In one respect the roadblock was a hopeful sign. If they were finished with his brother, done with Santa Rosa, they would not have posted guards to close the highway. Something must be happening, if nothing more than a mop-up, and he still had time to join the party. There was still a chance for him to bag Rivera before the man could retreat to Mexico. And there was still a chance that he might find his brother. A slender chance that he might find Mack alive.
He would have to be prepared for whatever waited for him in the streets of Santa Rosa. A hundred yards beyond the roadblock, still before he had a glimpse of town, he pulled the Jimmy over once again and walked around the back to choose his weapons. He lifted out the KG-99 and extra magazines, then hesitated, finally choosing the SPAS as well. Between the two, he had power and speed, a lethal combination any way you sliced it. There was still a chance it wouldn't be enough, but he was not intimidated by the odds.
His brother had not come this far by playing safe, and Johnny Bolan knew the odds against him going in. It was a losing game, no matter how you read the stats, with death the only certainty, and Johnny had resigned himself to falling in the cause. But not just yet, if there was any way to put the Reaper off. In lieu of lasting victory, he would accept postponement of the inevitable, another chance to face the savages and drive them back into their burrows, purge them with the cleansing fire.
He knew enough, from following his brother's war, that there would be — could be — no final victory against the cannibals. But he could singe their asses here and now. And he could do a great deal more, if he had come too late for Mack.
Rivera had arrived expecting to annihilate a town. Instead the dealer and his troops might be annihilated if a man had guts enough to stand before the gates of hell. As Bolan dropped the Jimmy into gear, he knew that he had the guts.
"I didn't mean to shave it quite that close," Grant Vickers said.
Mack Bolan held the lawman's eyes. "I'm not complaining."
"Reckon you're the fella that Rivera's all revved up about."
"You know his name?" the lady asked.
The constable seemed to pale beneath his desert tan. "We've met," he answered curtly, and he could not seem to meet the woman's gaze.
"But how..."
"We haven't got much time," the soldier interrupted, and he thought the officer looked grateful as he raised his eyes. "Rivera may not notice, but his people on the street will know they didn't fire that shotgun blast."
"I thought of that." The constable was looking Bolan over, closely. "As I recollect, he said that you were wounded. Are you fit to travel?"
"I'll survive. I couldn't say about the girl."
They turned to Dr. Kent, who shrugged dejectedly, still studying the lawman's face. "I've given her a sedative. We'd have to carry her."
"Too risky," Bolan told her. "I'd suggest a suck."
"I beg your pardon?"
"A diversion. Something that will draw the enemy away and keep them busy elsewhere. If we play our cards right, we could lay an ambush, turn it to our own advantage."
"Now you're talkin'," Vickers said, but there was less enthusiasm in his eyes than in his voice.
Before the warrior could elaborate, he heard the sound of rifle fire, immediately answered by the growl of automatic weapons. From the tempo of the gunfire, its direction, Bolan knew the rifleman was not a crony of Rivera's, but a sniper who had brought the raiders under fire.
"We've got some company."
"I'll be goddamned." The constable's amazement was entirely genuine; he had had a passing thought that his constituents might rebel, but he had honestly not expected it. "Who would have thought? I wonder who the hell..."
"Whoever," Bolan cut him off, "they won't hold out for long. We need to put the ball in motion if we plan on walking out of this one."
"Walking out?" The lawman seemed confused. "You mean you think we gotta chance?"
"We're not dead yet."
Grant Vickers seemed about to argue, but he let it go. It struck Mack Bolan that the constable had no intention of surviving through the night. He wondered briefly what had driven Vickers to the point of suicidal heroism, and he let it go. It didn't matter now, and if his first suspicions of the lawman were correct, the answer might be better left alone for now.
"You've got your cruiser?"
Vickers nodded. "Half block down the alley."
"Good. We'll need the lights and siren."
"Say the word."
He turned again to Dr. Kent. "Is there an inside way to reach the roof?"
She nodded. "There's a skylight in the main examination room. You'd need a ladder, though."
"I'll use the furniture."
"Your side..."
"Will have to take its turn. We're out of time."
The lady was about to speak, but kept it to herself. He turned to Vickers. "Give me five, and I'll be looking out for that diversion."
"I'll be there."
The constable was leaving when the lady caught his arm. "Be careful, Grant," she said.
"Hell, yes. You know me, Becky."
As he disengaged, the lawman's eyes met Bolan's, locked there for an instant, and the Executioner saw death, as cold and certain as the print on last night's headlines. Vickers might not let him down, but he had no intention of returning from his mission. He was cashing in, for reasons that the soldier did not have the time or will to contemplate.
"Five minutes."
"I'll be waiting," Bolan promised him.
The lawman grinned, an easy smile this time, and said, "Let's kick some ass."
And he was gone. Before Rebecca Kent could voice her questions, Bolan was in motion, moving toward the main examination room, the skylight that would put him on the roof with a commanding view of Main Street. Given half a chance, he would have opted for a big-game rifle, but the captured submachine gun, his AutoMag and the Beretta 93-R were the best that he could do, and they would have to serve. If used correctly, Bolan knew, they just might be enough.
The lady had begun to follow him, but Bolan turned and froze her with his eyes. "Stay with your patient," he instructed. "Don't come out for anything or anyone, unless I call you or you recognize the state police."
"But what about..."
He handed her the stainless-steel revolver he had lifted from another of Rivera's goons. "Take this," he said, and forced it on her when she hesitated. "If anybody else comes through that door, remember what they've done already, what they mean to do."
"I will," she answered, and the warrior thought she meant it.
For her sake, and for the sake of her sedated patient, Bolan hoped she meant it.
They had already searched the long-deserted Laundromat, and Stancell knew that he would be as safe there, for the moment, as he would be at any place in town. The empty building had a dusty smell about, but the atmosphere was much too dry for mildew, and the place was relatively clean. It was ironic that the usual pests and insects moved away when man departed, following his trail of refuse. There were still a few spiders in the Laundromat, awaiting contact with the few odd roaches that remained, but Rick ignored them. It was his turn now, and he was hunting larger game.
There had been firing up the street; a muffled shotgun blast, and seconds later, rifle fire. The latter was continuing, the raiders firing back with automatic weapons, but Rick could not see the sniper from his place inside the Laundromat. He could see two of the invaders, stretched out on the opposite sidewalk, lying in spreading puddles of their life's blood, and he would give the unseen sniper credit for a sense of style. Whoever he might be, his help was welcome in the crunch.