Rick watched another gunman fall. He had been hit in the shoulder, and started to wriggle toward the cover of a car parked at the curb. His path would bring him into range, and Stancell stepped into the doorway, easing off the safety of the shotgun he had lifted from a dying adversary in the pharmacy. He wasn't a pro at this, but he had sense enough to know that bullets would not pass through glass without some measure of deflection, and he did not wish to waste a single round of precious ammunition. Fortunately, the invaders had already crashed the door, demolishing its lock and knocking out a section of its plate-glass in the process.
Standing in the shadows, Stancell raised his riot gun and sighted through the jagged ruins of the door. He let his target reach the curb, then squeezed the trigger, riding out the mighty recoil as a charge of buckshot drove the wounded gunman back into the street, a rag doll flopping in the desert wind.
He scanned the street immediately, waiting — hoping — for the other gunmen to respond. Across the street and three doors up, a pair of them were crouching in the meager shadow of the grocery store, attempting to escape the sniper's plunging fire. The blast from Stancell's shotgun brought their heads around, and one of them was pointing at him — or at an automatic weapon in the general direction of the laundry, squeezing off a burst that chipped the masonry outside, and then both men were firing for effect. Rick triggered two quick blasts, imagined that he saw one of them stagger as he hit the floor.
A lethal storm broke overhead, with bullets shattering the plate-glass windows, gouging plaster, whining off the pipes that once had been connected to a line of washers on the wall. Rick hugged the floor and crawled through the broken glass to find a vantage point from which he could return fire through the doorway. He had bagged no extra ammunition from the dying gunman, and he knew the shotgun must be almost empty, but he still had pistols, and if he was forced to make his last stand in the Laundromat, they would not find him easy.
Rick poked his head around a corner, found the angle that he wanted, sighted quickly and pulled the trigger. This time there was no doubt: one of the gunners took his blast directly in the chest and toppled backward through a window of the grocery, raining glass and day-old produce around his body. His companion scrambled clear as Stancell worked the shotgun's slide, squeezed the trigger and heard the hammer snap against an empty chamber.
"Shit!"
He tossed the empty gun aside and snagged the automatic from his belt, retreating several feet into the store as some unseen assailant poured another burst through the windows. The crack of rifle fire rang out in counterpoint to the staccato grumbling of automatic weapons.
It was time to cut and run before they trapped him, cut off his last retreat. If he could slip out through the back, he might have a chance to lay another ambush for them, choose another spot to make his final stand. At this rate, hell, they might be chasing him all day.
The thought of victory had never entered Stancell's mind. Survival had seemed so improbable that he had never given it a second thought. But after killing men, and facing death himself, the young man realized how very much he wanted to survive. There was so much to see and do out there, away from Santa Rosa.
Raw survival was the problem, though. He could not count on living through the next five minutes, let alone the afternoon. Evacuation of the Laundromat was a start, but Stancell still had work to do. The enemy was still out there. Waiting. And while any one of them survived, Rick knew that he would not be whole, would not be free.
He had a job to do, and it was getting late. He prayed that it was not too late, and took himself away from there. To find the enemy.
18
Vickers pulled the safety harness tight across his chest before he started the cruiser's engine. He wasn't concerned with safety — he just didn't want a lucky shot to knock him over, rip his hands off of the steering wheel before he had a chance to show Rivera something special. Glancing at his watch, the lawman saw he had four minutes, thirty seconds left to live, and he was startled to discover he was not afraid.
He put the car in motion, rolling slowly down the alley's length, aware that he had time to spare before the stranger's lethal deadline. It occurred to him that he had never asked the gunman's name, but he supposed it didn't matter. Rivera meant to kill him, kill them all, and any ally in the midst of danger was a welcome hand.
He reached the alley's northern mouth and paused again before he turned the cruiser east toward Main Street. Vickers eased the Python from his holster, placed it on the seat beside him, knowing he would never have an opportunity to use it. It made him feel a damn sight better, having it there, even if that made no sense at all.
He thought that Becky might have figured out his secret toward the end. The stranger knew for certain, somehow; he had seen it clearly, in those graveyard eyes. And yet the man had seemed to pass no judgment on him. Maybe, Vickers thought, the knowledge that he would be dead within five minutes made a difference. Maybe.
But he was relieved that Becky had not challenged him, that there had been no time for her to put the pieces in place. No doubt she would be able to deduce the rest of it, but he would not be there to see the accusation in her eyes, and Vickers hoped the manner of his passing might incline her to spare his soul a kindly thought from time to time.
Three minutes, and he brought the cruiser onto Main Street, idling outside the vacant hulk of what had once been Sundberg's Dry Goods. There was action halfway down the block, and Vickers caught a glimpse of someone on the roof of Stancell's gas station, rising up to take a potshot at Rivera's soldiers with a rifle, ducking down again before they had a chance to return fire. The sniper's profile looked familiar, even from a distance, but he didn't have the time to mull it over. Thankful that some resident of Santa Rosa had come up with guts enough to make a stand, he dropped the squad car into gear and tromped his foot on the accelerator.
Downrange, the gunners saw him coming, heard the squeal of tortured rubber as he powered toward them from a standing start. He hit the switches for the cruiser's lights and siren, letting it unwind as he accelerated past the hardware store, the pharmacy, the clinic where Rebecca and her patient hid. The stranger would be up there, watching from the roof, but Vickers could not see him. He was concentrating on the startled gunners, some of them already scattering, a handful seeming to deduce his target, standing firm and laying down a screen of automatic fire. The cruiser started taking hits, like hail against the fenders, doors and grille. He heard one of the revolving lights explode above him, and he grimaced as a bullet drilled the cruiser's windshield, spilling pebbled safety glass into his lap. He scooped up the Python and thrust it through the vacant window-frame, and he was smiling as he started squeezing off in rapid fire. No time to aim, but at the very least he thought that he could keep the bastards hopping.
Half a block to go, and Vickers swerved his cruiser toward the diner and the cars lined up outside. A flying squad of runners was retreating toward the restaurant and firing as it ran, the bullets drilling bodywork and snapping close beside him in the speeding car. The constable ignored them, as a hunter might ignore the gnats that buzz around his head on an excursion through the forest, concentrating on the sleek Mercedes, which was first in line. It might not be Rivera's private car, although he thought he recognized the dealer's style, but it would do, in any case.