He was opening the drawer, about to rummage underneath accumulated papers for the pistol, when a scuffling sound surprised him, brought his head around. A slick Hispanic with a phony smile was standing in the office doorway, watching him with interest. The gunman wore a pastel leisure suit, the jacket open to reveal a nickel-plated automatic pistol tucked inside the waistband of his slacks.
"I see you on the street before," the gunner said.
"Could be."
"You run this station, one so young?"
"My father."
"Ah." If it meant anything to him, the gunner did not let it show. "You know we're looking for a gringo stranger."
"Haven't seen him."
"That's too bad. You better come with me, I think."
"I can't. I've got to watch the station."
"It's not going anywhere."
Rick shrugged, scooped up an undernourished pile of tens and twenties from the register, and was about to stuff them in a pocket when the hoodlum took his bait.
"You won't be needing the money," he explained, all smiles. "You let me hold it for you, si?"
"Well, if you say so." Offering the money with his left hand, Rick allowed his right to slither backward, close around the lug wrench jutting from his pocket. He would have to time it perfectly, deliver everything he had in one swift stroke. Instinctively he knew that there would be no second chance.
The gunner stepped in closer, caution fading in the face of greed, and Stancell took a short stride forward to meet him, putting all his weight and strength behind a vicious, hacking swing. The wrench impacted dead on target in the middle of the gunman's forehead with a force that burned along Rick's arm. A sickly crunch announced steel's raw superiority to bone, and then the gunner folded, sprawling on the worn linoleum.
Rick stood above him, panting, knowing that his adversary might be dead, immediately certain that he must make sure. He focused on a picture of his father, lying dead on Main Street, then replaced it with a memory of Amy, huddled like a wounded animal in pain, and finally he found the strength he needed. Three more times he brought the lug wrench down, and when he finished, there was no more need for guesswork on the gunner's state of health.
He stooped, retrieved the automatic from his fallen adversary's belt, and saw it was a custom .45. He tucked it in his waistband beneath his shirttail at his back, and slipped his father's .38 beneath his belt in front. Thus armed, he grasped the man by his wrists and dragged him through the office doorway, halfway across the garage, until he reached the grease pit. Stooping, straining, he maneuvered the deadweight to the edge of the pit, rolled it over the brink, watched it fall. Retrieving a tarp from the storeroom, he fanned it like a cape and let it fall across the body, covering the evidence. The others might have little difficulty finding him, particularly if he had been detailed to the station under orders, but at least Rick felt that he had bought himself a little time, while doubling his stock of weapons.
He was ready for them now, at least as ready as he ever would be. He had taken one step on the road to vengeance, but he was not finished by any means.
One down, more than a dozen to go. How many could he kill before they cut him down? Did he have any hope at all?
It didn't matter. Simply trying was enough. He had already accomplished more than he had expected. Given half a chance, he would destroy them all.
15
Grant Vickers parked his cruiser in the alley and approached the diner from the rear. No witnesses so far, except the pair of lookouts posted by the exit, but the lawman knew that he could not expect his luck to hold. There would be locals in the diner, trapped at their respective jobs when the invaders commandeered their place of business as a field command post. They might start putting two and two together, but Grant thought that he could bluff it out. Provided any of them lived to talk about it afterward.
He would fall back upon his badge, if questioned, and remind his critics that it was a lawman's duty to maintain the peace. How better than by meeting with the enemy commander, trying to convince him that his game was up and he should leave before an ugly incident degenerated into total, screaming chaos? It was thin, but he could sell it if he really tried, persuading his constituents that he was trying to reduce the risk of further bloodshed, minimize the damage after damage had been done. They knew he wasn't frigging Gary Cooper, but if there was any doubt on that score, he intended to erase it, pronto.
They were waiting for him, automatic weapons leveled at his navel, and he kept it cool, approaching with his empty hands raised up to shoulder level. Edging closer, one of them relieved him of the Python, slipping it inside the waistband of his slacks. They shook him down for hidden hardware, came up empty; he had never been that stupid. Finally the taller of them ducked inside to huddle with Rivera, and returned a moment later with a cautious come-ahead.
Half of the diner's dozen tables were now occupied by members of Rivera's team. It was the biggest rush the place had seen in years, but none of them were paying, and the owner, Eddie Beamer, would doubtless have preferred a safe and sluggish afternoon. The waitress caught his eye with something like a hopeful smile, but curiosity replaced it as he veered away and headed for Rivera's table. Sipping on a bottle of Dos Equis, the dealer muttered something and the guards on either side of him evaporated.
"Constable, sit down."
He faced Rivera from across the narrow table, leaning forward on his elbows, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. He could feel Rachel watching him, frowning, and he could half imagine Eddie Beamer out back, behind the grill, all eyes. Well, damn it, let them wonder. He was fighting for their town, their lives.
"This thing has gone too far," he said.
"I quite agree. Your people have defied me long enough."
"They're not defying you, Rivera. They don't have your man, comprende? My guess is, he bought it in the desert, south of town. And if he is here, then he's found himself a place to hide, and no one's seen him."
"Someone must have seen him, Grant."
It was the first time that Rivera had ever addressed him by name, and it made the lawman's skin crawl, like a kiss of death. Already knowing that his efforts would be wasted, Vickers forged ahead.
"You've been here too damned long already," he informed Rivera. "Hell, the state police or Pima County deputies might cruise through here at any time."
Rivera smiled. "They would not pass my men unless they come in force, prepared for battle. But you have no reason for concern, unless outsiders have been warned, somehow..."
His eyes burned into Vickers's and the lawman went all cold and dead inside. "They haven't heard a thing from me," he said, "but there are other ways. Some cowboy with a CB rig could blow it for you."
"I will take that chance." Rivera checked his watch and frowned. "Your people have five minutes left before I must begin to search myself. I have allowed myself to hope that it would not be necessary, but I see now that I have been foolish, treating peasants as if they were equals."
"People in this town won't take a roust like that without a fight."
"Then they will die."
It was his last word on the subject, and the lawman knew that there would be no point in reasoning or pleading with Rivera. There were too damned many witnesses already; all of them would have to die before Rivera's army headed home. There would be questions, either way, but with survivors there were likely to be answers, and the dealer could not take that chance. Investigation of a massacre in the United States might force the government of Mexico to take another, harder look at the Sonoran empire that Rivera had constructed for himself. With diplomatic protests flying, routine payoffs would not do the job. There would be too much blood to cover with mordida. But sometimes blood washed blood away, and if you spilled enough of it, you covered up your tracks.