In time.
Rivera was concerned about the present. If he could not unearth his quarry, it would matter little what became of Santa Rosa. With the gringo bastard still at large, his operation would remain in constant jeopardy from unknown enemies. If they could penetrate his best defenses once, they would be capable of doing it a second time, keeping on until they finished with him, left him empty, ruined, like the peasant he had been in childhood. Scowling, Rivera took a silent oath that he would not allow himself to be defeated by the faceless enemy. He would prevail and force the opposition to acknowledge his supremacy before he snuffed them out like cockroaches beneath his feet.
Rivera thought that it would be a pleasure. And, in any case, he owed it to himself.
Two hours out of Santa Rosa, Johnny Bolan had to stop for gas. The station was a weathered, two-pump pit stop on the edge of nowhere, manned by a proprietor who seemed to have absorbed the brutal sun for years on end, his skin becoming taut and as brown as leather. Johnny left the guy to fill his tank and wipe the dead insects off the windshield, making for a phone booth tucked around the side. There was no trace of a directory, but Johnny punched up Information, receiving the area code for Santa Rosa, along with the numbers for the constable, a clinic and the only service station in the town. With quarters stacked in front of him, he tried them all... and each time heard a busy signal droning in his ear.
He gave it up and called the operator to get assistance with the call. He let her have the clinic's number, waited while she patched it through and grimaced as a recorded voice came on the line. "We're sorry," it informed him, "but your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please hang up, then check your number and try again. If you still cannot complete your call..."
"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.