He didn't bother checking on the guy. If his target was not dead or dying, he was out of it, so far as any action was concerned. Whatever happened to him now, the Executioner had business elsewhere, and Rivera's goon would have to look out for himself, if he was still alive.
Beyond the roofline of adjacent buildings, Bolan saw the rising smoke of shops on fire and knew the town was dying while he watched. Its death might be a swifter one, more merciful than lingering extinction brought on by neglect, but he could not escape a pang of guilt. If not for him, Rivera would have shown no interest in Santa Rosa, and the blight of Bolan's private war would not have fallen on so many other lives.
But there was no time to wallow in self-condemnation now that it was done. Survival was the top priority, for Bolan, for the citizens of Santa Rosa. Some of them, at least, were standing tall against the enemy; continued firing from the Main Street battleground informed him that Rivera's men had not found it easy going. He thought about Grant Vickers, the elusive sniper on the roof of the garage, and wondered if there might be others, fighting even now to save the town that was their home.
He hoped so, realizing that the only hope for Santa Rosa lay within her people. If they cared enough to stand and fight, there might still be a chance. If they did not, then the town and all had been long dead before Rivera ever showed his face and called for Bolan's blood on Main Street.
Concentrating on Rivera, the soldier knew his best and only chance of ringing down the curtain on the dealer's game was through a confrontation with the man himself — a confrontation in which only one of them would walk away.
There might still be a chance to keep Rivera from annihilating everyone in Santa Rosa, if the Executioner was swift enough and sure enough about his tactics. He would have to find a way inside the diner, first of all, or force the dealer to emerge... but, then again, the latter course of action might not be the problem that it seemed. Rivera had already been deprived of transportation, and the town was burning down around him. He would have to find some wheels, unless he meant to hang around and fry, or wait for the eventual arrival of the state police. But to acquire another car, or cars, it would be necessary to dispatch his gunners, singly or in teams. And if they failed to reappear...
Rivera would be forced to do it himself.
It was a plan, but Bolan knew that his success in pulling off the scheme was far from guaranteed. He might yet fail, and failing, he would lose it alclass="underline" his war against Rivera's filthy empire, his crusade against the broader evil of the savages. He knew that death had been inevitable from day one, but the reality was something else entirely. Bolan was not ready to surrender by any means, but it was time to face the fact that he was not immortal, that he might not make it out of Santa Rosa.
He might die here, and with the town in flames, Rivera's troopers on the prowl, there was a chance his death might never be officially discovered. Johnny would suspect, of course, suspicion growing into certainty with time, and he would pass the word to Hal and the team at Stony Man. It did not matter to the Executioner that he might die unheralded, unnoticed by the world; what bothered Bolan was the thought that he might die in vain.
If he allowed Rivera to escape, resume his dirty trade from the Sonoran rancho, then he would have failed. It would not matter if he killed off half the dealer's troops and left the others scattered in the desert. The viper's lethal head might still survive, unless he crushed it totally, without remorse.
And that brought Bolan back to penetration of the diner, or a suck play that would draw Rivera into the open. There appeared to be no third alternative available within the time remaining.
He was conscious of the seeping blood inside his shirt, the denim sticking to his ribs and underneath his arm. He would not bleed to death before he finished with his work, but it was a distraction, and it weakened him by slow degrees.
No time to waste, then. If he meant to do it right, he had to do it now. The soldier turned to face the alley's southern mouth... and froze. His eyes were riveted upon the muzzle of an automatic pistol, aimed directly at his face from fifteen feet away.
20
"You're not one of them," Rick Stancell said.
"You got that right," the stranger answered, seeming to relax a bit.
Rick kept the big man covered, anyway, uncertain of himself now that another player had been dropped into the game. His father's death was proof enough that no one could be trusted absolutely. Granted that this man was not with the invaders — and he must not be, for Rick had watched him kill a number of them in the alley — he was obviously dangerous, for all of that. An unknown quantity at present, he might prove to be another enemy.
"Who are you?"
"I'm the one they're looking for."
"That doesn't tell me anything." Rick held the captured automatic steady, leveled at the stranger's face.
The big man thought about his answer for a moment, as if cooking up a lie inside his mind, but when he spoke again, Rick thought his words rang true enough. "My name is Bolan. I've been working to eliminate Rivera's operation in Sonora. He's the leader of this gang, the one who made the speech on Main Street."
"I was there."
The stranger nodded solemnly. "I saw you. I'm sorry about your father... and the girl."
Rick stared, dumbfounded, at the older man. How could he know? Instead of asking, Stancell simply said, "Her name is Amy."
Bolan nodded. "She's all right, for the moment. It's important that Rivera's men don't get a chance to check out the clinic."
"I understand."
"How are you with that thing?" the tall man asked. His eyes were on the automatic pistol.
"Fair. I've killed four of them, maybe five."
The man called Bolan looked surprised, but there was something else — could it be sadness? — in his eyes. "I'd say you've done enough."
"Not yet." He let the automatic's muzzle dip a fraction. It was pointed at the stranger's navel, now, but Stancell did not plan to use it. Not unless the man proved to be an enemy. "How did you now about my father?"
"I was at the clinic when you brought him in."
"I didn't see you."
Bolan shrugged. "You weren't supposed to. I was hiding."
"From this guy Rivera?" Bolan nodded, and for the first time Rick noticed that a crimson stain was spreading underneath his arm. "You're hurt."
"It looks worse than it is."
"You ought to let the doctor..."
"There's no time, Rick."
Stancell found that he was not amazed to hear the stranger speak his name. If Bolan had been hiding in the clinic when he brought his father in, he would have heard it there.
"What can I do to help?" he asked.
The tall man shook his head. "I don't want your blood on my hands."
"They're killing everybody," Rick informed him. "I won't stand around and watch it happen. If I can't help you, I'll face them on my own."
"They'll kill you, Rick."
"So far it's been the other way around. Besides, I don't much care."
"Okay." The stranger shrugged. "But what about Amy? She's lost her family already. If she loses you, what's left?"
Rick turned it over in his mind. So far his only thoughts of Amy had been inspirational, propelling him to seek revenge against the animals who had abused her, killed her parents and his father. Now, with Bolan's words in mind, he saw her in a different light, as someone who required protection. Still, if the invaders were not killed or driven out of town, it would not matter. They would all be dead.