The driver of the ambulance applied his brakes fifty yards from the roadblock. He had his window down, red-faced and growling as the van decelerated, coasting to a stop no more than twenty feet from where Rivera stood, his men already closing in to surround the new arrivals.
"What the hell you think you're doin', boy?" the driver shouted, glancing left and right, his anger losing steam as hardware was displayed. "I'm on official business. An emergency."
"I also have a small emergency," Rivera told him, smiling in anticipation of the kill. "We need to see your passenger."
"The hell you do! This man's en route to Tucson. He's hurt bad."
"I have the cure for his distress." Rivera nodded, and the nearest of his gunners put a bullet through the driver's forehead, silencing his arguments forever. Others had the rear doors open; an automatic weapon stuttered briefly as the paramedic riding with the patient was eliminated. Anxiously, Rivera circled to the rear and thrust his men aside to face his enemy, now helpless on a gurney in the ambulance, his arms strapped down.
Except that this was not the man. He was too short, too heavy, almost certainly too old. His injuries, while numerous, did not include a bullet wound.
Rivera drew his pistol, leaned inside the ambulance, and cured that omission on the spot. He felt the others watching him, prepared to carry out his orders, but the dealer found himself dumbstruck, immediately at a loss for words. He had been certain that the ambulance was carrying his enemy away from Santa Rosa, bound for some emergency facility and treatment that would save his life. It would have been the perfect wrap-up to a miserable morning, but, instead, he was confronted with an aging stranger, almost certainly the victim of a savage beating, unrelated to the man he sought.
Rivera thought at once of Hector and the others, reasonably certain that he recognized their handiwork. They had encountered a suspected witness, he surmised, proceeding to interrogate the man, and they had foolishly allowed him to survive. Hector and his men were still hunting, with information gathered from their victim or without it, using precious time.
"The radio," he snapped, his pistol bolstered now, one empty hand outstretched and waiting. Someone handed him the walkie-talkie and he keyed the button for transmission, speaking with his lips almost against the mouthpiece. "Hector, do you hear me?"
Several seconds passed before the small receiver crackled in response.
"Yes."
"Come to me."
"Immediately."
He returned the radio to waiting hands and barked an order to hispistoleros. One of them reached through a window of the ambulance to shove the lifeless driver from his seat, then climbed behind the wheel. It took a moment, but he finally killed the flashing lights and got the van in gear, proceeding to park it behind the caravan of waiting cars.
Luis Rivera had run out of patience. When Camacho and his men arrived, it would be time to visit Santa Rosa as a group, and find some answers to the questions that were plaguing him.
Where was his enemy?
Who was he?
Was the gringo still alive, or had his wounds proved fatal?
Either way, Rivera's visit would be most unfortunate for Santa Rosa. Tired of the delays, enraged by the interminable waiting, he was in a killing mood. The murder of a battered stranger in the ambulance had merely offered him a taste of things to come. There might be nothing left when he was finished with the tiny border town, and, then again, he might decide to leave a grim reminder for his enemies.
A warning sounded in his mind, alerting him to danger. There was no threat from the constable in Santa Rosa, but the people of the Arizona desert were a rugged species, used to dealing with their problems privately, by force. Some of them might resist him, take up arms against him when his mission was revealed. He could not hope to strip them of their weapons absolutely; searching house-to-house would spread his force too thin, and even so they might miss something. But he could eliminate the source, make sure that no one had a ready call on extra guns or ammunition when he made his move.
"Jorge. Esteban." When the gunners stood before him, he explained their mission, forced them to repeat it, making certain that they understood. He could as easily have raised Camacho on the walkie-talkie, but he was afraid that Hector might get side-tracked, waste more precious time.
When this matter was finished, he would have to take another long, hard look at Hector, and decide if he was truly leadership material. So far this day, Rivera had not been impressed with his performance. It was possible that soon he would have need of someone to replace his second-in-command. This afternoon would tell the tale.
He watched Esteban choose a third man to accompany them, all piling into a sedan equipped with radio and automatic weapons. They would pass Camacho on the highway into Santa Rosa, but Rivera's number two already had his orders, and he would not think of turning back to follow. He had better not.
Within the hour, Santa Rosa would be ready for him, still unconscious of the blow about to fall. He cherished the advantage of surprise, aware that it could make the crucial difference in a situation where his men would be outnumbered five or six to one. Discounting women, children and the elderly, the odds might still be even, but the populace of Santa Rosa numbered no proficient killers in its midst.
Well, there just might be one.
The man Rivera hunted, whom he would destroy before he slept again. The bastard who had cost him millions, slaughtered members of his household, brought him here to save his reputation while some tatters of it still remained.
Before Rivera finished with him, he would know the gringo's name, the names of his employers, everything there was to know about the man who had attempted to destroy him. Death would not come easily or swiftly for Rivera's nemesis. The bastard would be praying for oblivion before he was allowed to rest in peace.
Luis Rivera smiled in sweet anticipation. The day might not be wasted after all. There might be entertainment still in store, a treat before the sun went down in violet shadows to the west.
A feast of blood Santa Rosa would not soon forget.
10
"Your change from twenty comes to seven ninety-five. You-all come back now."
"Sure, Gib, sure."
Gib Schultz stood back and watched his only customer of the morning disappear through the swing doors. Old Arnie Washburn was a character, and no mistake. He had a fresh supply of ethnic jokes on hand each time he stopped into the hardware store... although that wasn't near as often as it used to be. Three weeks — or was it four? — had passed since Arnie had been in the last time, and his purchase today would not put Gib in another tax bracket with the IRS. You had to see the bright side, though; at least he was a customer with money in his pockets. That species had been rather few and far between of late, as witnessed by this morning's trade. One customer, a lousy thirteen-dollar sale, since eight o'clock. Gib figured he was well below the minimum wage now, and smiled sourly to himself. If he still had employees, Schultz would have been forced to lay them off.
It had not always been hard times in Santa Rosa. Years ago, when he and Vi were newlyweds still bursting with their dreams, there had been decent business for a hardware dealer. Farmers needed this and that, a little bit of everything, and other local merchants had relied on Gib and Vi for all their hardware needs. The businessmen of Santa Rosa had been good that way, as far as hanging tight and throwing trade to one another, but the few remaining locals couldn't keep a decent hardware store alive, not when their income had been cut by eighty-five percent within ten years.