When the three men reached the top of the stairs, they found themselves in a short hallway that ended in a heavy wooden door. Thick and dark with age, the door looked like something that might have been found in an old mission, established hundreds of years ago by the stubborn priests who first brought European civilization to this raw, savage land. One of the jaguar-men, as Enrique thought of them, reached and clasped the brass handle on the door. He pulled it open and motioned with his eyes for Enrique to go inside.
Swallowing again, Enrique did so. The jaguar-men moved into the room behind him. The door closed with a solid thump, and to Enrique’s surprise, he could no longer hear the music. The marijuana smell was gone, too, dispersed by the ceiling fan that turned lazily overhead.
The room was dim, with dark paneling on the walls and thick drapes over the windows that completely shut out the afternoon light. It might as well have been midnight outside. Enrique blinked as he waited for his eyes to adjust. His arm still hurt, but his nervousness kept him from thinking about it too much. For the first time, he had been summoned to a meeting with Señor Montoya, the leader of Mara Salvatrucha. He didn’t like the feeling very much.
The room was expensively furnished, with heavy, overstuffed chairs and thick carpets on the floor. On one side of the room was a huge desk. On the wall behind it were computers and screens, so much equipment that it looked to Enrique like the control room of a spaceship like in Star Wars.
A giant-screen television was across from the desk, with big speakers around it. A home theater, they called it. Enrique knew there was a powerful satellite receiver on the roof of the cantina. Señor Montoya could watch anything he wanted, from anywhere in the world. The big TV was dark at the moment, though, as were the computer monitors. The only light in the room came from a shaded lamp on the desk. The man sitting behind the desk leaned back in his big leather chair so that the light from the lamp fell only on his legs. His torso and his head were in the shadows. Enrique could make them out in the reflected glow, but not clearly.
“Enrique Colon,” a deep, powerful voice said. Like the voice of God must sound, Enrique thought. Or maybe the Devil.
“Si, Señor Montoya,” Enrique said quickly, eager to please.
“Tell me what happened in Little Tucson.”
“We . . . we went there to rob the bank, as you instructed, Señor.” He wished he didn’t seem so tentative. That looked bad in front of Señor Montoya. “Armando stayed in the car. Porfirio and I went into the bank. The guard realized what we were about to do, so I shot him.” There was a note of pride in his voice. He wanted Señor Montoya to think that he was a bad hombre, a ruthless killer. In point of fact, it had been Porfirio who had gunned down the security guard, but Señor Montoya didn’t have to know that.
Enrique paused, thinking that perhaps Señor Montoya would tell him that he had done well, but instead the man behind the desk just said, “Go on.”
“We got the money, and we ran out to the Explorer, but one of the bitch tellers must have triggered an alarm somehow. We should have killed them all, first thing.”
“It’s too late for that now. What happened?”
“A police car came up and blocked the exit. Armando drove over the curb and through, like a cactus garden, you know . . . Anyway, the policeman was shooting at us, so we shot back at him. I’m sure we killed him.”
“Then why didn’t you get away successfully?”
The icy-voiced question made Enrique want to squirm. It was amazing how Señor Montoya could make someone feel like that. Enrique was a tough man. He had raped his first girl at twelve, killed his first man at fourteen. He had killed at least a dozen since then, and he couldn’t even count all the women he had raped. Yet just a few words from Señor Montoya could make the blood in his veins turn to ice.
“The policeman, he must have made a lucky shot. Armando was hit in the back of the head. It killed him instantly, and he wrecked the Explorer. Porfirio and I had to grab another car to get away. A woman came along with her kids, so we made her drive us.”
“An attractive woman?”
“Very attractive, Señor.” Enrique couldn’t keep a boastful note from creeping into his voice. “After we got out of town, we stopped to rape her. She cried out in passion when I fucked her.”
That was another lie, of course; the woman hadn’t made a sound other than an occasional whimper.
Señor Montoya said, “Let me get this straight. You stopped to rape this woman only a few miles out of Little Tucson, with two bags of money in the car and the authorities perhaps on your trail?”
