Invasion USA

by William W. Johnstone

  “Then maybe you’d better ask for some help. Get the army down here or something.”

  “Why don’t you just take Bonnie home, if she’s bound and determined not to go to the hospital?”

  “I am,” Bonnie said.

  “Fine,” Tom grated out. “But this is too big for you, Buddy. You know it and I know it.”

  Buddy didn’t say anything, and after a moment Tom slipped his arm around Bonnie’s shoulders and led her away. Buddy called after them, “Somebody will be out to take an official statement from you, Bonnie.”

  Tom ignored his old friend and didn’t look around. He was torn by anger and frustration, but mostly he was overwhelmed with relief that Bonnie was all right.

  They were almost at Tom’s pickup when Bonnie said, “My Blazer—”

  “We’ll come back for it after things calm down. Right now let’s get you home and into the shower, so you can wash off all that blood.”

  Bonnie nodded. Her shoulders slumped with weariness, and there was an odd look in her eyes, as if she had gone numb inside. She was strong, though; she would get over it, Tom told himself.

  But only if the horrors stopped—and if Mara Salvatrucha had anything to say about it, that might not happen any time soon . . .

  Cipriano and Leobardo ushered the four men into the presence of Ernesto Luis Montoya. This meeting, like all of Montoya’s meetings, took place in the surprisingly opulent room on the second floor of the otherwise seedy cantina in Nogales. Two of the men carried plastic crates. In response to a silent gesture from Cipriano, they placed the boxes on the floor near Señor Montoya’s desk.

  The leader of the gunners, whose name was Danilberto Santos, stood in front of the desk and said to the man who sat back in the shadows, “Everything went well, Señor Montoya. There is the money.”

  Montoya nodded, the motion barely visible in the gloom. “And the message I wanted delivered . . . ?”

  “It was delivered, señor . . . in blood.”

  “How many did you kill?” Montoya voiced the question in a hoarse whisper.

  “Hard to say for certain. More than a dozen, though, surely. Perhaps as many as two dozen.”

  One of the other gunners put in proudly, “The floors ran red with gringo blood, señor.”

  In point of fact, quite a few of those who had been killed in the Little Tucson SavMart had been Hispanics—Mexican-Americans, as they were once called. But it was the “American” part of that former designation that was important. To Montoya, anybody who lived north of the border was a gringo, and therefore to be scorned in his eyes.

  “You made sure they knew who was responsible?” he asked coldly.

  “Of course, señor,” Santos said. “Those were your orders, and we carried them out precisely.”

  Because, who would willingly disobey the Eater of Babies? One who did might as well go ahead and cut his own throat.

  Montoya grunted. “Bueno. You and your men have done well, Danilberto. Tonight, any of the women here are yours for the taking, as well as all the food and drink you want.”

  Santos licked his lips. “Gracias, Señor Montoya.”

  Lazily, Montoya inclined his head toward the door. Cipriano and Leobardo moved in without saying anything, and herded the four assassins out of the room.

  When they were gone and the two segundos had left the room as well, Montoya came out from behind the desk, crossed to the bar, and poured himself a drink. He picked up a remote control and switched on the giant-screen television. As he settled down on the lushly upholstered sofa in front of the TV, the anchorman on CNN intoned solemnly, “—reports of a shooting rampage today in Little Tucson, Arizona, where an unknown number of people lost their lives as gunmen entered a SavMart store there and opened fire with automatic weapons. Details are still sketchy, but from what we’ve been able to gather, this incident began as an armed robbery before it turned deadly. We have crews en route to the scene and will bring you a more complete report later. Repeating this story, a shooting rampage—”

  Montoya pressed a button on the remote, changing the channel to Fox News.

  “—massacre in Arizona,” the gray-haired anchorman was saying. “At this time, we have few details, but in the town of Little Tucson this afternoon four armed gunmen opened fire in a SavMart store. The White House issued a statement expressing sympathy and concern for the citizens of Little Tucson and promised whatever federal aid is necessary, but a spokesman for the President declined to comment on charges from several opposition party senators that her lax immigration policies are partially to blame for this outrage.”

