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might tell the hunters all they had to know.
    He wondered how much effort it would take to seal off a town like Santa Rosa from the outside world. The phone lines would be easy, and the traffic shouldn't be much problem either. One or two cars on the road in each direction, letting everybody in, nobody out. It would be safe to assume that the roadblocks would not be swamped with cars. Communication via radio might be another story; if there was a marshal's office or a tow truck operator with a CB, isolating the town would be more difficult. A Mayday message might be broadcast to surrounding towns before the hunters could complete their sweep. There might be opportunities to reach the county sheriff, or the state police.
    His mind was drifting, and the warrior brought it roughly back to here and now. His first priority was the location of a medic. Failing that, he had to get inside the pharmacy, stock up on some essentials, and get out again before he was discovered. Bolan had no cash and no prescriptions for the items that he needed; neither could he wait for normal business hours if he planned to make his getaway with minimal endangerment of innocent civilians.
    Medical attention, wheels, escape. They were his top priorities, but Bolan liked to hedge his bets. The service station wasn't open, but its pay phone was in working order and he was relieved to find that he could dial the operator without depositing a coin. The nasal voice verified his "Michael Beeler" credit card and took the Southern California number, asking him to hold.
    The calling card was perfectly legitimate, aside from the employment of an alias to cover Bolan's tracks. The billings were dispatched each month to a post-office box in Los Angeles, from which they were routinely forwarded to yet another box in San Diego. No one ever called upon the L.A. box, and no one ever would. The semiannual rent was paid by mail, and it existed only for the purpose of receiving monthly bills. A snoopy sort could hang around the post office for months on end and never see a soul approach Box 2035.
    The number Bolan had requested was another cutout, shunting calls from a studio apartment in San Ysidro to Johnny Bolan's home and headquarters at Strongbase One, in San Diego. The apartment, rented month-to-month by "Joseph Breen" was vacant except for a card table, telephone and automatic switching device. The remote-controlled passover occurred on the third ring; the fourth would be answered by Johnny, or, if he was out, by a tape that would take the message. Johnny checked in each hour, on the half, when he was not at home. That meant another fifty minutes if they missed connections now, but it was still the best the Executioner could do.
    He wanted John to have some grasp of what was happening, in case it went sour in Santa Rosa. He had briefed his brother on the mission generally, but John was not personally involved. It was a one-man show, which had gone suddenly, perhaps disastrously, wrong. But if Mack Bolan was about to buy the farm in Santa Rosa, he would not go out without alerting others to his fate, preparing a surprise for the Rivera forces somewhere down the road.
    Three rings. He waited for the fourth and wondered whether he would hear his brother's voice live or the recorded version.
    "Yes?"
    Relief hit Bolan like a second wind.
    "Is this the Blaylock residence?" he asked, allowing Johnny time to scan the oscillator and confirm his voice-print.
    "Yes," the younger Bolan replied, "but Mr. Blaylock isn't in just now. Is there a message?"
    "No, I need to speak with him directly."
    A muted tone on the line announced completion of the voiceprint scan, and Johnny dropped his tone of stiff formality.
    "You're late," he said. "Is something wrong?"
    "I ran into a problem on delivery."
    "Explain."
    "The client's personal security was better than anticipated. I'm a little winded, but I'm pulling out as soon as I can rent a car."
    "Where are you?"
    "Santa Rosa. It's a pit