Invasion USA (13 page)

No one still alive dared argue. They huddled there in terror, praying that this nightmare would soon be over and that they would live through it.

For dozens of people, though, an afternoon of shopping had proven to be deadly. Bonnie saw bodies sprawled everywhere she looked, motionless and covered with blood.

“You tell everybody what happened here!” the gang spokesman continued. “You spread the word, you damn gringos! You piss off M-15—you
die!”

With that, he fired again, aiming at the heads of the small crowd of survivors. Most of them screamed and dived for the floor, but a few were too slow and went down with bullets in their heads.

Bonnie stayed where she was, clinging tightly to the little girl. There was nothing she could do now, nothing except keep this one young life safe if possible. Shudders went through her as she fought off the creeping hysteria.

The leader jumped down from the check-out stand and sauntered arrogantly toward the blood-swamped entrance. The killer with the money was already gone. The other two flanked their leader, backing away with their guns covering the living and the dead, just in case anybody decided to stop them.

Bonnie waited about a minute after the men disappeared through the entrance. Then she slid the rest of the way out from under Sarah and got awkwardly to her feet, still holding the little girl. She tried to keep the child turned away from the awful sight of her dead father.

“Lady!” somebody called to her. “Lady, get down! They might come back!”

“I don't think so,” Bonnie said as she walked unsteadily toward the buggy she had been pushing before all hell broke loose. She wanted the cell phone in her purse. Somebody had to call for help . . .

The sudden wail of sirens outside told her that calling was unnecessary. Someone had reported the atrocity already. The frantic calls must have flooded in to the sheriff's department.

The survivors began to climb tentatively to their feet as Sheriff Buddy Gorman charged into the store, gun drawn, followed by Lauren Henderson, Wayne Rushing, and a reserve deputy Bonnie didn't recognize. Buddy's feet slipped a little in the blood on the floor as he came to a stop and looked around at the horrible scene.

“Good Lord,” Bonnie heard him say, and it sounded like a prayer. He turned his head and said to Lauren, “Get every ambulance and paramedic you can down here, right away. And call Tucson and tell 'em we need help! Some of these people will probably have to be choppered to hospitals there.”

Lauren nodded as she holstered her gun. She looked pale and sick, as if she might throw up at any second.

Bonnie could relate.

Buddy spotted her and hurried toward her. “Bonnie!” he said. “My God, Bonnie, is that you?”

She could understand how he might not be sure about her identity, splattered with gore as she was. She nodded and said, “It's me, Buddy. I'm all right. I'm not hit.”

“The men who did this—”

“They're gone.” Bonnie took a deep breath and steeled herself to be calm and helpful. “There were four of them. Hispanic, in their twenties, height ranging from five-six to five-ten, wearing jeans and sweatshirts. They were after the cash. A couple of guards from the armored truck parked outside were picking it up.”

Buddy reached out and squeezed her arm. “You're doin' fine, Bonnie. Did you see their vehicle?”

She shook her head. “I was already in the store when they came in. I don't have any idea what they were driving.”

“We ought to be able to find somebody else who can tell us that.”

“It won't do any good,” Bonnie said grimly.

“They're probably halfway to the border by now. You won't catch them.”

“We'll sure as hell try.” Buddy turned away to snap orders at his other deputies. They spread out to check on the survivors, performing crude first aid until the paramedics and ambulances arrived. When Buddy turned back to Bonnie, he said, “All this for a lousy robbery?”

“They took the money,” she said, “but that wasn't their real objective.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“One of the men said this was what Little Tucson gets for crossing
Mara Salvatrucha
. They didn't make any secret of who they were, Buddy. They wanted us to know. That's why they left some of us alive.”

“Good Lord,” Buddy said again. “You make it sound like he was saying . . .”

Bonnie nodded. “Yes. He was saying that
Mara Salvatrucha
has declared war on America. But Little Tucson is where they're gonna start.”

13

Tom was in the office at Brannon Auto Parts, going over the sales for the past couple of days, when he heard the sirens screaming past outside on Main Street. He got up from the desk and went into the store's main room, where Louly stood at the front window looking out.

“What's going on?” he asked her.

She glanced back at him and shook her head. “I don't know. A couple of sheriff's cars went by with their sirens on and their lights flashing, and it looks like the ambulances and fire trucks are headed the same way.”

“Which way?”

“West.”

Tom rubbed his jaw. “Must've been a bad wreck out on the highway.”

He turned back toward the office, but before he got there the bell over the front door jangled as someone hurried in. “Tom, Louly,” Ben Hanratty from the drugstore said excitedly, “have you heard what happened?”

“No, what?” Louly said.

Ben was wide-eyed. “I heard it on my police scanner. Some of those M-15s just went into the SavMart with machine guns and shot it up! Killed a bunch of people!”

Tom stiffened as every drop of blood in his veins seemed to turn to ice.

Bonnie had gone to SavMart to do some shopping this afternoon
.

