There were precautions to be taken. At home, the cleanup crew would have removed all traces of narcotics from the ranch by now. The bodies of his soldiers would be tucked away for later burial, well hidden in the event of a police search. The damage to his property could be described as accidental, even written off against his fire insurance with a little sleight of hand, but none of that concerned Rivera now.
His enemy was still at large, most likely still alive, and he remained a liability until his head was safely in the bag. As for that head, Luis Rivera would be happy to assist in its removal.
"What is the nearest town?" he asked Camacho, certain that he knew the answer even as he spoke.
"It will be Santa Rosa, jefe."
"Take one car north to watch the road beyond, and leave another in the town itself. But be discreet. I want no contact with the enemy until we are prepared."
"It will be done."
"Remain in contact via radio. I will be waiting two miles south of Santa Rosa to receive your news."
"Si, jefe."
He cast a final glance at the Mercedes.
"Burn the car before you leave. It must appear to be abandoned by a car thief who desired to leave no clues."
Camacho hustled off to do his master's bidding, and Rivera ambled back in the direction of the highway, where his convoy waited. Stone-faced gunners followed him with eyes that showed no trace of human feeling.
They were close. He felt it in his bones as some men feel cold weather in the offing. Soon the prey would fall into his hands and he would make things right again. He would have justice for himself, and for the wrongs he had suffered at a stranger's hands. With any luck at all he would find out who was behind the raid, and his retribution could include the brains behind the gun.
But first he had to find the warrior, run him to ground before the man could report on Rivera's operation. Time was of the essence, and instinct told him that the answer to his problems would be waiting for him when he got to Santa Rosa. Fortunately he was represented in the town. If the stranger tried to hide there, he would know it, and his wrath would fall on anyone who helped his enemies.
Rivera settled back into his padded seat and smiled. It had the makings of a perfect day.
3
Santa Rosa's main street was deserted as Mack Bolan made his way along the sidewalk, concentrating on each step, determined not to stumble. He looked strange enough already, with a full day's growth of beard, the rumpled, dusty trench coat covering his skinsuit. He could not afford to stagger like a wino coming off a bender, drawing more attention to himself from any casual passersby.
As if in answer to his thoughts, an ancient pickup turned the corner behind him, grumbling along the curbside lane and gathering momentum, heading out of town. The driver did not seem to notice Bolan as he passed, but half a block beyond he did a double take, examining the grimy stranger in his rearview mirror as he pulled away. Discreetly, trying not to lose it, Bolan turned to casually inspect a menu mounted in the diner's plate-glass window.
Santa Rosa was the kind of town that noticed strangers. Given its location and its size, the soldier could not have expected otherwise. The farmer, cowboy, or whoever, could not double back, but he would file the sighting, store it for future reference, and he would doubtless mention it to friends throughout the day. "A stranger down on Main Street? Half-past six? Well, I declare."
And it would rest there, unless some incident revitalized those memories. Unless some other strangers happened to ask about a tall man, sickly looking, traveling on foot. The farmer and his cronies might or might not answer, but their silence, if they chose to keep the secret to themselves, might tell the hunters all they had to know.
He wondered how much effort it would take to seal off a town like Santa Rosa from the outside world. The phone lines would be easy, and the traffic shouldn't be much problem either. One or two cars on the road in each direction, letting everybody in, nobody out. It would be safe to assume that the roadblocks would not be swamped with cars. Communication via radio might be another story; if there was a marshal's office or a tow truck operator with a CB, isolating the town would be more difficult. A Mayday message might be broadcast to surrounding towns before the hunters could complete their sweep. There might be opportunities to reach the county sheriff, or the state police.
His mind was drifting, and the warrior brought it roughly back to here and now. His first priority was the location of a medic. Failing that, he had to get inside the pharmacy, stock up on some essentials, and get out again before he was discovered. Bolan had no cash and no prescriptions for the items that he needed; neither could he wait for normal business hours if he planned to make his getaway with minimal endangerment of innocent civilians.
Medical attention, wheels, escape. They were his top priorities, but Bolan liked to hedge his bets. The service station wasn't open, but its pay phone was in working order and he was relieved to find that he could dial the operator without depositing a coin. The nasal voice verified his "Michael Beeler" credit card and took the Southern California number, asking him to hold.
The calling card was perfectly legitimate, aside from the employment of an alias to cover Bolan's tracks. The billings were dispatched each month to a post-office box in Los Angeles, from which they were routinely forwarded to yet another box in San Diego. No one ever called upon the L.A. box, and no one ever would. The semiannual rent was paid by mail, and it existed only for the purpose of receiving monthly bills. A snoopy sort could hang around the post office for months on end and never see a soul approach Box 2035.
The number Bolan had requested was another cutout, shunting calls from a studio apartment in San Ysidro to Johnny Bolan's home and headquarters at Strongbase One, in San Diego. The apartment, rented month-to-month by "Joseph Breen" was vacant except for a card table, telephone and automatic switching device. The remote-controlled passover occurred on the third ring; the fourth would be answered by Johnny, or, if he was out, by a tape that would take the message. Johnny checked in each hour, on the half, when he was not at home. That meant another fifty minutes if they missed connections now, but it was still the best the Executioner could do.
He wanted John to have some grasp of what was happening, in case it went sour in Santa Rosa. He had briefed his brother on the mission generally, but John was not personally involved. It was a one-man show, which had gone suddenly, perhaps disastrously, wrong. But if Mack Bolan was about to buy the farm in Santa Rosa, he would not go out without alerting others to his fate, preparing a surprise for the Rivera forces somewhere down the road.
Three rings. He waited for the fourth and wondered whether he would hear his brother's voice live or the recorded version.
"Yes?"
Relief hit Bolan like a second wind.
"Is this the Blaylock residence?" he asked, allowing Johnny time to scan the oscillator and confirm his voice-print.
"Yes," the younger Bolan replied, "but Mr. Blaylock isn't in just now. Is there a message?"
"No, I need to speak with him directly."
A muted tone on the line announced completion of the voiceprint scan, and Johnny dropped his tone of stiff formality.