Invasion USA (7 page)

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 carpet. 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.

“Babysitting you wasn't what I had in mind,” he told her. “I'm just a mite tired after capturing some Guatemalan gang member and rescuing a fair damsel.”

“Don't joke about it, Tom,” Bonnie said quickly. “You can't begin to know what Carla May has gone through, that poor girl.”

He ran his hand over his head and nodded. “Yeah, I reckon you're right about that. I didn't mean anything by what I said.”

Bonnie stepped closer to him and lifted a hand to rest it on his cheek. “I know you didn't.” She came up on her toes to kiss him, although she didn't have to raise herself much. She was almost as tall as he was. “I think I'll go by her house and see how she's doing. You think that would be all right?”

“I don't see why not. See you at home later?”

“Sure.”

They got in their respective vehicles and drove off, Tom hanging back so that Bonnie could pull out of the parking lot first. Then they turned in different directions, Bonnie toward the edge of town where Carla lived, Tom toward the business district.

As he drove, he felt worry gnawing lightly at his guts. He could have gone with Bonnie and called Louly at the store. That way he would have known that Bonnie was safe.

On the other hand, they couldn't stay together 24/7. They would have to be apart some of the time. He couldn't dump all the responsibility for the business on Louly, and there were his parents to think about, too. He couldn't neglect them.

That brought up a fresh worry. His folks lived several miles out of town, and Buddy Gorman had said that M-15 liked to strike back at their enemies through family. Was it safe for his mom and dad to be out there by themselves? Tom wondered if they should come and stay with him and Bonnie for awhile. They would put up an argument, of course, especially his dad. Herb Brannon had lived in that ranch house all his life. Getting him to budge from it might require dynamite. Tom smiled at the thought.

The Explorer that had driven through the front of the accountant's office was gone now—along with the body of the dead gang member inside it—but there was still plenty of evidence of the destruction that had taken place. The sidewalk was blocked off with yellow crime-scene tape. Sheets of plywood had been nailed up over the gaping hole left behind by the crash. Part of Main Street had been blocked off with orange cones, leaving only one lane of traffic getting through in that direction. Tom drove past, shaking his head at the devastation.

That crime-scene tape was getting to be a familiar sight in downtown. Earlier in the week, it had marked off the spot where Burt Minnow had been murdered. Tom had seen the dark stain on the sidewalk left by the old man's blood. A city work crew had gotten most of the stain up, but if you knew where to look, you could still see it, mute testimony to the senseless slaying that had occurred there. Tom felt a pang of sorrow as he drove past the spot. Burt had been a friend and a neighbor ever since Tom had opened the auto parts store. It was still hard to believe he was gone.

Tom turned into the side street, went along it to an alley that led behind the block of businesses, and parked back there in an open, graveled area where employees parked so as to leave the spaces along Main Street open for customers. He unlocked the rear door and went inside, past the restroom and the tiny lounge, through the big area behind the counter that was filled with shelves and bins where parts from light bulbs and fuses to brake drums and air cleaners were kept. Radiator hoses of all shapes and sizes hung from hooks on the walls and had to be gotten down with a long pole made for that purpose. Heavy steel racks along one side of the building were filled with tires. The parts counter bisected the main room. Up front were more shelves containing car wax, radios and speakers, motor oil, brake fluid, air fresheners, even fuzzy dice to hang from the rearview mirror. In this part of the country, where people didn't think twice about driving ninety or a hundred miles to go shopping or take in a movie, their vehicles were mighty important to them. Brannon Auto Parts tried to provide anything folks might need for their cars and trucks, at a reasonable price. Not as cheap as SavMart, of course, but most of Tom's customers were regulars who had been shopping with him for years and didn't have any interest in going elsewhere just to save a few cents.

When he came in, Louly Parker was behind the counter ringing up some windshield wiper blades for a customer. Her long red hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her jeans were tight enough to hug the curves of her bottom. Tom was an extremely happily married man, but that didn't mean he couldn't recognize an excellent female behind when he saw one. When he had first hired Louly, some of his predominantly male, middle-aged customers had been a little unsure about buying auto parts from such a young, pretty gal. They had realized fairly quickly, though, that Louly knew engines inside and out. The only girl in a family of four brothers who had endlessly rebuilt hot rods, she had learned everything there was to know about cars at an early age—including how not to let boys get too fresh in the back seat.