“There was nobody chasing us, Señor. We were certain of that, otherwise we never would have stopped. And we planned to kill the woman and take her car as soon as we were through with her.”
“Then what happened to prevent that?”
“This gringo,” this crazy gringo, he came out of nowhere, and he hit me with something that broke my arm.” Enrique touched the cast and winced, although truthfully the arm didn’t hurt any worse now than it had before. “Then he hit Porfirio in the head and probably killed him.”
“You don’t know?”
Enrique shook his head. “I’m sorry, Señor, but I had no chance to help him or to stay and make sure he was dead. The gringo, he got hold of Porfirio’s gun, and he almost shot me. I barely escaped with my life.”
“But you didn’t escape with the money.” The accusatory words stung like a lash.
Señor Montoya’s eyes seemed to glow in the shadows.
“No, Señor,” he said. “I could not get back to the car, where the money was. As I said, I barely escaped—”
“Yes, with your life, I know.” Finally, Señor Montoya leaned forward so that the light fell on his face. It was a handsome face in a way, with rugged, powerful features below thick, dark hair, the cheeks faintly pitted from some childhood illness, the eyes dark and deep-set and blazing. What Enrique saw in those eyes made him shudder, and he knew in that moment why people sometimes called Señor Montoya El Babania Comida—the Eater of Babies. At this moment, he looked like he was fully capable of making a meal out of an infant.
Just like a jaguar that stole out of the jungle to bring death and terror to those unfortunate enough to cross its path.
“And what makes you think,” Montoya went on, “that your life is worth more to me than the money you ran off and left behind, Enrique?”
Struggling to find his voice, Enrique said, “Señor, I . . . I apologize. I know it was wrong to lose the money—”
“It was wrong to leave Porfirio behind, too. If he is alive, he can testify against us. I don’t fear the American law, but I don’t like needless complications.”
“Señor, Porfirio would never—”
“And there is the woman you kidnapped, too,” Montoya went on as if Enrique had not spoken. “And this crazy gringo who attacked you. They are all what the Americans call loose ends.” Montoya shook his head slowly. “I don’t like loose ends, Enrique. What should I do with them?”
Enrique gulped. “C-cut them off, Señor?” “Exactly.” Montoya leaned back again. “You, too, are a loose end.” He nodded to his segundos.
Enrique cried out in pain as the jaguar-men grabbed him. The one on his right jostled his broken arm. Enrique screamed even louder. No one outside this soundproofed room would hear him though.
Montoya got up, his movements sleek and unhurried. He opened a drawer in the desk and took out a machete. Enrique could tell by looking at it that the blade was razor-sharp. He writhed and struggled, but especially with his broken arm, he was no match for the animal strength of the two men who held him.
“You made a mistake, Enrique,” Montoya said as he came around the desk. “And mistakes cannot be tolerated.”
He plunged the machete into Enrique’s throat and with a swift, incredibly powerful downward stroke cut the man open from neck to nuts. Enrique lived long enough to scream again and watch in horror as his bloody insides slopped onto the car
pet. Darkness closed in around him.
Montoya shook his head slowly. “Such a mess,” he said. “I really should learn not to give in to these impulses. Now the carpet may have to be replaced.”
His two men stood there, stolid, silent, still clutching the arms of the eviscerated thing that barely looked human now.
“Take that out of here and get rid of it,” Montoya snapped. “Then send someone to Little Tucson. I don’t want any of those witnesses talking. Shut them up. If necessary, they are to be killed.” He paused, thinking momentarily about the crazy gringo Enrique had mentioned. Montoya had to wonder about a man like that. What gave him the cojones to attack two well-armed killers, just to protect a woman? It might be interesting to talk to such a man . . .
Montoya said, “That’s all,” and his men left the room, dragging what was left of Enrique Colon.
