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.

Rivera would be capable of wiping out the town, Grant Vickers realized. The dealer would not lose a moment's sleep about a few more lives — or deaths. How many people had he killed already in the name of "business"? Hundreds? Thousands?

Grant Vickers had an obligation to the town of Santa Rosa, to its people. He had abused their trust, but until this afternoon, the payoffs, lies and secret dealings with Rivera had done nothing to diminish his performance as protector of the tiny town. He had performed with honor, and if certain shipments of narcotics passed through town, northbound, without a second glance from Vickers, it was nothing to the people whom he served. The drugs would not be dealt in Santa Rosa, and it was not Vickers's job to second-guess the DBA boys by obstructing traffic at the border. If the Feds could not prevent Rivera from importing dope, how could a small-town lawman hope to stem the tide?

Rivera smiled across the table, and his grin reminded Vickers of a hungry shark. "Relax, amigo. We are partners, si?"

Grant forced himself to smile and nod as though he were buying it, when all the time he knew it was a crock of shit. Rivera had him measured for a box already, with the rest of Santa Rosa's citizens, and Vickers knew that he could never hope to save the town unless he saved himself as well. No matter that he didn't feel worth saving. It was simple: dead men couldn't fight, and they were way beyond negotiations with Rivera now.

He rose to leave and felt the dealer's weasel eyes like gun sights boring in between his shoulder blades. He reached the exit, waited with a hand out for his Python, while the sentry glanced back at Rivera for instructions. At a nod, the gunner shrugged and gave the Colt to Vickers, stepping back to let him pass. Outside, the noonday heat struck Vickers like a fist above the heart.

It was as hot as hell already, but he knew that it would be a damned sight hotter in the coming hours. When it was done, he might just have a chance to sample hell and make a real comparison. Unless he found some luck he didn't know about. Unless he found the nerve, the guts, to stand against Rivera's men and make it stick.

It was as good as suicide, but Vickers knew he had no choice. He owed the town that much, at least. He owed that much to Becky Kent.

Luis Rivera lit another of his cheroots and blew a cloud of acrid smoke in the direction of the diner's ceiling. Vickers would bear watching; he could feel the man about to break, and when it happened, Vickers might surprise him. Weak men sometimes found an inner well of courage, strength that they, themselves, had not been conscious of until a crisis brought it forth. Such men were dangerous, but only if you let them take you by surprise.

It would have been so easy to eliminate the constable just now. A simple gesture to his men and Vickers would have been cut down before he cleared the exit. Simple. But the dealer had more pressing matters on his mind, and Vickers was not going anywhere. His life was here, in Santa Rosa, and he clung to foolish hopes that something might be salvaged from the town. If nothing else, he cherished hopes of personal survival, counting on his past association with Rivera to secure his life. The gringo might not realize that their connection marked him as a liability; while Vickers lived, the secret of this day would not be safe. Rivera had not reached his present age and station by allowing loose ends in his business dealings. Careless errors were often fatal, and the dealer planned to reach a ripe, old age.