Four gunners remained inside the small diner. For all Rivera knew, the others might have been annihilated on the street. Four men would have to do. If they followed orders, acted ruthlessly and with courage, he believed that four should be enough.

He barked at Esteban and the others, ordered them to leave the cover of the restaurant and find some means of transportation, of escape. The pistoleros hesitated, whispering among themselves, until he turned his steely gaze upon them, cowing them with the force of his personality. They might have overpowered him with little difficulty, but they were accustomed to obeying his instructions, witnessing the fate of others who defied him, and they dared not turn against him now. Outside, their fate might be uncertain, but inside the diner, with Rivera, there could be no doubt about their fear.

They clustered at the doorway, crouching, glancing this and that way, up and down the street. There was sudden gunfire from the direction of the service station, punctuated by the screams of frightened, dying men. Another moment, and the sounds were lost, devoured and swept away by the relentless desert wind.

Esteban was the first to move. The others followed in a rush, and for a moment, in the stillness of the street, Rivera thought that they might make it. Sudden gunfire changed his mind — a pistol, joined by automatic weapons and a shotgun — and Rivera knew that he would never see his men alive again.

He drew the nickel-plated automatic from his shoulder rigging and crossed the narrow room with long, determined strides. The waitress saw him coming, whispered something to the fry cook as Rivera closed the gap. He stared at them in silence for a moment, then reached out to grasp the woman's arm and pull her toward him. When his arm was wrapped around her waist and she was firmly in his grasp, he raised his weapon, sighted down its slide and shot the old man in the face.

Two hostages would be unmanageable in his present situation, but a single woman, terrified and sobbing for her life, should fit his needs precisely. There was still a chance that someone on the street might fire on him, sacrifice the waitress to eliminate the last of their surviving enemies, but such an action would require the ruthless daring of a battle-hardened warrior. Peasants were conditioned to protect their women and their offspring, even at the cost of life itself. He would be stunned if anyone should risk a shot while he retained the woman as a shield, but if they found the nerve, he would at least enjoy the satisfaction of returning fire and watching one more peon die before they cut him down.

Rivera dragged his sobbing, human burden toward the doorway, coughing as the smoke began to swirl around them, growing thicker by the moment. Santa Rosa, thus far, had been a disaster for him. He had gambled to regain his honor, save face, and he had lost. The best that he could hope for now was survival, but there was still an outside chance that he could make it home to Mexico.

And what would he find waiting for him there? His other troops would be dismayed to learn of what had happened in the tiny hamlet. Some of them might leave him, if he gave them time to think, to reason out their doubts and fears. It would be necessary for him to react, now more than ever, after suffering an even greater loss of face. Whatever might be left of Santa Rosa must be razed, as an example to his enemies... and there was still the matter of the gringo who had dared invade his home.

Rivera felt as if a century had passed since he'd laid eyes on Santa Rosa, since the hellish siege began. The time might have been measured out in hours, but it had been a lifetime for his troops, and for an unknown number of the locals. They had managed to surprise him this time, but Rivera had them locked into his memory forever, waiting for the day when retribution would be his.

There would be some delay, of course, while the police investigated, took photographs and made their empty statements to the press. Aside from the elusive gringo, Vickers was the only man in Santa Rosa who had known Rivera's name, and he would not be making any statements to the state police. In that respect, the lawman's fiery suicide had been fortuitous, for all the havoc it had wreaked upon Rivera's transportation.

If he could make it out of Santa Rosa, back across the border to Sonora, he was safe. The burned-out vehicles would be no problem; fire had taken care of any fingerprints. As for the men that he would leave behind, they all had prison records for assorted violent crimes, and none of them would cause a ripple by their passing. If police in Mexico suspected some of them were on Rivera's payroll, extra bribes should keep the matter quiet — just as long as he, himself, was not accused by law-enforcement officers in the United States. Without the threat of diplomatic pressure from the north, the federales would have nothing to concern themselves about.

If he could just escape...

He held the woman closer, concentrating on her cheap perfume and trying to ignore the smoke. If he allowed it to grow thicker, offering him better cover, the gunmen on the street might not detect his hostage soon enough to stay their hands. If he was going, it had best be done at once.

"This way, chiquita." Nudging one plump breast with the muzzle of his automatic, he propelled the waitress toward the door of the diner.

Mack Bolan slid the 93-R back into its shoulder rigging, hefting the big .44 in his fist. The trash fire he had built beside the air-conditioner was burning down, but it had done its job; from where he stood, the Executioner could see smoke curling from the windows of what seemed to be a rest room, and he knew the atmosphere inside the diner would be getting thick by now.

He tried the back door, found that it had not been locked, and entered in a combat crouch, ignoring spastic pain that emanated from his wounded side. The smoke was sharp inside his nostrils, and it burned his eyes, but Bolan took his time, maneuvering along a narrow corridor that linked the exit and employee rest rooms with the kitchen and the diner proper. Probing with the AutoMag, allowing it to lead him, ready to respond in case of any challenge from the enemy, he sought Rivera in the dealer's own command post.

He had heard the burst of firing moments earlier, on Main Street, followed swiftly by a single shot inside the diner. It had been the latter that propelled him into motion, worried that Rivera would begin to sacrifice his hostages in desperation. Bolan had no firm idea of the employee head count for the diner, but he estimated that there must be two or three, at least. One shot, so far, meant hope of rescuing survivors.

As he edged into the diner, Bolan made out figures moving through the smoke. A man and woman, from the look of it, and if he was not very much mistaken, that must be...

"Rivera!"

At the sound of his name, the dealer whirled, a woman clutched in front of him to form a human shield. Rivera held an automatic pressed against her cheek, the hammer back, his finger on the trigger.

"So." There was a note of triumph in Rivera's voice. "I knew you were alive."

The soldier came erect, advancing slowly through the smoke. "That's one of us."

"You have embarrassed me," the dealer said.

"It was the least that I could do."

"I have no choice but to kill you."

"You've been trying that all day."

"This time I will succeed."

"The woman has no part in this."

Rivera smiled, a canine grimace. "But we mean so much to each other."

"Let her go."

"Not yet. I have to ask you something, gringo."

"Ask."

"Who sent you after me? Who pays you?"

"No one paid me. It's a freebie."

"All of this, you do without a hope of payment? Have I harmed you in some way?"