Run to Ground

Before they spotted him, he might have time to crank a whole clip off. Once he was seen, his fate was a foregone conclusion, but they would not take him easily, not like they took his friend. By God, he meant to make them dance before they brought him down, and no mistake.

His sunglasses were old and scratched, providing some protection from the glare but hindering his aim. He took them off and tossed them back across his shoulder, knowing that he would not need them anymore. Old Enoch waited, squinting through his lashes until he had grown accustomed to the light, and then he poked his head above the cornice for a quick look.

Downrange, the hunters were already kicking doors, ransacking shops and homes in search of their elusive prey. Old Enoch didn't know who they were hunting, but he wished the man well. He hoped they never found the poor, doomed bastard, that he got away scot-free and left them ru

Scooting forward, so that he could rest his elbows on the cornice of the roof, Old Enoch eased off the M-1's safety and raised it to his shoulder, nestling his cheek against the stock the way a man might rest his head against a woman's shoulder.

Two gu

The dead guy's partner did a hasty double-take and dug a pistol from underneath his shirttails. It was far too little, much too late, and Enoch knew the bastard never heard the round that killed him, punching through his chest at more than a thousand feet per second, slamming him against a lamppost, spi

Two for two, and six rounds left before he needed to reload. He sca

In the long run it didn't affect Snyder's stand. He wasn't going anywhere until they hauled him down, and from his crow's nest, he had ample targets. It was just like a goddamned turkey shoot. Except that this time, all those goddamned turkeys could shoot back, which at least kept the contest interesting.

Lining up another target, Enoch started squeezing off in rapid fire. And watched the bastards dance.

17

Luis Rivera pressed his face against the diner's window, shrugging off Camacho's hand as Hector sought to pull him back from the expanse of glass. From outside, the echoes slightly muffled, came another burst of heavy-caliber gunfire. As he watched, one of Rivera's pistoleros took a shoulder hit that knocked him sprawling, leaving him to wriggle for the cover of a nearby car like some amphibian deprived of water.

There had been shooting as soon as the sweep had begun. Pistol shots at first, sedately muted, and he had assumed they marked the deaths of the townspeople. Almost immediately, from a different quarter, the reports were followed by a shotgun blast, and he was not so sure. Then came the rifle fire, and he was certain: his forces were under attack.

From where he stood, Rivera could see two bodies lying in the street, as well as the wounded gu

His other guns were under cover now, a few of them returning fire in the direction of a rooftop, somewhere to his left, beyond Rivera's line of sight. No doubt they had already found the sniper's nest, and they would root him out before he could do further damage.

Sudden hope was kindled in Rivera's breast. Suppose the sniper was none other than his quarry, cornered now and fighting for his life? It would make everything so very simple; kill the man, then turn in righteous rage and kill the town that had sheltered him. So easy.

But the sniper had not fired those muffled pistol shots, the shotgun blast had preceded his initial fusillade. Assuming that Rivera's quarry had decided on a last-ditch stand, there still remained a possibility of allies — or of locals acting independently, in the defense of families and homes. If the resistance should begin to spread....

He swiveled, snapping orders at Camacho, satisfied when Hector jumped as if he had been stung and hastened to obey. They must initiate a swift and stu

He caught Camacho halfway to the door and issued further orders, watching Hector's face light up as he imagined Santa Rosa burning to the ground. It was the kind of thing Hector normally enjoyed, and he would have no qualms about destruction of the village, the a

Rivera moved back from the window, keeping Esteban beside him. The sniper had been spotted, soon he would be rooted out and killed, but there was still no point in taking chances. Any stray round crashing through the picture window might prove fatal, and Rivera had no wish to die — by accident or otherwise. He had too much to live for in Sonora, at the heart of his illicit empire.

Glancing at the waitress, he decided she would have to die with the rest of Santa Rosa. He could kill her now, but there was still an outside chance that he might need a hostage if he had to escape from the village, and together with the grizzled cook, she was the only ace he held. It seemed improbable, a morbid nightmare, but Rivera would not waste his hole card yet, before he had the situation well in hand and Santa Rosa was in flames.

When the town began to burn, its citizens would scatter, screaming, to their shops and homes. They would forget about resistance in their haste to rescue children, pets and prized belongings. They would be completely at his mercy, then, but there would be no mercy for the peasants who had dared to stand against Luis Rivera. Opponents were like insects, to be crushed and then forgotten, thoroughly eradicated. If any one of them survived, his raid on Santa Rosa would have failed, and he would be in grievous jeopardy.

There was no extradition treaty between Mexico and the United States, but the Americanos would not have to bring him back to make life difficult. A little diplomatic pressure, if strategically applied, might do the trick, compelling venal federates to forget about their bribes for once and launch a real investigation. The a