"Grant got the county sheriff," she suggested, trying to sound hopeful as they peered through separate windows.
"Maybe."
"What else could it be?"
The soldier didn't answer, waiting for the sounds to take on substance, for the source to show itself. It might have been the county sheriff, but there was an alternative that came to mind.
It might be Doomsday.
For the Executioner.
For Santa Rosa.
12
Esteban and his companions rendezvoused with Rivera bearing their collection of assorted small arms from the hardware store. Rivera heard them out, dismissed the deaths of two more gringos as inconsequential. Something else had happened on the brief foray to town — he read it in the eyes of Jorge and Ismael — but he did not press them for details. In a few more hours, nothing they had done would matter in the least. It would be over, finished, and Rivera could relax.
Rivera's trademark was a mixture of audacity and caution. Always careful when it paid off, the dealer knew precisely when to gamble on the long odds, risk his life, if need be, in pursuit of wealth and power. He had risen through the ranks on nerve alone, and made his fortune in a business where strength alone was not enough to guarantee survival. Early on, he learned that cunning was essential in his chosen trade. While other dealers hid behind their walls and barbed-wire fences, trusting in their private armies, he had infiltrated their territories, sniffing out ambitious underlings, recruiting them as spies in hostile camps. The major dealers had ignored him, for the most part, totally preoccupied with their omnipotence until, one at a time, he had eliminated them. In five years time, Rivera had arisen from the gutter to command the largest private army in Sonora, dealing marijuana, heroin and cocaine to syndicates throughout the States. His reputation as a winner was established, but he knew that it could all be taken from him, just as he had taken it from others.
There had been other challenges before, but none as serious as that which he was facing now. On previous occasions he had seen the trouble coming, recognized its source, and moved to neutralize the danger in advance. Two dozen small competitors, and half as many larger ones, had come to grief because they thought that they could prey upon Rivera's empire, emulating his old tactics, using them against the king himself. But they were gambling on his own forgetfulness, the apathy that sometimes comes with power, and they had been fatally mistaken in their estimation of his cunning.
For Rivera had forgotten nothing, and he took no chances with his own subordinates. His payroll was extravagant, perhaps, but he was buying loyalty from the soldiers in his ranks, the lawyers and accountants who were necessary evils in a business such as his. He paid them more than they were worth, and let them know precisely what they stood to lose by crossing him, betraying him to his competitors. Whole families had disappeared upon the rare occasions when a traitor was exposed, and Rivera's personal ferocity, his thirst for disloyal blood, was legendary with his gunmen. Some of them had witnessed the punishments he had inflicted, and they spread the word, embellishing the stories until he emerged as something of a demon cast in human form. Rivera did not mind; the legends served a useful purpose, and his richly padded payroll was a form of cheap insurance, well worth the investment.
As his convoy reached the outskirts of Santa Rosa, he felt another legend in the making. Members of his entourage would talk about this day for years to come. Authorities might question him, and some of them, at least, would whisper his involvement as established fact, but there would be no evidence on which to base a legal charge. Rivera might inform a chosen few — his favorite bought-and-paid-for federates, for example — but the story would spread through the grapevine, and his potential enemies would stand in awe.
He had originally hoped for a more peaceful solution, but time was running short, and Rivera felt a sense of urgency. He had already stayed too long in the United States, and every hour added to the visit magnified his risk. Despite connections with the Mafia and Latin syndicates, despite the small-town marshals on his payroll, an arrest in the United States could ruin everything. Rivera did not have the pull with federal agents and the courts that he possessed in Mexico; he could not bring the heat to bear on politicians with their hands out, deep in debt to him for campaign contributions, "favors" of all kinds. A bust in the United States — especially on a charge as serious as murder, or the paramilitary seizure of a town — could land him in a cell for life, without parole. Without a diplomat's protection, nationality meant nothing to the Arizona State Police or FBI, and some of them, he knew, would shoot him down with relish, given half a chance.
It was essential that his business be concluded soon, before the silent cordon he had thrown around the tiny crossroads village could be cut. In spite of his precautions, there was still a chance that someone might escape from town, or see the roadblocks and find a way to call for outside help. There were many possibilities for error, and Rivera recognized that natural audacity was lapsing over into desperation. It would take a master's hand to keep the two apart, but he was equal to the task.
Rivera had expected something of a crowd, but now he saw that he had overestimated Santa Rosa. No more than a dozen people had emerged from shops and homes to investigate the sirens, while several others peeked timidly between drawn blinds. The rest, he thought, must be at work on nearby farms or in surrounding towns.
For his purposes, it was enough. The word would spread throughout the tiny crossroads town, and if the population was diminished from his own first estimate, that left him fewer witnesses to deal with, fewer people to interrogate.
He gestured absently with one hand, and Camacho killed the squad car's siren. Seconds later, someone hit a switch inside the wailing ambulance, and silence fell across the heart of Santa Rosa like a shroud. Rivera swung his legs out of the cruiser, straightened slowly to his full height, letting each of them examine him. It made no difference if they saw his face, since none of them were going to survive his visit.
He lit a cheroot, then reached inside the cruiser for the microphone that Hector offered to him. Jiggling the switch, he tested it, made certain that the squad car's PA system was engaged. Rivera held the microphone against his lips and spoke with slow precision, measuring his words.
"Citizens of Santa Rosa! Your attention, if you please!"
Rebecca Kent stood silently behind Venetian blinds and watched the dark man with the microphone as he addressed the town. Her heart caught in her throat at the sight of Amos Grundy's ambulance, the last vehicle in the line, its colored lights still winking silently even though the siren was shut down. She could not see the man behind the wheel, but knew instinctively that she would not have recognized his face. She did not want to think about Bud Stancell or the Grundys, and she forced herself to concentrate upon the stranger and his entourage.
The leader stood beside a pale green squad car bearing the insignia of the Border Patrol. No uniforms were in evidence, and Dr. Kent felt certain that its presence here was not indicative of an official visit. Like the ambulance, it had been commandeered, its legitimate passengers disposed of. She closed her mind to thought of where they might be now, what might have happened to them, listening to the stranger's voice.
"Citizens of Santa Rosa! Your attention, if you please!"
His voice was cultured, in an artificial sort of way, and redolent with strength. She felt as if his eyes, invisible behind dark glasses, might pierce her if he turned in her direction.