Phase one had been the easy part, and Bolan knew it would be harder climbing out than it had been falling in. He waited out the giddy rush that followed in the wake of pain and crossed the bottom of the gully on his hands and knees, ignoring stones and thorns that tore his palms. He did not need to turn and look to know that he had left a crimson trail behind him in the dust.
The gully's northern bank was not as steep — no more than forty-five degrees — and Bolan noted little burrows scattered up and down its face, which he could use as handholds for his climb. The burning pain had momentarily receded to an angry whisper, and he knew that there was no time like the present to begin.
Slowly, hand over hand, Bolan tackled the slope, ignoring fresh alarms of agony that emanated from his wound. New blood was warm and wet against his skin, and he ignored that, too, aware that he would die in the ravine and rot there if he let the pain and blood deter him. Twice he lost his grip and slithered backward, eating sand, and twice he started over. When he finally dragged himself across the lip of the ravine, he was exhausted, and he knew he dared not stop to rest.
So close. He was so close that he could taste it now, and if he lay there, let the weariness devour him, he had no chance at all. His coat was open, and Bolan saw the bright, fresh blood that soaked his skinsuit, further evidence that he was slowly dying, being drained of his lifeblood. There still might be a chance, but only if he stood, continued walking. Only if he made it into Santa Rosa. Soon.
He made it to his feet, somehow defying gravity and the shining motes that swam before his eyes. For several seconds Bolan felt light-headed, and he struggled to resist the sweet, seductive darkness that was waiting for him just behind his eyelids. Gradually the feeling passed and Bolan found that he was still standing. Satisfied with that, he used the highway and the rising sun as reference points for geographic north and started to walk. One foot placed before the other. One step at a time.
It took fifteen minutes for the Executioner to travel ninety yards and top a gentle rise of sandy ground. Below him, still a mile away and dusty-pale as no oasis ought to be, was Santa Rosa. Somewhere in the predawn darkness, he had crossed the border out of Mexico and into the United States. Without a map and compass to assist him, he had never known the difference.
Neither would Rivera, Bolan realized, with so damned much at stake. The niceties of jurisdiction would not faze his enemy this time. The hunters would be coming, could be there ahead of him and waiting at the tiny village, ready for the kill.
It made no difference either way.
The Executioner was walking into Santa Rosa with hell-fire lapping at his heels.
2
They found the car at 4:15 a.m. The driver's effort to conceal it had been hasty, ineffective, and Rivera's pointmen spotted it where he had coasted off the road, behind a stand of Joshua trees and sage. The convoy slowed, pulled over, six cars now, including the pale-green cruiser they had picked up at the borderline. Their altercation with the patrolmen had slowed them down, but not disastrously, since their quarry was on foot.
On foot and wounded.
Luis Rivera opened the driver's door and peered inside. He did not give a second thought to fingerprints. The car was his, and a "stolen" report would be filed with the federales in due time. For now, establishing the name and destination of his enemy was more important. If the gringo bastard managed to escape with what he obviously knew about Rivera's operation in Sonora, he could make sufficient noise to rouse the Mexican authorities, compel them to forget the years of rich mordida they had accepted from Rivera as compensation for selective blindness. If Rivera's enemy escaped, if he was free to talk, then it was finished. Loss of merchandise worth millions was enough to put the man on Rivera's hit list, but the drugs could always be replaced. Provided that he was free to make the deal. But he would not survive in prison, even with his wealth to shelter him from harm. His empire would be picked apart by jackals in his absence, and he would be left alone to face the years of isolation, fighting for his life against the animals inside.
It was too much. Rivera pushed the image out of mind and concentrated on the car. The body armor had deflected several dozen rounds, as it was meant to do. The windows had cracked into tiny cubes in back and on the driver's side, but they had held. Rivera smiled and made a mental note to have another set of wheels just like it readied for his use within the week. There might be something they could do about the undercarriage to prevent a ricochet from wreaking havoc underneath the hood as this one obviously had. In any case, the shield around the gas tank had prevented an explosion, stopping several rounds, and there were still a few miles left in the puncture-proof tires.
What interested Rivera most, however, was the blood. Great blotches of it soaked into the cushions of the driver's seat, eliminating any notion that his enemy had slipped away unscathed. Someone had tagged the bastard, and the gunner would receive a bonus if Rivera could identify him. If he was alive.
He had already lost nine men, and while their lives meant nothing to Rivera in the abstract, he considered it a loss of face, a personal affront that must be rectified with blood. A man in his position must not let himself be vulnerable. He must have the wherewithal to stand against an army of his enemies. Humiliation by a single man would be unthinkable, the end of everything that he had worked for all these years.
But now his enemy was wounded and on foot. He had already lost a lot of blood, and every step would cost him more. He might already be delirious from pain and shock, condemned to wander aimlessly until the deadly sun finished him. The desert would kill the gringo, given time... but Rivera knew that he could not afford to wait.
He straightened and scanned the dark sandy wastes on each side of the highway, hoping against hope that he might see the bastard, spot his lurching shadow or the huddled corpse he would eventually become. The empty landscape mocked him, its mute rejoinder spelling out what he already knew: that they were dealing with no ordinary man.
This one was special, certainly. No ordinary man had cracked Rivera's security, blown his merchandise sky-high and eliminated nine of his most trusted soldiers before escaping in his Mercedes. It required a special man to drive away — and then to walk away — despite his wounds, the shock and loss of blood. He might not last a mile on foot, but while he lived, he was a mortal threat to everything Rivera owned, the empire he had created. While the intruder survived, Rivera was a man on borrowed time.
He had been thinking of the man as a gringo, but Rivera wondered now. The hit man was tall and he was dressed in black, his face obscured by cosmetics. For all Rivera knew, he might have been a black or a tall Chicano. Doubly thankful that the man had taken a bullet, he knew that it would make their manhunt that much easier. Whoever or whatever he might be, the enemy was badly wounded, perhaps mortally, and he would wear that wound as a distinctive badge of his identity. They could not miss him.
Unless the desert swallowed him alive.
If his enemy was rational and strong enough, he would be making for a settlement, a doctor, anyone who might possess the necessary skills to save his life. But if he was delirious he might walk around in circles till he dropped, covering miles with lifeless, zombie strides until his blood and strength gave out. If he had wandered off without a destination in mind, Rivera knew that they might never find him.