  Montoya chuckled and pressed the remote button again, switching the TV to yet another news broadcast.

  “Perhaps as many as twenty-five people are reported dead in Little Tucson, Arizona, where bandits armed with automatic weapons robbed a SavMart store and opened fire on customers and employees. From what we’ve been able to learn, there are many injuries, and the death toll could rise even higher. We have reporters and camera crews on their way to Little Tucson—”

  Montoya changed channels again, going from one broadcast to another. Most of them were talking about what had happened in Little Tucson, but the words he wanted to hear didn’t come from the speakers. He scowled at the TV. Why didn’t they say anything about Mara Salvatrucha? He glanced at the two crates full of money that sat beside his desk. He didn’t care about the money. He had more money than he could spend for the rest of his life. What he wanted was to hear the Americans speak of M-15 with fear in their voices. He wanted to see them tremble and sweat when the name was mentioned. Power was everything, and without publicity there could be no real power. He suppressed the urge to throw his empty glass at the screen. Why were the American news people not saying who was really responsible for the outrage in Little Tucson? Why didn’t they speak the name of Mara Salvatrucha?

  But they would. Soon.

  14

  Tom was watching television in the bedroom when Bonnie came out of the bathroom wrapped in her robe, a towel in her hands which she vigorously used to dry her hair. “It’s all over the news,” Tom told her. “They’re already calling it the SavMart Massacre.”

  Bonnie stopped drying her hair and perched on the edge of the bed beside him. Together, they watched the newscast from one of the Tucson stations. Being fairly close, the station had gotten a reporter and a camera crew on the scene already. The national networks were relying on their affiliates in Arizona for immediate coverage, but this was a big enough story so that reporters from New York and California would be coming in soon.

  The female reporter doing the stand-up was at the edge of the SavMart parking lot, with the sprawling building visible behind her. From the looks of things, the entire parking lot was blocked off. Several large, boxy vehicles were parked near the store entrance. The reporter identified them as belonging to the forensics department of the state police.

  “We’ve confirmed that agents of the FBI and the Border Patrol are also on the scene,” the reporter said. “A few minutes ago, we spoke with Sheriff Buddy Gorman.”

  The scene switched from live to videotape, but the background and the angle were almost identical. Buddy Gorman, looking tired and harassed and impatient, said to the microphone stuck in his face, “Yes, federal authorities have arrived, but they’re here to assist us, that’s all. The Sierrita County Sheriff’s Department is in charge of the investigation.”

  From off-camera, the reporter’s voice asked, “Is there any truth to the rumor, Sheriff, that the army or the National Guard will be called in? Will Little Tucson be placed under martial law?”

  “Absolutely not. What happened here today was robbery and murder, not an invasion, and we’re not going to treat it as such.”

  “But, Sheriff, some people are saying that the criminal gang known as M-15 has declared war on Little Tucson.”

  Buddy shook his head. “I don’t have any comment on that except to say that the investigation into this tragic incident
will continue until the people responsible for it have been identified and brought to justice.”

  He turned away, ignoring shouted questions from several reporters, and the coverage cut back to a live shot. The female reporter, looking remarkably cool considering the fact that it was late afternoon and the temperature had to be hovering around 110 degrees, said, “Those were Sheriff Gorman’s comments just a few minutes ago. The sheriff declined to tell us how many people have been killed, saying that an official statement on the death toll would be issued later, but a source at the Sierrita County Hospital tells us that so far there are twenty-two fatalities and at least thirty other people were injured, many of them seriously. No names of the dead and wounded have been released. Reporting live from Little Tucson, this is—”

  Tom pushed a button on the remote and turned the TV off. “Twenty-two people dead,” he said in a hollow voice. “If you count the ones M-15 killed before, we’re talking about more than two dozen murders. In less than a week!”

  Bonnie put a hand on his shoulder and rubbed the stiff muscles in the back of his neck.

