Either way, the choice would be her own, and she would have to make it with her heart, as well as with her mind.

Hector Camacho scowled at the storefronts that slipped past his window. They all looked the same to him: dusty and lifeless, the signs of a town in the last throes of death. He had never enjoyed Santa Rosa, was never impressed by its stubborn resistance to change. Now, he thought, all it needed was one final shove toward oblivion. One little push. In his present mood, Hector would gladly oblige.

He had taken the flack for the raid on Rivera's estancia. Heat came with Hector's position — the second-in-command was always more responsible, somehow, than number one — but he had never been accused of negligence before, of sleeping on the job, and there was much to do before he could regain his pride. He must locate the gringo, first and foremost, bring him down before he had a chance to talk to anyone. Or, if he had shared his secret, if he even had an opportunity to speak, Camacho must eliminate his contacts on the spot. So easy, if only they could find the bastard.

Santa Rosa was their last real hope, Camacho realized. If their attacker had gone farther — if he had, for instance, thumbed a ride — then he would be beyond their reach. Rivera might put out a contract on him, through his contacts in the States, but it was virtually impossible to kill a man when you possessed no name or physical description of your victim. Stranger things had happened, true, but Hector did not put his faith in miracles.

All things considered, it seemed safe to say their enemy was still in Santa Rosa. He had lost his car a few miles south, and he had lost a lot of blood, as well, along the way. He might be dead already, sprawled beneath a cactus somewhere, waiting for the buzzards, but Camacho didn't think so. He had seen this one in action, and he had a rough idea of just how strong, how tough this hombre was. With his head start, there had been time to walk from the abandoned car to Santa Rosa, keeping well away from passing traffic on the highway. Once in town, the American would seek medical attention, but there was no hospital in Santa Rosa. Possibly a doctor's office. He would have to check it out.

The next priority was transportation. Once he was stitched and given medication for the pain, the gringo would be desperate to put some space between himself and Santa Rosa, running from the troops that would inevitably follow him. Except the troops were here already, and if the man had not stolen someone's car, it should be easy for Camacho's men to cover all the sources in a town this size.

The lone garage and service station was a possibility. Aside from that, there were no used-car lots, no dealerships, no nothing. People went to Tucson or Phoenix when they wanted to buy a car. They did not come to Santa Rosa for their major purchases. And, from appearances, Camacho would have said they seldom came for any reason.

He was satisfied their enemy was here, within his grasp, if only he could root the bastard out. A second car had been positioned on the highway north of town, its crew awaiting Rivera's order to seal the town. Before those orders could be issued, though, before Rivera risked a confrontation with the state police, the horrors of publicity, Camacho must convince him that their enemy was still in Santa Rosa.

Hector lit a cigarette and tried to put himself inside the gringo's mind. What sort of warrior were they dealing with? He was professional, no doubt about it, capable of taking on an army and inflicting heavy casualties before he slipped away. That ruled out the DEA, and Hector had already dropped the FBI from his considerations. They had no one like this man on their payroll, and the Bureau would not cross a border without filing forms in triplicate beforehand. CIA? It seemed unlikely. They were not concerned with drugs — unless they were involved in smuggling themselves — and they had once or twice relied upon Rivera as a source of contacts with the Contra movement to the south.

That left Rivera's various competitors, but once again Camacho had his doubts. If Esquilante or the others planned a move against Rivera's stronghold, singly or en masse, they would have sent an army to attack the rancho rather than a single man. And when their soldier fled, why would he run for the United States?

The more he thought about it, the more Camacho was convinced that they were dealing with an unknown quantity, a stranger — or a group of strangers — they had not encountered previously. Someone had decided that Luis Rivera should be driven out of business, and had taken steps to reach that goal. They had not been successful, even though they might have cost Rivera several million dollars in a single evening, but it was the very effort that disturbed Camacho, made him fearful for his own position. For his life.

He had come close, last night, with bullets snapping all around him in the fire-lit darkness, and he had not liked the feeling one damned bit. Camacho's idea of a shoot-out normally involved half a dozen guns — all his — against some solitary target who was taken by surprise, and preferably unarmed. This business of guerrilla warfare in the middle of the night was something else entirely, and it grated on Camacho's nerves. He might be dead already if another of Rivera's men had not been kind enough to step in front of Hector at a crucial moment in the action, stopping rounds that would most certainly have spoiled his day.

Camacho didn't like the sharp, metallic taste of fear. Since joining forces with Rivera, rising through the ranks to stand beside Luis, Camacho had become accustomed to inspiring fear, not suffering its chills and loss of face. He was a power to be reckoned with throughout Sonora, speaking for Rivera in his business deals and ordering elimination of the small-time dealers who attempted to encroach upon Rivera's territory. When Rivera fell, as he inevitably would, Camacho would be king.

Unless he blew it here, in Santa Rosa. If he let the gringo get away, he would be scum beneath Rivera's boots. The second-in-command could be replaced — could be eliminated — at any time. A word was all it took, and Hector knew that word was waiting on the tip of his employer's tongue right now. He had to prove himself, and soon, before Rivera started thinking that another man might do the job with more success.

His next step was immediately obvious. They had already searched the several streets and alleyways, without result. That meant the American was inside, somewhere, perhaps observing them right now. Hector knew what he must do to nail the town up tight, and he was ready to proceed. But first, he would require some inside help.

Grant Vickers finished off his second cup of coffee, left a dollar on the counter and waved a hand to indicate he didn't want the change. Old Beamer's waitress was a sweet young thing named Rachel, and she flashed him such a smile that Vickers thought his heart would break. An angel face, a body like she had... and Vickers would have bet his life that she was under seventeen. It was a crying shame.

He waved to old man Beamer, hitched his gun belt up and pushed through double doors to reach the sidewalk. It was heating up already, and it would be ninety in the shade by ten o'clock, assuming you could find a patch of shade, that is. The cruiser was not air-conditioned, thanks to misers on the town board, desperate to save a dime while everything around them went to hell. They couldn't tell the town was dying, but by God, they kept on top of "wasteful spending" by their constable.

He pulled up short before he reached the squad car, startled as he found Camacho lounging with his back against the driver's door. A little warning sounded in the back of Vickers's mind, and he recalled the crew he had encountered earlier that morning. Gunners passing through were one thing, damn it, but Camacho waiting for him out on Main Street in broad daylight was another game entirely.