cake.
He curbed the cruiser, waited for the dark sedan to grow smaller in his rearview, but it turned instead of heading north. He frowned at that, and tried to put himself inside the driver's mind, discover what the bastard might be up to.
They were hunting, obviously. Here in Vickers's town. But who? And why? He would have known if there were any personal or business links to Santa Rosa, and he would have taken steps to sort it out, to warn the foolish locals off. But there was nothing. Zip. And that was what had Vickers worried as he put the cruiser back in motion and continued on his way.
The guns were out, and they were hunting. In his town. For someone Vickers didn't know. There was a wild card in the game, from out of frigging nowhere, and he didn't like the way that changed the odds. If they got lucky, if they made their tag in Santa Rosa, there would have to be an inquest, an investigation. He would have to act, and who the hell knew what might happen then?
His digital read 7:45. Old man Beamer would be open now. Grant Vickers cranked the squad car hard around and gunned it toward the diner, hoping that a cup of coffee might do something for his stomach. It was rolling now, as if he had consumed a couple bowls of Beamer's Texas chili, but without the pleasure that preceded heartburn. For a moment Vickers wondered if he might be working on a goddamned ulcer, finally deciding that it didn't matter either way. Some Rolaids ought to ease him through the afternoon, at least until he found out what — or whom — the Mexicans were looking for.
And once he knew... then what? Would he have nerve enough to throw their asses out of town? If they got lucky, dare he push the matter with indictments and arrests?
He had no answer at the moment, and he put the problem out of mind. He hoped the man they were searching for was a thousand miles away by now and running for his life. It wouldn't do him any good, of course, but once beyond the city limits he was someone else's problem. Someone else would have to scrape the victim up when the Mexicans were finished, and investigate the crime.
As long as it did not occur in Santa Rosa, Vickers would be satisfied. He was an easy man to please.
5
Darkness, and he was naming toward the light of leaping flames, prepared to dodge each time a muzzle-flash cut through the night and angry hornets swarmed around his head. He answered fire when targets showed themselves, but they were few and far between. The hostile gunners had grown cagey, scoping out his battle plan and lying back to wait for him within the shelter of the shadows. If he wanted them, if he was going to complete his mission, he would have to seek them in the fire.
The heat was strong already, even at an estimated range of thirty yards. He raised one hand to shield his face, aware that he was framed in silhouette for any gunners who might choose to take advantage of the moment. Still, the fire was central to his strategy, his needs. And while he could not have explained his purpose at the moment, there was something in his gut that knew why he was here.
It was essential that he find Rivera, he remembered that much, but the man was laughing at him now, his low, reptilian chuckle emanating from the darkness. No. It was emerging from the flames, the very white-hot heart of what appeared to be a burning warehouse, miles across. A blazing structure that might stretch forever, from horizon to horizon, if he dared to look. He didn't, concentrating on the evil laughter, eyes like slits against the heat as he attempted to pick out his nemesis.
Just there: a movement in the fire. He hesitated, strained against the baking heat to make out shapes and sizes, finally deciding that the form was human, more or less. Too wide, perhaps, but otherwise complete with head and arms and legs, all wreathed in flame and moving jerkily, as if the puppeteer was having trouble with his strings. He waited, felt the figure drawing closer, though it
He curbed the cruiser, waited for the dark sedan to grow smaller in his rearview, but it turned instead of heading north. He frowned at that, and tried to put himself inside the driver's mind, discover what the bastard might be up to.
They were hunting, obviously. Here in Vickers's town. But who? And why? He would have known if there were any personal or business links to Santa Rosa, and he would have taken steps to sort it out, to warn the foolish locals off. But there was nothing. Zip. And that was what had Vickers worried as he put the cruiser back in motion and continued on his way.
The guns were out, and they were hunting. In his town. For someone Vickers didn't know. There was a wild card in the game, from out of frigging nowhere, and he didn't like the way that changed the odds. If they got lucky, if they made their tag in Santa Rosa, there would have to be an inquest, an investigation. He would have to act, and who the hell knew what might happen then?
His digital read 7:45. Old man Beamer would be open now. Grant Vickers cranked the squad car hard around and gunned it toward the diner, hoping that a cup of coffee might do something for his stomach. It was rolling now, as if he had consumed a couple bowls of Beamer's Texas chili, but without the pleasure that preceded heartburn. For a moment Vickers wondered if he might be working on a goddamned ulcer, finally deciding that it didn't matter either way. Some Rolaids ought to ease him through the afternoon, at least until he found out what — or whom — the Mexicans were looking for.
And once he knew... then what? Would he have nerve enough to throw their asses out of town? If they got lucky, dare he push the matter with indictments and arrests?
He had no answer at the moment, and he put the problem out of mind. He hoped the man they were searching for was a thousand miles away by now and running for his life. It wouldn't do him any good, of course, but once beyond the city limits he was someone else's problem. Someone else would have to scrape the victim up when the Mexicans were finished, and investigate the crime.
As long as it did not occur in Santa Rosa, Vickers would be satisfied. He was an easy man to please.
5
Darkness, and he was naming toward the light of leaping flames, prepared to dodge each time a muzzle-flash cut through the night and angry hornets swarmed around his head. He answered fire when targets showed themselves, but they were few and far between. The hostile gunners had grown cagey, scoping out his battle plan and lying back to wait for him within the shelter of the shadows. If he wanted them, if he was going to complete his mission, he would have to seek them in the fire.
The heat was strong already, even at an estimated range of thirty yards. He raised one hand to shield his face, aware that he was framed in silhouette for any gunners who might choose to take advantage of the moment. Still, the fire was central to his strategy, his needs. And while he could not have explained his purpose at the moment, there was something in his gut that knew why he was here.
It was essential that he find Rivera, he remembered that much, but the man was laughing at him now, his low, reptilian chuckle emanating from the darkness. No. It was emerging from the flames, the very white-hot heart of what appeared to be a burning warehouse, miles across. A blazing structure that might stretch forever, from horizon to horizon, if he dared to look. He didn't, concentrating on the evil laughter, eyes like slits against the heat as he attempted to pick out his nemesis.
Just there: a movement in the fire. He hesitated, strained against the baking heat to make out shapes and sizes, finally deciding that the form was human, more or less. Too wide, perhaps, but otherwise complete with head and arms and legs, all wreathed in flame and moving jerkily, as if the puppeteer was having trouble with his strings. He waited, felt the figure drawing closer, though it
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