  “I don’t care what Buddy says,” Tom went on. “This is a war, an invasion. It started small . . . more drug running, more smuggling of illegal immigrants. . . and people just said how awful it was and talked about how somebody ought to do something about it. Then more robberies, and a killing here and there, and then a bank robbery in broad daylight. . . and now this! What the hell is next? M-15 comes in and tries to take over the whole town?”

  “That won’t ever happen,” Bonnie said.

  Tom snorted. “Buddy can’t stop it with just him and a handful of deputies.”

  “The FBI and the Border Patrol are here, the lady on TV said—”

  “This may be more than the FBI and the Border Patrol can handle, too. Who knows how many of those M-15 bastards there are? Hundreds, anyway, maybe thousands.”

  “Take it easy, Tom. It’s not your responsibility.”

  He turned toward her. “Damn it, I almost lost you today! You could have been killed!”

  She met his angry gaze squarely and said, “Now you know how I felt when I heard about you tackling those men who kidnapped Carla May.”

  Tom couldn’t argue with that. He was saved from the necessity of trying to do so by the ringing of the telephone. He turned to the bedside table and picked up the cordless unit from its base.

  “Hello?”

  “Tom, this is Pete Benitez.”

  Tom frowned in surprise. Pete Benitez was the editor and publisher of the Little Tucson Eagle, a weekly newspaper devoted to local news. Tom knew him fairly well, having run ads in the Eagle on a regular basis for years.

  “What can I do for you, Pete?”

  “I heard that Bonnie was at SavMart when those bastards shot the place up this afternoon.”

  Tom’s hand tightened on the phone. “You’re calling for an interview?” His voice was edged with anger.

  “What? Lord, no! The Eagle can’t compete with the dailies and TV, and I don’t have any interest in trying to. I just wanted to make sure Bonnie was all right.”

  “Oh.” Tom felt a little sheepish now. “Sorry I snapped at you, Pete. Bonnie’s okay. Pretty shaken up, of course, but she wasn’t wounded.”

  “That’s good.” Pete hesitated for a second, then went on, “You know, you will be getting requests for interviews, once the big news outlets know Bonnie was there. You’d better get an answering machine, if you don’t already have one.”

  “We do, but thanks for the advice, Pete—”

  “There’s something else,” the newspaperman cut in. “The little girl Bonnie saved . . . Deputy Henderson told me about what happened . . . the little girl is my cousin Hector’s daughter Felicia.”

  “Well, I’m glad that Bonnie was able to—” Tom stopped short as the realization hit him. “That means . . .”

  “Yeah. Hector was killed.”

  “Oh, Lord. I’m sorry, Pete.”

  “We all are.” Tom heard the man take a deep breath, probably to get his grief under control, and then Pete went on, “That’s still not all I’ve got to tell you. The town . . . hell, the whole county . . . is pretty well up in arms about this, and there’s been a meeting called for tonight at the high school.”

  “A meeting?” Tom repeated. “What sort of meeting?”

  “People want to get together to talk about what happened.”

  That might help some folks to feel better, but other than that it didn’t sound too productive to Tom. He said, “I don’t know—”

  “They plan to talk as well about what we can do to keep anything like this from happening again.”

  That was more intriguing. “What are you getting at, Pete?”

  “Most people like Buddy Gorman just fine,” Pete said bluntly, “but not everybody believes that he’s equipped to deal with a threat like this. Hell, we know he’s not.”

  Tom nodded, even though he knew the man on the other end of the phone line couldn’t see him. “I’ve been thinking the same thing. Who organized this meeting?”

  “I’m not sure. The word just started going around. I think you ought to be there, Tom. You’re the only one who’s taken on M-15 and won.”

  “There were only two of them—” he began.

  “Plus the three who broke into your house, all of whom you put in the hospital.”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Tom said flatly.

  “Hell, I don’t care whether you admit it or not. I told you I’m not fishing for a story. I just think you need to be at the meeting.”

  Tom thought it over, but only for a few seconds. “All right. I’ll be there.” Bonnie looked at him curiously, obviously wondering what he was talking about. He held up a finger to indicate that he would explain.

