary."

"There, we disagree."

"I've read a number of your clippings, Mr. Bolan. All about your so-called 'holy war.' I don't approve."

His smile was ice. "I haven't asked for your approval, Doctor. At the moment I have two priorities: survival and the prevention of a full-scale massacre in Santa Rosa. I would like to save your life, but if you won't cooperate..."

"My
life? What have I got to do with this?"

"You're here," he told her simply. "We've had a chance to talk. My enemies will have to think I've told you something, and they can't afford to have you spreading it around."

There was a trace of panic in her eyes, immediately covered over.

"But you haven't told me anything. I mean, except your name and..."

"Cheap insurance," Bolan said. "No witnesses. How many people live in town?"

She frowned again, but clearly saw his point. "Around a hundred, if you count the local farmers and their families. Within the city limits, maybe thirty-five."

"I wouldn't want them on my conscience."

She was on the verge of a response but reconsidered, falling silent for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was cautious, strained.

"I can't believe that these people — whoever they are — would murder everyone in town."

"You may be right. They'd only need to kill the ones who saw them, witnesses, but once they're on a roll..."

"And why should I believe your story?"

Bolan shrugged. "You've read my clippings, Doctor. You're aware of what I do, and who I do it to. You know the kind of people who have vested interests in my death."

"For all I know, that bullet might have come from a police revolver."

"If you think so, make your call. But be damned sure before you do. You'll have to live with the results."

She turned away, was almost through the doorway when she hesitated, turned to face him again. Beneath the fear and evident confusion, there was sadness in her eyes.

"I hate the kind of life you lead," she told him. "I despise the violence."

Bolan faced her squarely and responded, "So do I."

Rebecca Kent picked up the telephone receiver, hesitated, listened to the dial tone for a moment, then replaced it gently in its cradle. If her patient had been truthful with her, if his story was not lies, half-truths and fantasy, she might touch off a bloodbath by alerting the authorities. If desperate criminals were hunting Bolan — if her patient even
was
Mack Bolan — his predictions followed a repulsive kind of logic. Violence fed upon itself, and men who made their living with the gun would not be shy about eliminating women, children, any witnesses.

She thought about Grant Vickers, wondering how he would cope with a full-blown shoot-out in the streets of Santa Rosa. He was big and strong enough, of course, but he was not a "kick-ass kind of guy." Despite a term of military service, he was no more of a match for armed professionals than she was. If she called him, if he recognized her patient, he would have to call the county sheriff, possibly the state police. Meantime, although he might be placed in custody, Mack Bolan would remain there, in her clinic, while his would-be killers searched the streets, eliminating his potential sanctuaries, one after another. If they knew that he was wounded...

She broke the train of thought before it reached its logical conclusion, looking at the problem from another angle. What if her persuasive patient was not Bolan? Or if he was the Executioner, suppose that he was running from police instead of criminals. What then? If she ignored her duty, she would automatically become the man's accomplice. She could lose her license, everything that she had worked for, suffered for, these past fifteen years. If she was so damned gullible that she believed the first lame story she was handed by a liar desperate for time, she might be sacrificing everything upon the altar of stupidity.

She reached for the telephone again, but hesitated. Something in the patient's eyes, his voice, had struck her as sincere. Rebecca Kent believed she was a decent judge of human nature — one appalling, hideous exception notwithstanding — and her instincts told her that the man had not been lying to her. There was danger close at hand, but having come that far, what could she ever hope to do about it?

If she could not hand off the problem to Grant without endangering his life, the lives of everyone in town, what
could
she do? She pictured Vickers in his uniform, the little half smile on his sunburned face, a pistol firmly planted on his hip. He tried so hard to be the classic Western lawman, but a town like Santa Rosa offered nothing in the way of challenges, no opportunities to deal with violence in a practical capacity. From dating Grant, she knew he was a gentle man, albeit rough around the edges. When he had tried to make a pass at her and she had shied away, he took the cold rebuff without a macho show of angry disappointment. There had been no bluster, no reminder of the money he had spent on dinner, nothing whatsoever in the way of force. She had respected him for that, and had been grateful at the time, but now she weighed the constable's potential as a rugged fighting man and found him wanting.

Rebecca Kent was not an expert, but she thought it must require a certain kind of man to kill professionally, in cold blood. Most men — most women, when it came to that — could take another life in self-defense, or in defense of those they loved. A smaller number found it in themselves to murder for revenge, an exorcism of their private demons. But the true professionals — assassins, mercenaries, and those of their ilk — were something else entirely. There was something in their makeup, or deleted from it, that permitted them to kill and kill again. For money, for the sport of it, or from commitment to a cause.