"But you survived."

"After a fashion. I went through all the phases: guilt, denial, anger, thoughts of suicide and murder. Finally I ran back home to hide."

"I'd say you're needed here."

"I used to think so," she replied. "But Santa Rosa's dying on its feet. This afternoon should finish it, one way or another."

"Maybe not. Towns live, like people. Sometimes they get stronger at the broken places."

"You surprise me, Mr. Bolan. I've never met a battlefield philosopher."

Bolan smiled. "You still haven't. I'm just a sucker for lost causes."

"I don't think so. And I don't think you're the bogeyman I've read about in all the papers."

Bolan shrugged. "It won't matter, either way, unless we stop Rivera."

"What can I do?"

"Stay frosty," he suggested. "How much do you know about the constable?"

"I told you, we've been out a few times. He's a local boy who never found the nerve to leave. We all hide, one way or another."

"Does he live above his means?"

"I don't... What are you asking me?"

"He didn't seem too hot for facing down Rivera."

"Can you blame him?"

"It's his job."

"All right, so he's afraid. We can't all be commandos."

"Did you buy that line about the broken radio?"

She thought about it for a moment, finally answered, "Sure, why not?" But he could read the hesitation in her voice, her eyes, already giving way to doubt. "I can't believe that he's connected with the others."

"Still, you haven't told him anything about my being here."

"I didn't want to get you into trouble."

It was so outrageous that they both were forced to laugh, and he could feel the ice dissolving slowly. When the moment passed, they stood and faced each other silently. The spell was broken by a whimper from the other room.

"I'd better check," the doctor said, and Bolan watched her go, aware of all the pain and fear that she was carrying inside. But she was a survivor; Bolan read it in her eyes, had glimpsed the fire within. She might have run to Santa Rosa as a form of sanctuary, but she was not merely hiding there. The lady led a useful life, was of service to her fellow man. Above all else, she cared. That much was obvious.

She would survive the coming storm. His visit to the sleepy desert town had cost too many lives already, and the soldier knew it wasn't over yet. There would be hell to pay before the storm blew over and Bolan knew that none of them might make it to the other side intact. But they could try, damned right. They could give it everything they had, and make the cannibals pay dearly for their gains, and there was still a chance.

A slim one.

But there was still a chance.

Rick Stancell stood in the garage and scanned the gray perimeters of his collapsing world. His father's life had been confined within these walls, but Rick had always wanted more. He could forget about that now — the football, college, Amy at his side. It was a washout, all of it. Rick knew that it would be a total fluke if he survived the afternoon, and if he did, there would be welfare workers and counselors prepared to deal with orphans like himself and Amy Schultz. They would be separated, torn apart, and shipped to foster homes like so much excess baggage.

No. Correction. Amy might be going to a foster home, assuming that she lived, but Rick would not be going anywhere, for he had no intention of surviving. He was moving on a hard collision course with death, and he had no intention of attempting to avoid his fate. His world, his life, had been effectively destroyed within a span of hours. There was nothing left except revenge, and he was well aware of what revenge would cost him.

Rick checked his wristwatch, found they were already out of time. He chose the largest lug wrench from the rack in front of him and weighed it in his palm, deciding that it would suffice. Retreating to the office, where his father kept the .38, Rick checked the register to verify that nothing had been stolen. Not that it would matter. The least of all his worries now was money.

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.