  “Good,” Pete said, sounding relieved. “Seven-thirty at the high school gym.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  Tom hung up, and Bonnie asked, “What meeting? What’s this all about, Tom? Was that Pete Benitez?”

  “Yeah,” Tom said, answering the last question first. “That little girl you helped this afternoon was his cousin Hector’s daughter.”

  Bonnie put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear Lord. That poor man who was shot was Pete’s cousin?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I feel so sorry for the families . . . for all the families.” She shook her head, then went on, “What about the meeting?”

  “People are getting together at the high school gym this evening.”

  “To talk about what happened?”

  “To talk about how to keep it from happening again.”

  A frown creased Bonnie’s forehead. “That sounds a little like you’re talking about vigilantes.”

  “More likely people just want to put some pressure on Buddy Gorman to bring in help from the federal government.”

  “Are you going?”

  “Pete said I ought to be there.”

  Bonnie nodded. “Then I’m going with you.”

  Tom wasn’t going to argue with her. In fact, he was glad he hadn’t been forced to try to persuade her to come along.

  He wasn’t sure if he was ever going to go anywhere without her—or even let her out of his sight—again.

  Pete Benitez had certainly been right about one thing—the phone rang at least a dozen times in the next hour, as reporters began to get hold of the names of some of the people who had lived through the already notorious SavMart Massacre. Tom answered the first few times and told the persistent questioners on the other end that his wife wasn’t giving any interviews just yet. After that, he ignored the ringing and let the machine pick up.

  When it came time to leave for the meeting at the high school, Bonnie was dressed in a simple, tasteful dress, and Tom wore jeans and a sports shirt. As they got into the F-150 and left the house, they spotted several TV station vans parked on the road that circled through the residential area.

  “They’ll probably be camped on our d
oorstep by the time we get back,” Tom said glumly.

  “You can sic Max on them,” Bonnie said.

  “Damn high-tech vultures,” Tom muttered as he drove past the vans with their satellite uplink equipment.

  At this time of year, the sun was still fairly high in the sky at seven-thirty, and the heat was brutal. That didn’t seem to have affected the turnout for the meeting. The high school parking lot was nearly full, and Tom saw quite a few people filing into the gym.

  The bleachers were almost full, too, but Tom and Bonnie didn’t have to hunt for a place to sit. Pete Benitez hurried up to them, a short, energetic man with red hair courtesy of his Irish mother. He pumped Tom’s hand and said, “Glad you made it. Come on out onto the floor, both of you.”

  Tom frowned as he saw that several long tables had been set up on the gym floor, with folding chairs behind them. He was a little surprised to see Buddy Gorman sitting at one of the tables. Several members of the city council and some of the county commissioners were out there on the floor, too, along with some men and women in city clothes who he didn’t recognize.

  “What’s going on here, Pete?” he asked, suddenly suspicious.

  “You’ll see.” Pete tugged on his arm. “Come on.”

  Tom thought about jerking free from the newspaperman’s grip and walking out, taking Bonnie with him, but his curiosity got the best of him. Something was up, and Tom wanted to know what it was, even though he had an instinctive feeling that he wouldn’t like it.

  He allowed Pete to steer him and Bonnie behind one of the tables, where they sat down next to one of the men Tom didn’t know. The man wore a dark, sober suit, had thinning brown hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. Tom couldn’t decide if he looked more like an insurance salesman or an undertaker. On the other side of the stranger sat a woman who was also dressed very conservatively. She wore a pair of gold-framed glasses, and her blond hair was pulled back severely.

  Pete Benitez went to a lectern that had been set up between a couple of the tables. The school’s public address system, which was used at pep rallies and consisted of an amplifier and a couple of speakers, sat on the floor in front of the lectern. Pete picked up the microphone, which was attached to the amplifier by an electrical cord, switched it on, and tapped it, causing a couple of loud pops. He lifted the mike to his mouth and asked, “Can you folks hear me all right?”