Run to Ground

"Damn it, Mack..."

He saw the scout car coming, recognized it immediately for what it was, and cradled the receiver instantly, cutting off Joh

He ducked behind the service station, moving out as rapidly as possible. He knew they hadn't seen him yet, but they were almost to the end of Main Street, and soon they would begin to section off the side streets, poking into alleyways and yards. He could elude them for a time, but Bolan did not have the strength for a protracted game of cat and mouse. If he was forced to hide for any length of time, he might as well confront them now and get it over with. The end result would be the same.

He paralleled the main drag, pausing frequently to check his backtrack and apply more pressure to his bleeding wounds. It didn't help. No sooner had he staunched the crimson flow than he was forced to move, renewing it again. He was not bleeding quite as much, but it was steady now, his skinsuit saturated to the knee. Another hour would finish him.

There was no time to find the doctor, even if there was one in town, no way to reach the pharmacy without encountering Rivera's gu

The sign was blurry, but it still attracted his attention, drawing Bolan toward the back porch of an old, renovated house. He climbed the concrete steps, sat back against the railing as he tried to focus on the swimming letters:

SANTA ROSA CLINIC

R. KENT, M.D.

Beneath the doctor's name, there was a number to be called in case of emergency. Without a phone, it did the Executioner no good, and he lurched forward, peering through the curtains that covered a window set into the door. No lights, no sign of movement from the dark interior.

He knocked again, then gave up and drew the slim stiletto from a pocket of his skinsuit, stooping painfully to scrutinize the lock. It was an easy one, pot metal and aluminum. He had it open in a moment, took another look along the alley, left and right, then slipped inside.

The former kitchen had been turned into a lab of sorts. He noted microscopes, a centrifuge and sterilizer, stainless-steel sinks and instruments, a cabinet for drugs, an X-ray machine standing in the corner. Bolan did a recon: four examination rooms, a waiting area, a single rest room, all deserted now. There would be hours posted somewhere, but he had no time left. Already fading in and out, the soldier knew that he would have to act now or it would be too late.

He backtracked to the lab and rifled drawers until he found the necessary implements for suturing a wound. The exit hole, in back, would be a bitch, but once he stitched the entry wound, a butterfly bandage might do the trick until he found some wheels and made it to another town, one with a doctor. He couldn't chance an anesthetic — it would knock him out immediately, but the drug stash might contain a stimulant that would help him stay alert while he was on the road.

The light-headedness returned as Bolan struggled to thread the long, curved needle, and he felt the room begin to spin. He reached out for the counter, missed it, tried again, and then his knees were folding. He was losing it, and there was not a damned thing he could do to save himself.

The floor rushed up to meet him like a runaway express train, and the darkness claimed him.

"Hello? Hello?"

The line was open, humming for an instant, then the dial tone came back loud and harsh in Joh

He cradled the receiver, conscious of a sudden chill that raised the short hairs on his neck. Mack's message had been loud and clear: he was on foot and wounded in a town called Santa Rosa near the Mexico-Arizona border. Something had gone wrong with the Rivera strike, and Mack had lost his wheels, had suffered injuries of unknown severity. The very fact that he had mentioned being "winded" was an indicator of his serious condition, but the nature of his wounds, his access to emergency assistance, was a mystery.

Joh

Mack had asked him not to come. Correction: Mack had told him not to come. But he was always trying to protect "the kid," a designation that he hadn't used to Joh

Some things you did because you had to, no matter what the private risk. When Joh

He had been just a kid when Mack came home from Vietnam to see their parents and their sister buried in the family plot outside of Pittsfield. Joh

Val Querente had been everything a foster mother could ever hope to be. Jack Gray, her future husband and an agent for the FBI, adopted Joh

As Joh

Joh

But now he was wounded and on foot in hostile territory with the jackals on his heels. The younger Bolan could no more sit back and let his brother die than he could voluntarily stop breathing. If there was a chance, however slim, he had to make the effort, and he had no time to waste.