Invasion USA (12 page)

Tom shook his head and gave him a flat, “No.” After a second he added, “And for the record, Bonnie and I were home last night, and nothing happened.”

“That's right,” Bonnie said. “It was just a quiet evening at home.”

Buddy just grunted. He didn't believe them for a second. He had a pretty good idea of how the night had played out. Those M-15 bastards had gone to Carla Willard's house first and thrown such a scare into her that she had packed up her kids and her mama and taken off for the tall and uncut. Then they had come out here, only to find that Tom and Bonnie Brannon didn't scare as easily. He figured that Tom was responsible for beating the hell out of those goons, but he wouldn't put it beyond Bonnie for her to have had a hand in the fracas, too. She would fight like a wildcat if she had to.

So he was left with the option of getting a search warrant and serving it on his oldest friend—or letting it go for now and waiting to see what else happened. Neither of those courses of action appealed to him, but he didn't see what else he could do.

“All right,” he said at last. “If that's what you two say happened, then that's what happened.”

“Thanks, Buddy,” Tom said.

“But don't think this is over,” Buddy went on. “I'll have to keep investigating, especially if that fella in the hospital dies. I won't have an unsolved homicide in my county if I can do anything about it.”

“I thought you said there might be a manslaughter charge. You didn't say anything about homicide.”

Buddy shrugged. “If I don't know the circumstances of a death, I have to regard it as a possible homicide. That's just standard procedure.”

They didn't say anything to that, but he thought he saw worry lurking in their eyes. They knew the trouble was far from over. He put his cap back on and started toward his car.

“Buddy . . .” Tom said.

He looked back. “Yeah?”

“Thanks for checking on us.”

“I plan to have a car out here more often from now on,” Buddy said.

“Watching out for us . . . or watching us?”

Buddy just shrugged and went on to his car. There was a bitter taste in his mouth, and he didn't like it a bit. It wasn't bad enough that those M-15 bastards had killed and terrorized some of the citizens of Sierrita County. Now the situation had driven a wedge between two old friends, so that things between them might never be the same again.

The radio crackled as Buddy drove away from the Brannon house. He picked up the microphone and said, “Go ahead.”

Lauren Henderson's voice came back, which meant she had information she wanted to deliver herself, rather than entrusting it to Dusty Rhodes.

“I got a response back from NCIC, Sheriff, on those fingerprints I sent them awhile ago.”

That meant at least one of the three men had been in the U.S. criminal justice system at one time, or the National Crime Information Center wouldn't have had their fingerprints on file. “Go ahead,” Buddy told Lauren again.

“The subject with the fractured skull is Guadalupe Laurenco Almovodar, an El Salvadoran national with suspected strong ties to
Mara Salvatrucha
. He was convicted of drug smuggling charges in California three years ago and sentenced to twenty-five years in prison.”

“What was he doing in Little Tucson, then, if he's supposed to be in prison in California?”

“He escaped nine months ago. There's one report of him being spotted in Tijuana not long after that, but he hasn't been in custody since then.”

So he had busted out of jail and gone running back to his masters in M-15. Not surprising. “What about the others?”

“Nothing on them yet. It's a pretty safe bet they're the same sort as Almovodar, though.”

Buddy couldn't argue with that. He keyed the mike and said, “Stay on it, Lauren. You get that bulletin out on the Willard family?”

“Yes, but I don't know if it'll do any good. If they're on the run from M-15, they're going to be lying really low.”

“I know. Gorman out.”

He hung up the mike, took his cap off, and sleeved sweat from his forehead, sweat that had formed despite the air conditioning in the cruiser. Even though it had been the only logical conclusion, he now had proof that the three men in the hospital were connected to M-15. Those lunatics wouldn't stop just because somebody—Tom Brannon, whether Buddy could prove it or not—had beaten the shit out of their men. On the contrary, that would probably just make them more eager to have their revenge on Little Tucson and everybody in it.

The sky was clear this morning, but Buddy felt like a storm was brewing. And when it finally broke, all hell would be busting loose.

12

Two days passed in relative quiet, although several members of the media from Tucson and Phoenix showed up in town, drawn by the outbreak of violence that had seen four deaths, five men badly injured, a kidnapping and rape, and an attractive young woman and her family missing. Buddy Gorman figured it was only a matter of time until the national media picked up on the story. Once that happened, the circus would come to Little Tucson. Buddy wasn't looking forward to that.

Nobody had seen hide nor hair of Carla Willard, her children, or her mother since the day of the bank robbery. Every police and sheriff's department in the state had been notified to keep an eye out for them, along with law enforcement agencies from Texas to California. Really, though, they could be anywhere in the country by now, especially if Carla had had enough money on hand to pay cash for some airplane tickets. Buddy had a feeling he might never see the Willards again.