7
Considering that there could have easily been a massacre inside the Little Tucson Savings Bank, Buddy Gorman thought the town had gotten off relatively easy. Al Trejo was dead—and that fact still broke Buddy’s heart—while Fred Kelso was seriously wounded and his condition still weighed on Buddy’s mind. The doctors at the Sierrita County Hospital gave Fred a fifty-fifty chance of surviving. There was some discussion about taking him by helicopter to a larger hospital in Tucson or Phoenix, but after a video consultation with doctors there, it was decided to leave him be since he was stable and the local doctors were doing everything that they could. He was still in a coma and had not regained consciousness since the bank robbery early that morning.
Mrs. Montgomery had a broken hip and would be laid up for a long time. A doctor had checked Andy Willard and pronounced that except for the cut on his head, he was fine. There was no sign of concussion. His mother Carla was bruised and shaken up, of course, but the damage to her had been more psychological and spiritual than physical—other than the threat of AIDS or pregnancy.
Tom Brannon was fine, not a scratch on him from his encounter. Buddy still had to shake his head when he thought about Tom jumping those two bastards with only a tire iron for a weapon.
Tom was waiting outside Buddy’s office now, sitting on one of the plastic chairs in the hall with his wife Bonnie beside him. She had come into town right away when Tom called her to let her know what had happened. Bonnie Brannon was a tall, slender woman with a long, thick mane of brown hair. There might be a few streaks of gray in it, but a person would have to look hard to see them. She didn’t look old enough to have two grown children.
Even through the big window in Buddy’s office that looked out on the rest of the sheriff’s department, Buddy had been able to hear Bonnie reading the riot act to Tom. He shouldn’t have taken such a crazy chance. He could have gotten himself killed. He should have thought about her, even if he didn’t care what happened to him.
Then Tom had said something too quietly for Buddy to hear the words, but from the look of it, he had spoken only a couple of simple sentences. Buddy would have been willing to bet that they had something to do with Carla May Willard, because Bonnie Brannon had quieted down immediately. Her husband had saved Carla’s life, without a doubt, as well as the life of her daughter, and no argument Bonnie could make would top that one.
Buddy stood up and went to the door, easing it open. He wasn’t looking forward to his conversation, but the sooner he had it, the better. He said, “Tom, could you and Bonnie come in here for a few minutes?”
They stood up and came inside the office while Buddy went back behind the desk. Without sitting down himself, he motioned them into chairs and picked up a folder from his desk. He handed it across to Tom.
“We were lucky,” Buddy said. “The guy you grabbed spent some time in jail in San Diego. Four months on an assault charge, which got his fingerprints in the system. His name is Porfirio Mendez.”
Tom had opened the folder and studied the documents inside, one of which had Mendez’s mug shots glaring out from it. “He’s from Guatemala,” Tom said, sounding a little surprised.
Buddy nodded. “Most of the members of M-15 are from either Guatemala or El Salvador.”
“M-15,” Bonnie said. “I’ve heard of them. They’re the same people who . . . who killed poor old Burt Minnow and Madison Wheeler.”
Buddy nodded again. “That’s right.”
Bonnie looked scared, and he didn’t blame her. She had good reason to be. This part of Arizona had been pretty quiet and peaceful until recent years. There has been some smuggling of drugs and illegal immigrants, of course, as there was along any border, but on a small scale. The coming of Mara Salvatrucha had changed everything. Those folks didn’t do anything on a small scale, and they killed indiscriminately, wantonly, ruthlessly. Anyone who got in their way or inconvenienced them even a little was considered fair game. They were worse than animals.
“I sent queries about Mendez to the authorities in Mexico and Guatemala, and I’ve gotten answers back from them already,” Buddy went on. “That’s mighty fast for those agencies to work. They don’t have a reputation for efficiency.”
“That must mean that Mendez is well known to them,” Tom commented.
