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.

"I've still got work to do," he said. "If we don't stop these bastards, there won't be a thing that I can do for Amy."

It took the big man half a dozen heartbeats to decide. "Rivera's in the diner. He's already lost his wheels, and now he'll have to find replacements. It's our job to cut him off before he does."

"Why don't we just go in and get him?"

"Hostages. If they're alive, I'd like to see them stay that way."

"That means we have to wait for him to show himself."

"It won't be long. And waiting doesn't have to be the same as standing still."

"All right," he said. "Just tell me what to do."

"For starters, you could drop the gun."

The voice was strange, originating from behind him. Stancell turned — but carefully — and saw a young man with a futuristic-looking shotgun pointed at his face. He seemed to read Rick's mind.

"Don't even think about it, kid," he said.

"It's okay, Johnny. He's with me."

The younger Bolan glanced at Mack, took in his haggard face, the bloodstain spreading underneath his arm. Reluctantly, he swung the SPAS off target, saw the kid relax a fraction, but he could react with swift and lethal force to any sudden, hostile move the boy might make. A rapid scan informed him that the youth was carrying another pistol, tucked inside his belt, beneath the cover of his shirttail. Despite his age, John marked the boy as being dangerous.

"What's happening?" he asked.

"We're working on a way to flush Rivera from the diner," Mack replied.

"I'm in."

"Okay. He has to find himself some wheels. I want you out there, waiting, when he sends his people shopping."

"Do you think he'll tag along to keep them company?"

The warrior shook his head. "He'll save the personal appearance as a last resort. Right now he's holding hostages. He feels secure."

"But not for long?" John didn't know precisely what his brother had in mind, but he could hear the mental wheels in motion.

"He's already set the town on fire," Mack answered. "Who knows what might happen if we had a shift in wind direction."

"Right."

The boy was nodding earnestly. "I know just how to do it," he declared. "The air-conditioner's around back, and all I have to do is..."

"I was hoping you'd be out in front with Johnny," Mack responded, trying to be tactful. "We'll need someone who can recognize the locals when it comes to spotting hostages."

The boy was glancing back and forth between them, finally nodding. "That makes sense, I guess."

"We don't want any accidents."

"All right."

"Be careful on the way," Mack cautioned. "There's a sniper on the service station's roof."

"We've met," John answered.

"That's Old Enoch Snyder," said the boy. "He used to spend a lot of time around the station... with my dad. He was some kind of hero during World War Two. I guess the war's not over yet."

"You're right again," Mack said. "I'll give you five to get in place, and then I start to smoke Rivera out."