Fred Kelso remained in his coma, as did Guadalupe Almovodar. The two men who had been dumped at the hospital with Almovodar had regained consciousness but they weren't talking. Sullenly, they refused to identify themselves, and when Buddy had threatened to arrest them for vagrancy, they just sneered at him. He knew what would happen if he arrested them—they would make a phone call, and a short time later some high-powered lawyer would show up to get the charges thrown out. Even though Buddy was sure the men had threatened and perhaps even assaulted Carla Willard and attacked Tom and Bonnie Brannon, he couldn't prove it.

The spots on the carpet in Carla's living room were indeed blood, as Lauren thought. That didn't prove anything, either. Lauren had sent samples of the blood off to the crime lab in Phoenix for DNA testing; if it matched the blood of any of the men in the hospital, that would be a start. It would at least place them on the scene. But the results of those tests would take a week or maybe two, and in the meantime Buddy's hands were tied. All he could do was place a guard on duty at the hospital. Having a deputy there around the clock was going to put a strain on his manpower resources, as were his efforts to keep a closer eye on the Brannon place.

All through that breathing spell, Buddy continued to have the feeling that something was about to happen. He worried about it to the point that his wife Jean scolded him and told him he was going to have to relax. Buddy knew that was a lost cause. Something big was about to hit his town, none of it good.

Bonnie Brannon pulled into the parking lot at SavMart and looked for a place to park. The sprawling discount store was busy, as usual. While it was true that everybody in the county was nervous about the M-15 gang, they still had to do their shopping, and these days that meant a trip to SavMart.

Bonnie had to park quite a distance from the entrance, but at least the place was right next to a buggy corral, so she wouldn't have to go far to return her buggy once she finished unloading it into the back of the Blazer. It was late afternoon, and heat blazed up from the asphalt of the parking lot. Bonnie felt it through the soles of her canvas shoes as she walked toward the entrance. She wore a sleeveless blouse and a pair of blue jeans. The denim purse slung over her shoulder was heavy from the .38 inside it, but she found the weight of the gun reassuring. Not that she expected anything to happen in SavMart, for goodness' sake.

The past couple of days had been tense. Tom was upset because Buddy Gorman suspected him of being involved with what happened to those three men. Of course, Tom
had
been involved, and so had she. But Buddy's suspicion was like a festering sore, and it got on Tom's nerves. Bonnie knew that he wanted to tell the truth to his old friend, but that would just complicate matters.

Tom had patched the hole in the hallway and nailed some plywood over the damaged section of the garage door. Bonnie had gotten started on repainting their bedroom. Together they had driven into Tucson and picked out some new carpet at the big home improvement warehouse there. Carpet was one of the few things they couldn't buy at SavMart. The roll was in their garage now, just waiting to be put down when they finished with the painting.

Those chores had occupied Bonnie's mind for the most part, keeping her from dwelling on the danger that still loomed over them. But at unexpected times, the sheer terror she had experienced that night came back to her and made her stop what she was doing. At those moments, she had to close her eyes and clench her hands tightly into fists, so tight that the nails dug into her palms, and wait for the trembling to pass. The first time Tom had caught her at one of those moments, he had tried to take her into his arms and comfort her, only to have her pull away. He had to understand that she needed to fight this thing herself. She didn't want him holding her, not then.

In time this would pass, she told herself. But only if there was no more trouble from M-15. If the gang came after them again, which seemed likely, she didn't know what she would do.

But until that happened, they had to carry on with their life in as normal a fashion as possible. This afternoon, for example, she had come to SavMart to buy groceries, while Tom was at the auto parts store, checking to see how Louly was minding the store.

Bonnie walked past an armored truck parked in the fire lane near the entrance. The automatic doors opened, and blessedly cool air washed over Bonnie as she entered the store. Carlos Flores, a retired physics teacher wearing the standard green SavMart vest with the “S” embroidered on it, gave her a big grin and said, “Hola, Señora Brannon. How are you today?”

“Just fine, Señor Flores,” Bonnie answered with a smile of her own. The elderly man had taught both of Bonnie's kids in high school.

“Need a buggy?”

“Yes, please. Gracias.” She took the buggy he pulled out from a long row of them next to the wall and pushed it on toward the seemingly endless aisles of the store. Sarah Jeffers stood behind the little podium near the check-out stands, a walkie-talkie clipped to her belt next to a big ring of keys. She was the supervisor of the cashiers and was ready to perform any voids or overrides and provide extra change for any register that ran short. She was Bonnie's age, and the two women had been friends for years. Sarah's husband Millard was the manager of this SavMart, as well as the mayor of Little Tucson. He always liked to say that it was really Sarah who ran both the store and the town. He claimed he was just a figurehead.

Sarah stopped Bonnie as she went by the podium. “Have you heard any news about that gang?” she asked.

Bonnie frowned. “Why would I know anything about them?” The words came out a little sharper than she intended.

“Oh, heavens, I didn't mean anything,” Sarah said quickly. “I thought Buddy might have said something to Tom that's all.”

Bonnie touched her friend's arm. “I'm sorry, Sarah. I didn't mean to snap at you. I guess I'm just a little on edge these days.”

