"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.