The highway was a quarter-mile due west and running parallel to Bolan's track. Remaining with the car or following the asphalt ribbon would have been a suicidal gesture, worse than useless, but he kept the highway fixed in mind, just visible in his peripherals. Cars had passed on three occasions, their headlights lancing through the early-morning darkness, and the wounded man had lurched for cover, knowing they would not have picked him out without a spotlight, still unwilling to reveal himself. The highway and its destination were his secrets of survival. They could also get him killed... assuming that Bolan was not dead already.

There was no sign of Rivera or his gunners yet, but they would be along. They couldn't let him go, could not allow the fates or Mother Nature to complete the job they had started earlier tonight. Mack Bolan now knew enough about Rivera's operation to burn his friends on both sides of the border, and before it came to that, he knew, those friends would sacrifice Rivera in a bid to save themselves.

Unless Rivera found a way to plug the leak, and quickly.

It had been hot all day and warm all evening, but the predawn chill was biting at him. It never ceased to puzzle Bolan that the desert, baking like an oven in the daytime, could become a vast refrigerator after nightfall. Shivering, he blamed it on the chill, refusing to accept the thought that the loss of blood had sapped his strength and made him more susceptible to cold. If he allowed himself to dwell on failure, he might fall, and if he fell, the soldier was not convinced that he could rise again.

Nightbirds whistled round him, unintimidated by his presence. Beyond the range of Bolan's night vision, desert animals occasionally scuttled through the sagebrush, making Bolan hesitate, his free hand clutching at the weapon on his hip. Each time it was a false alarm, but he could not allow himself to grow complacent, take the safety of the night for granted. He was alone and badly injured, poorly armed, with hunters on his track. Surviving past the sunrise would be an achievement. Winning any sort of final victory would be a miracle.