The Uzi had been empty, useless weight, and he had left it in the car. The shoulder rigging for his Beretta 93-R had prevented him from keeping pressure on his wound, so Bolan had discarded it as well, although the pistol and its extra magazines now filled the pockets of his trench coat. Underneath the coat, his AutoMag, Big Thunder, rode the warrior's hip on military webbing, perfectly concealed but still accessible at need.

The bullet wound was in his side, and despite the dizziness and pain, he knew he had been lucky. The slug was in-and-out, from front to back, and had avoided bone and vital organs. Two more inches toward the center and it would have ripped open his stomach. Any higher, and the bullet might have shattered ribs, glanced off and into one of Bolan's lungs. He had been lucky, except that he was bleeding profusely and could not keep sufficient pressure on both wounds at once. His injuries might prove fatal if he did not find a medic soon. Rivera might just kill him yet, if he could keep the Executioner in motion, on the run, until he bled to death.

The target of his strike had been Rivera's rancho, thirty rugged miles due west from Nogales, equidistant from the Arizona border. The Sonoran desert was Rivera's best defense, but he did not rely exclusively upon geography. The sprawling rancho boasted barbed-wire fences, mounted sentries, motorized patrols, as well as a ranch house that was fortified like something from the Siegfried Line. The helipad and airstrip were patrolled around the clock by men equipped with automatic weapons, in case the federates felt compelled to stage a showcase raid without sufficient warning. If an enemy approached by land, Rivera had the option of escaping in his private jet, which sat protected from the desert sandstorms in a hangar near the airstrip.