As soon as Bolan left the doctor's office, probably before he had the chance to find a car, the local law would be alerted. He did not remember seeing a jail or sheriff's station, but the town might have a marshal or a deputy in residence. In any case, he would be forced to deal with that eventuality when it presented itself. Anticipation was of value only if it helped a warrior to prepare himself, and at the moment there was nothing for the Executioner to do except continue to walk while he had the strength.

The doctor might not be a problem after all. If Bolan never reached the town, there would be no report to file, no deputies to be avoided. He could lie down here in the desert, surrender to the waves of dizziness that came from loss of blood, and wait to see if final darkness or Rivera's gunners overtook him first.

With iron will, the soldier thrust his morbid thoughts aside and concentrated on the sandy soil in front of him. Another step. One more. Another. It was light enough to see the rocks and cactus clearly now, allowing him to move with greater confidence, and soon the rising sun would start to drive away the chill that penetrated to his very bones. The sun would help, he thought — at least until its heat began to sap his remaining strength.

But that was hours yet, and Bolan knew instinctively that it was not a problem. Long before the desert sun could reach its zenith, he would be in Santa Rosa...or he would be dead.

And, then again, he might be both.

Rivera's gunners might have found his car. They might have pushed ahead to lay an ambush for him at the crossroads, loitering in Santa Rosa for the first appearance of a stranger desperate for blood and medical attention. They would not have any clear description of him, but they wouldn't need one. Santa Rosa was a fly speck on the map; it saw few motorists, and even fewer lone pedestrians from nowhere, boasting bullet wounds and packing pistols.