“I think we all are, so don't worry about it.”

“Anyway, Tom hasn't talked to Buddy for two or three days, as far as I know. So I haven't heard anything about M-15.” Her voice was vehement as she added, “It would be all right with me if I never heard anything about them again.”

“Amen to that,” Sarah said.

Bonnie summoned up a smile and pushed her buggy past the podium. From the corner of her eye, she saw Millard Jeffers emerge from the office behind the customer service counter. Two armed, uniformed men were with him, one of them wheeling a cart with a couple of plastic crates stacked on it. The men were from the armored truck outside, Bonnie realized, and were probably picking up the store's receipts to take them to the bank.

She was only about ten feet beyond the podium when she heard the screams from the store's entrance.

Her head whipped around. A couple of female customers were running away from the entrance doors, back into the store. They must have been on their way out when they saw the four men coming in. The men wore baggy sweatshirts despite the heat, and as they charged into the store, they drew machine guns from under the shirts. One of the weapons erupted in a burst of fire that sounded like thick cloth being ripped. Both of the fleeing women were struck in the back and flung forward by the impact of the bullets tearing through their bodies. Blood splashed in the air.

Carlos Flores tried instinctively to get in front of the men and block their way into the store. Another burst of automatic fire stitched into him and threw him back against the carts. He flipped over and landed in one of them, his blood spurting from the dozens of bullet holes in his body.

There were thirty or forty people around the check-out stands and the customer service counter, and most of them just stood there gaping at the results of the unexpected violence. The first ones to react were the two guards from the armored truck, both of whom reached for their holstered revolvers. But before they could draw the weapons, the four gunners opened up on them, spraying them with lead that made them dance a macabre, jittery jig as blood exploded from them. Millard Jeffers darted toward the office, trying to get out of the line of fire, but a slug caught him in the leg and sent him spinning off his feet. More bullets thudded into him, rolling him over and over. His body left a thick smear of crimson on the tile floor.

Even as that happened, his wife Sarah was in motion, lunging toward Bonnie and crying, “Get down!” She reached out and shoved hard against Bonnie's shoulder. Bonnie went down, unprepared for the push. Her hip hit the buggy and sent it rolling away. As she sprawled on the floor, she looked up and saw Sarah drop as three bullets slammed into her head, killing her instantly. She fell, landing on top of Bonnie, who couldn't contain a scream of horror as she saw what was left of her friend's shattered skull only inches from her face.

Bonnie twisted her head and looked toward the buggy, which had come to a stop about ten feet away. Her purse was where she had left it, in the fold-out child seat. The gun was useless if she couldn't get to it. She flinched as she put her hands against Sarah's body and started trying to shove the weight off of her.

The machine gun fire and the screaming continued, blending into a hideous melody of death. Fear welled up inside Bonnie. Even if she could get her hands on the .38, she realized, she wouldn't have any chance against four killers armed with machine guns. But if she lay there under Sarah's body, covered in Sarah's blood, the monsters who had invaded SavMart might take her for dead, too. Sickness roiled her belly, but she forced it down. Terror and rage warred inside her. If she could just kill even one of the bastards....

She had to try.

She was about to summon up her strength for another attempt at getting Sarah off of her, when a man hit the floor beside her, a little girl in his arms. The girl was about three and was shrieking and writhing around. Bonnie wasn't sure if she was hit or not, but the man with her, probably her father, surely was. He had a black, red-rimmed hole in the center of his forehead where a bullet had entered, and the back of his head was a bloody mess where the slug had blown its way out. He was dead.

But his little girl was alive, and Bonnie knew she had to do everything she could to keep her that way. As the girl wriggled out of her father's limp arms, Bonnie reached out and grabbed her, pulling her down to the floor before she could stand up and run in terror, which would just make her a target. Bonnie held on to the girl with all her strength and rolled toward her, dislodging some of Sarah's weight that had been pinning her down. She hissed, “Hush! Hush now and be still! You have to stay down here and be quiet!”

Sure enough, a moment later the gunfire began to die away. The screaming and moaning of wounded people continued, however, until a man's voice bellowed, “Shut up! Shut up and listen, or we'll kill the rest of you!”

Some of the sounds subsided. Bonnie heard hurrying footsteps. She raised her head enough to see that a couple of the gunners were herding survivors into the front part of the store. Were they getting everybody together just so they could mow them down easier?

The little girl in her arms whimpered, and Bonnie said, “Be quiet now.” The girl sniffled and, thank God, lay still.

The man who had yelled the orders before, climbed up onto one of the check-out stands so that everyone could see him. He swung the barrel of his machine gun menacingly back and forth. “Listen to me,” he shouted, “and listen good! This is what you get for crossing
Mara Salvatrucha
! You get in our way, we kill you! You got what we want, we kill you and take it!” He took one hand off his gun and gestured to one of his companions, who started rolling out the cart that contained the store's receipts. “You kill one of us, we kill a hundred of you! You can't stop us! You can't even slow us down! The border is ours!”