Without a word, he turned and ran out the back of the store. Louly called after him, but he ignored her. He flung himself into the pickup and cursed as he fumbled getting the key in the ignition. Finally it went in. He twisted it, and even though the F-150 started up right away, everything seemed to be taking twice as long as it should. Tom jerked the truck into gear and fed it gas. The tires slung gravel as he fishtailed down the alley and then careened out into the side street. Barely slowing to look for oncoming traffic, he swung onto Main and floored the accelerator.

He could see flashing lights far ahead of him and knew the emergency vehicles were headed for the same destination. He drove like a madman, weaving in and out of traffic and running red lights. The still-rational part of his brain tried to tell him that he couldn't do Bonnie any good if he got himself killed in a wreck before he even reached SavMart, but the terror gibbering in the front of his brain drowned out those more reasonable thoughts.

Luck was with him, though, and he hadn't plowed into anybody by the time he got to the parking lot entrance. He skidded the pickup off the road. The fire lane in front of the store was jammed with sheriff's-department cars, ambulances, and fire trucks. Tom brought the F-150 to a halt far out in the parking lot, not paying any attention to the fact that it was slanted across a couple of spaces. He ran toward the store entrance, his heart slugging heavily in his chest.

A large group of civilians stood near the entrance, shouting questions and being kept back by several firefighters and one of Buddy Gorman's reserve deputies. Some of these people were just curious bystanders, but many were relatives of folks who had been inside the store when the shooting started. They wanted to know what had happened to their loved ones. Fear lay heavy in the air like a bad taste on the tongue.

Tom managed to push through the crowd, ignoring the angry reactions he got, but when he reached the front of the mob and started toward the store entrance, one of the firefighters put a hand on his chest and pushed him back. “That's a crime scene, mister!” the guy yelled over the commotion. “You can't go in there!”

“My wife—” Tom began.

“I'm sorry, but the sheriff said to keep everybody out.”

Tom's hands clenched into fists. He was about to shove the firefighter out of the way, but before he could do that, movement at the store entrance caught his eye. He looked past the firefighter and saw his wife emerging from SavMart, covered with drying blood. Buddy Gorman walked next to her, and Bonnie had a small child cradled in her arms.

Tom didn't have time to wonder who the little girl was. He just bellowed, “Bonnie!” and lunged past the firefighter before the man could stop him. The guy turned and started to lumber after him, but Buddy held up a hand and called, “No, it's okay!”

Tom rushed up to Bonnie and grabbed her, pulling her desperately into his arms. That jostled the little girl, and she began to cry. Bonnie got an arm around her husband's neck and hugged him hard, then said, “Take it easy, Tom. You're scaring her.”

Tom stepped back a little so that he could look Bonnie over from head to toe. She had blood on her face and in her hair. Her jeans were splattered with it, but not as heavily. “Are . . . are you all right?” he managed to say. “Were you hit?”

Bonnie shook her head. “I'm fine, just shaken up a little. This isn't my blood, Tom.” A catch came into her voice as she went on, “It's Sarah Jeffers'. She . . . she saved my life. She pushed me down when the shooting started, but she got hit. She's dead.”

Tom hugged her again, more carefully this time. Relief at finding Bonnie okay was mixed with a growing horror at how close he had come to losing her forever.

Lauren Henderson came up behind Bonnie and said, “I'll take the little girl, Mrs. Brannon.”

Bonnie turned to hand the sobbing child to the deputy. “What'll happen to her?”

“We'll take good care of her, don't worry,” Lauren said. “Child Protective Services will take custody of her until we can find her mother or some other relative.”

The little girl wailed, “I want my daddy!”

Lauren cradled the child against her shoulder and patted her on the back. “Come on, honey,” she said. “Don't worry, you'll be fine.”

As Lauren walked away, the little girl continued crying for her daddy. Tom looked grimly at Bonnie and asked quietly, “The kid's father . . . ?”

“Killed in the shooting,” Bonnie said. “I grabbed her and held her down, out of the line of fire.”

“And probably saved her life,” Buddy Gorman put in. “Tom, you'd better take Bonnie on over to the hospital and get her checked out. It'll free up an ambulance if you take her.”

“I told you, I don't need to go to the hospital,” Bonnie said. “I banged my hip a little on the buggy when I fell down, but that's all that's wrong with me. The doctors will have their hands full already without wasting time on someone who doesn't really need their help.”

Buddy said, “You married a stubborn woman, Tom.”

“Yeah.” Tom glanced toward the store. “I heard it was M-15 that did this.”

“There were four of them,” Bonnie said without giving Buddy a chance to respond. “They held up the store, but it was an act of terrorism more than a robbery. They mowed people down with machine guns and then said it was because Little Tucson had stood up to them.”

Quickly, Buddy said, “I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't go around talking like that, Bonnie. We don't want to throw folks into a panic. The sheriff's department will issue an official statement about what happened later.”

“So you can put some spin on it and make it sound not as bad as it really is?” Tom snapped. “Damn it, Buddy, this was an . . . an invasion! It's just like when Pancho Villa crossed the border over in New Mexico and raided Columbus, only those M-15 bastards don't even have the excuse of being revolutionaries. They're just killers!”

Buddy's eyes narrowed. “This is a legal matter, Tom. Like I said, the sheriff's department is in charge.”

“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
?