Hector kept his finger on the trigger as they tottered to their feet, aware that they might turn on him, trusting in the strength of two-on-one to save their lives. He was prepared to kill them, if he had to, but it would not solve his problem. Rather, it would leave him all alone to face his adversary, and that was precisely what Hector wanted to avoid.

His men were cowards, anxious to retreat and save themselves. Camacho, on the other hand, was simply exercising the prerogatives of his command, employing solid logic. Two-on-one might take the gringo, although it was doubtful when Camacho thought about his swift response to five-on-one a moment earlier. If nothing else, the rush would force him to reveal himself, and when he rose from hiding to annihilate the others, Hector would be waiting for him, safely under cover, with his pistol primed and ready for the kill.

It was a simple plan, and therefore nearly foolproof. Any latitude for failure would be interjected by the sorry soldiers under his command. He waited, gestured with his pistol when they hesitated in the starting gate, then watched with satisfaction as they set out, one behind the other, running awkwardly, crouched, shouting, firing blindly toward the far end of the alleyway. A pair of Dumpsters stood together there, and Hector's enemy was bound to be behind them, certainly, unless...

No time for supposition now, as Hector stood erect, his pistol braced in both hands, elbows locked and resting on the hard edge of the garbage bin. He sighted down the automatic's slide with both eyes open, ready for minute adjustments when the gringo showed himself, prepared to empty out the whole damned clip in rapid fire and send his adversary off to hell without a face to call his own.

He waited, smiling, knowing that his time had come to shine.

The wound in Bolan's side had opened when he landed on his hands and knees in the alleyway, but he was scarcely conscious of the pain as he waited for the enemy to rush him, finish off the job. He had exhausted the supply of ammunition for his captured automatic weapon, and he had discarded it before the hunting party overtook him in the alley, firing wildly, closing fast. It had been luck as much as skill when had Bolan dropped a pair of them with hasty rounds designed to frighten more than kill, and now he waited for the final rush, a pistol in each hand, fresh blood like sticky perspiration soaking through his denim shirt.

He heard them coming, knew that they were making for the Dumpsters, counting on him to be there, relying on the greater cover to conceal their enemy. They would not spare a second glance for ancient, battered trash cans farther down the alley, where the Executioner sat, his back against a picket fence that bordered brown, withered grass, the small backyard of a deserted mobile home.

He pushed forward and stood, tracking with the Beretta in his left hand and Big Thunder in his right. Two men, already closing fast at twenty yards, were about to realize their last mistake too late, as Bolan's furtive movement brought their eyes and guns around toward unexpected target acquisition. They had bet their lives that he was behind the Dumpsters, and it was the soldier's moment to collect, in full.

He lightly stroked the 93-R's trigger, ripping off a 3-round burst that caught the foremost gunner in the chest and knocked him backward, off his stride and off his feet. He jerked and twitched for a moment, like a viper with a severed head, and then lay still. His partner, meantime, leaped across the new obstruction, desperate to stay in motion, counting on the Dumpsters for his own protection. He pegged a shot at Bolan, missing him by yards, undoubtedly aware that he could never make it, that his life was measured out in fractions of a heartbeat.

Bolan put a 3-round cluster through the runner's throat and nearly took the man's head off in the process, the lethal impact spinning his assailant right around and hurling him against the wall of an adjacent shop. Rebounding, Bolan's late opponent left wet traces of himself behind, like abstract artwork on the dusty stucco, drying quickly in the desert heat.

Four down, but there had been another, and before the thought had time to form, he was aware of subtle movement there, behind another Dumpster, halfway down the alley's length. A head and shoulders were revealed, hands interlocked around a pistol aimed at Bolan from a range of fifty feet. He squeezed the trigger of his AutoMag three times in swift succession, heard the heavy boattails clang against the siding of the Dumpster, drilling through, and then the silhouette of his assailant seemed to sag, collapsing, disappearing by degrees. The hands veered skyward, swinging up the pistol into close alignment on the sun, while head and shoulders kept on sinking, out of sight. Another moment passed, and the lifeless hands had disappeared as well.

He didn't bother checking on the guy. If his target was not dead or dying, he was out of it, so far as any action was concerned. Whatever happened to him now, the Executioner had business elsewhere, and Rivera's goon would have to look out for himself, if he was still alive.

Beyond the roofline of adjacent buildings, Bolan saw the rising smoke of shops on fire and knew the town was dying while he watched. Its death might be a swifter one, more merciful than lingering extinction brought on by neglect, but he could not escape a pang of guilt. If not for him, Rivera would have shown no interest in Santa Rosa, and the blight of Bolan's private war would not have fallen on so many other lives.

But there was no time to wallow in self-condemnation now that it was done. Survival was the top priority, for Bolan, for the citizens of Santa Rosa. Some of them, at least, were standing tall against the enemy; continued firing from the Main Street battleground informed him that Rivera's men had not found it easy going. He thought about Grant Vickers, the elusive sniper on the roof of the garage, and wondered if there might be others, fighting even now to save the town that was their home.

He hoped so, realizing that the only hope for Santa Rosa lay within her people. If they cared enough to stand and fight, there might still be a chance. If they did not, then the town and all had been long dead before Rivera ever showed his face and called for Bolan's blood on Main Street.

Concentrating on Rivera, the soldier knew his best and only chance of ringing down the curtain on the dealer's game was through a confrontation with the man himself — a confrontation in which only one of them would walk away.

There might still be a chance to keep Rivera from annihilating everyone in Santa Rosa, if the Executioner was swift enough and sure enough about his tactics. He would have to find a way inside the diner, first of all, or force the dealer to emerge... but, then again, the latter course of action might not be the problem that it seemed. Rivera had already been deprived of transportation, and the town was burning down around him. He would have to find some wheels, unless he meant to hang around and fry, or wait for the eventual arrival of the state police. But to acquire another car, or cars, it would be necessary to dispatch his gunners, singly or in teams. And if they failed to reappear...

Rivera would be forced to do it himself.

It was a plan, but Bolan knew that his success in pulling off the scheme was far from guaranteed. He might yet fail, and failing, he would lose it all: his war against Rivera's filthy empire, his crusade against the broader evil of the savages. He knew that death had been inevitable from day one, but the reality was something else entirely. Bolan was not ready to surrender by any means, but it was time to face the fact that he was not immortal, that he might not make it out of Santa Rosa.