Read Online Run to Ground by Don Pendleton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Don Pendleton
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found it in themselves to murder for revenge, an exorcism of their private demons. But the true professionals — assassins, mercenaries, and those of their ilk — were something else entirely. There was something in their makeup, or deleted from it, that permitted them to kill and kill again. For money, for the sport of it, or from commitment to a cause.
From her observation of the patient, Rebecca Kent believed he had that "something else" about him. She could not begin to understand his motivating cause, although, if she remembered rightly, stories in the press had mentioned something of a family tragedy behind his one-man war. In any case he did not strike her as the kind of mad-dog killer who preoccupied the media these days. Unless she had been absolutely taken in, he was a thoughtful man, concerned about the consequences of his chance intrusion in her life.
What was it he had said when she informed him that she hated his vocation, all the violence with which he surrounded himself?
"So do I."
And she believed him, foolish though she might have been. There had been no trace of deception in his voice, no cunning smirk behind his eyes. If he was Bolan — and she saw no reason, at the moment, why he should have lied — then he was certainly a killer. But Rebecca Kent would bet her life, her reputation, on the fact that he had never killed for pleasure, out of sport or spite. When he had killed, there must have been a reason that, at least to Bolan's mind, had been sufficiently persuasive to compel his actions.
She had pondered murder, briefly, years ago, before her thoughts of death had turned upon herself, and she had known that it was time to leave L.A. for good. She had been hiding out in Santa Rosa ever since, away from memories of all she had endured, all that she had contemplated, for revenge and out of self-disgust. She hardly ever thought of homicide in concrete terms these days, and on those rare occasions when she did, Rebecca Kent was filled with shame of such intensity that tears welled unbidden, in her eyes. A few more years, perhaps, and she might finally be able to forget.
But she could not forget her patient, lying in the other room, or the conflicting signals flashed by instinct and by common sense.
Instinctively she knew that Bolan had been truthful with her, that his secret presence in her clinic somehow posed a lesser threat than if his presence there was advertised. Meanwhile her common sense demanded that she carry out the letter of the law, inform Grant Vickers of her wounded patient, and divorce herself from any subsequent events.
Except that it would never be that easy. If she gave the wounded man to Vickers, she would be responsible for everything that followed, personally and directly linked to each and every act of violence that resulted from her phone call. By her silence she might save Grant's life, the lives of other neighbors.
And herself?
If Bolan was pursued, his enemies might well suspect that he was wounded. If they traced him there, to Santa Rosa, they would finally, inevitably, come to see her, asking questions, threatening, demanding. What could she accomplish if, as Bolan said, he had been followed by an army?
Nothing.
But the mere inevitability of failure did not release her from an obligation to try. Her Hippocratic oath had pledged Rebecca Kent to help the suffering, preserve all life wherever possible. To her, that meant not only Bolan's life, but any others that might be endangered by a revelation of his presence in her care. If she delivered him to Vickers, thereby saving herself but bringing a massacre upon the town, she would obtain no consolation from the knowledge that her actions had been legal. On the other hand, if she ignored the law and thereby saved an untold number of imperiled lives, had she in fact committed any crime?
Her head was spinning, and she fought to make her mind a perfect blank, erasing all the hypothetical for either side. The choice and
From her observation of the patient, Rebecca Kent believed he had that "something else" about him. She could not begin to understand his motivating cause, although, if she remembered rightly, stories in the press had mentioned something of a family tragedy behind his one-man war. In any case he did not strike her as the kind of mad-dog killer who preoccupied the media these days. Unless she had been absolutely taken in, he was a thoughtful man, concerned about the consequences of his chance intrusion in her life.
What was it he had said when she informed him that she hated his vocation, all the violence with which he surrounded himself?
"So do I."
And she believed him, foolish though she might have been. There had been no trace of deception in his voice, no cunning smirk behind his eyes. If he was Bolan — and she saw no reason, at the moment, why he should have lied — then he was certainly a killer. But Rebecca Kent would bet her life, her reputation, on the fact that he had never killed for pleasure, out of sport or spite. When he had killed, there must have been a reason that, at least to Bolan's mind, had been sufficiently persuasive to compel his actions.
She had pondered murder, briefly, years ago, before her thoughts of death had turned upon herself, and she had known that it was time to leave L.A. for good. She had been hiding out in Santa Rosa ever since, away from memories of all she had endured, all that she had contemplated, for revenge and out of self-disgust. She hardly ever thought of homicide in concrete terms these days, and on those rare occasions when she did, Rebecca Kent was filled with shame of such intensity that tears welled unbidden, in her eyes. A few more years, perhaps, and she might finally be able to forget.
But she could not forget her patient, lying in the other room, or the conflicting signals flashed by instinct and by common sense.
Instinctively she knew that Bolan had been truthful with her, that his secret presence in her clinic somehow posed a lesser threat than if his presence there was advertised. Meanwhile her common sense demanded that she carry out the letter of the law, inform Grant Vickers of her wounded patient, and divorce herself from any subsequent events.
Except that it would never be that easy. If she gave the wounded man to Vickers, she would be responsible for everything that followed, personally and directly linked to each and every act of violence that resulted from her phone call. By her silence she might save Grant's life, the lives of other neighbors.
And herself?
If Bolan was pursued, his enemies might well suspect that he was wounded. If they traced him there, to Santa Rosa, they would finally, inevitably, come to see her, asking questions, threatening, demanding. What could she accomplish if, as Bolan said, he had been followed by an army?
Nothing.
But the mere inevitability of failure did not release her from an obligation to try. Her Hippocratic oath had pledged Rebecca Kent to help the suffering, preserve all life wherever possible. To her, that meant not only Bolan's life, but any others that might be endangered by a revelation of his presence in her care. If she delivered him to Vickers, thereby saving herself but bringing a massacre upon the town, she would obtain no consolation from the knowledge that her actions had been legal. On the other hand, if she ignored the law and thereby saved an untold number of imperiled lives, had she in fact committed any crime?
Her head was spinning, and she fought to make her mind a perfect blank, erasing all the hypothetical for either side. The choice and
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