“You could say that. He may have only done four months jail time in the U.S., but he’s been in and out of Guatemalan and Mexican jails since he was fifteen, on charges ranging from petty theft to murder. He got off on the murder rap—by that time he was known to be a member of M-15, and probably nobody really wanted to convict him anyway. They were just going through the motions. But he was sent away numerous times on drug-related charges, as well as rape.” He hated to say it in front of Bonnie, but she had a right to know, as well as Tom. “Rape is one of the gang’s main weapons. If they have a grudge against somebody, they like to strike back at him through his female relatives.”
Tom and Bonnie exchanged a glance. She said, “You’re warning us, aren’t you, Buddy? You’re saying that I’m in danger as much as Tom is.”
Buddy shrugged. “Mendez has a couple of broken ribs and a concussion, plus he’s been arrested for murder, bank robbery, assault, attempted rape, kidnapping, car theft, and anything else we can think of that might stick. It’s possible that because he failed in the job he was given, his bosses in M-15 might just cut him loose. It’s more likely, though, that they’ll want revenge for the man they lost, and they’ll want Mendez out of jail.”
“That last part’s not going to be easy,” Tom put in. “There are plenty of witnesses.”
“Witnesses can be intimidated. Their memory gets foggy. They change their testimony. They leave town and go so far and so fast that they can’t be found.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my memory . . . and I’m not going anywhere,” Tom said.
“I know,” Buddy said with a nod. “And I’m counting on that. We’ll do everything we can to keep you safe, but you’ve got to do your part, Tom. Keep your eyes open . . . wide open.”
Tom nodded.
“I know you’ve got hunting rifles and shotguns at home. You might want to put one in your pickup, and in Bonnie’s car, too.”
“I don’t want to carry a rifle or a shotgun in my car, Buddy,” Bonnie said.
“Now, Bonnie, this is serious,” Buddy began. “You might need to defend yourself—”
She hefted her purse and said, “In that case, I’ve got a perfectly good .38 automatic right here.”
Buddy just stared at her for a second and then said, “Oh.”
A faint smile tugged at the corners of Tom’s mouth. “Bonnie’s probably as good a shot as I am.” His expression grew serious again. “But she doesn’t have the experience that I have when it comes to handling a gun while somebody else is shooting at you.”
“Vietnam was a long time ago, Tom,” she said crisply. “It’s not like you’ve been engaging in weekly gunfights since then.”
“No . . . but some things you never really forget.”
“Like how to ride a bicycle?”
Tom grunted. “Yeah. Like how to ride
a bicycle.”
Buddy hoped for Tom’s sake that he remembered more than that. Before this was over, he might need more deadly skills than bicycle riding.
They left the sheriff’s office and the courthouse a short time later, stepping from the air-conditioned coolness into the heat of an Arizona afternoon in June. “Buddy’s not going to need you for anything else?” Bonnie asked as she paused beside the door of her Chevy Blazer, which was parked next to her husband’s F-150. Their long marriage was a testament to the idea that a Ford person and a Chevy person could get along, if they had a strong enough incentive to do so.
Tom shook his head in reply to her question. “No, I’ve already given my statement and signed it. I’ll have to testify when Mendez’s case comes up before the grand jury, but that’s probably the next thing I have to do. And it won’t be for a while, since he’s in the hospital, too.”
“I hope Mrs. Montgomery recovers all right,” Bonnie said with a worried frown. “It can be pretty bad to break a hip at her age.”
“She’ll be fine,” Tom said confidently. “There’s nobody tougher than that old lady.”
Bonnie unlocked and opened the door of her SUV. “Are you going to the store?”
“Reckon I’d better. Louly’s probably heard lots of wild stories by now about what happened. I’ll go by and put her mind at ease, see if she can handle things for the rest of the day. Then I’ll come on home.”
“Don’t neglect the store on my account. I’ll be fine. You don’t have to come home and babysit me.”
That was just like her, still touchy about certain things, even after all these years. She didn’t want anybody thinking she couldn’t take care of herself. That fierce, stubborn independence could be annoying at times—but it was also one of the reasons Tom Brannon had fallen in love with her and still loved her with a depth and intensity that could take his breath away.
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