Read Online Run to Ground by Don Pendleton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Don Pendleton
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risk were ultimately hers, but she had time.
How much?
Enough.
Enough to watch her patient, gauge his progress and decide if he was well enough to travel. Time enough to weigh his story carefully, compute the risks and hazards either way, before she rushed to a decision she might eternally regret.
If she decided that a call was necessary, it would simply be delayed. Grant would not argue with her judgment that a patient's treatment should take precedence above the legal niceties. If she decided not to call, then she would live or die with that decision in the long run.
Either way, the choice would be her own, and she would have to make it with her heart, as well as with her mind.
6
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
How much?
Enough.
Enough to watch her patient, gauge his progress and decide if he was well enough to travel. Time enough to weigh his story carefully, compute the risks and hazards either way, before she rushed to a decision she might eternally regret.
If she decided that a call was necessary, it would simply be delayed. Grant would not argue with her judgment that a patient's treatment should take precedence above the legal niceties. If she decided not to call, then she would live or die with that decision in the long run.
Either way, the choice would be her own, and she would have to make it with her heart, as well as with her mind.
6
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
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