Invasion USA (16 page)

“Come on, Agent Berry,” Ford said as she tugged on Berry's arm. “Let's get out of here.”

Muttering under his breath, Berry allowed her to steer him out of the gym. Tom, Bonnie, Buddy, and Pete watched the two federal agents walk out.

Buddy sighed. “Man, I really don't like bein' on the same side as those two.”

“Then don't be,” Tom said. “They're wrong, and you know it.”

“The law doesn't choose sides.”

“That's
exactly
what it does,” Tom said. “The good guys are on one side, and the bad guys are on the other.”

“I wish the world were still that simple,” Buddy said.

16

They went by SavMart to pick up Bonnie's Blazer on their way home. She drove the SUV while Tom followed in the pickup. When they reached the road they lived on, Tom saw that his prediction had been accurate—there were even more cars and news-trucks parked along the road now. Well-dressed men and women stood around waiting, obviously reporters. Much less dapper cameramen lounged nearby. All of them came to attention as Tom and Bonnie drove up.

It took some careful maneuvering not to run over any of the media. Tom wondered how celebrities put up with it all the time. No wonder some of them hauled off and punched the paparazzi. He figured he wouldn't be able to tolerate it for more than a day or two.

But he might have to get used to it, he reminded himself. If the Patriot Project got off the ground, it would attract a lot of media attention.

As the garage doors went up in response to the signal from the control unit in Bonnie's Blazer, she drove in quickly, followed by Tom who took the second space in the two-car garage. Tom stepped out of the pickup and heard shouted questions coming from the horde of reporters running toward the house. Quickly, he jabbed the button on the wall that lowered the garage doors. They began to come down, but he was worried that they wouldn't close in time. Then he began to worry that some of the reporters would try to stick their arms under the descending doors so they could wave microphones at him and demand answers to their inane questions. That would be all he needed, for a couple of those parasites to get their arms stuck and broken under the doors. The lawsuits would never cease.

Luckily, the doors thumped down on the concrete floor of the garage before any of the reporters could get there. Tom saw them through the windows in the doors, clustering in the driveway, and he could hear their persistent shouts. He ignored them as best he could and followed Bonnie into the house, making sure the door was locked securely behind them.

One thing you could say for all this media attention, he thought—M-15 wouldn't try any more revenge raids on his house while the reporters were around. Nobody could sneak up on the place with that pack of hungry jackals right outside.

Bonnie fixed a snack for them and they tried to watch some TV, but it was hard to concentrate. Besides, neither of them wanted to relive the afternoon's events through the newscasts that were on almost every channel. After a while, as they sat together on the sofa, Tom said to his wife, “You seem unusually quiet tonight.”

“I'm tired. It's been a horrible day.”

He nodded. “Just about the worst one I can remember.”

Without warning, she burst out, “And tonight you went and made it worse!”

He drew back a little, his eyes widening in surprise. “What are you talking about?” he asked. “What did I do?”

“The Patriot Project, remember?”

“I thought you were all right with me taking the mayor's job!”

“I didn't know you planned to paint a big target right on your back!”

Tom stared at her. “You think that's what's going to happen? You think M-15 will come after me again?”

“They already have a grudge against you,” she pointed out. “One of their own is in the hospital under guard, and when he gets out he'll be going to jail because of you. But that's nothing compared to what it'll be like when they hear about what you've started tonight.” She trembled so hard she had to clasp her hands together to keep them from shaking. “I was there, Tom. I was there in SavMart and saw what they did and heard what that awful man said. The Patriot Project will be a slap in their faces, and they won't stand for it. They'll have to stop you.”

A frown creased his forehead as he said, “This isn't like you, Bonnie. You're a fighter. Always have been. You brained that bastard with the bat when they broke in here and never hesitated to take him out. Hell, you spoke up at the meeting tonight when that Agent Ford was trying to give everybody the runaround. I've never been prouder of you.”

“That woman got on my nerves,” Bonnie acknowledged. “And I'll fight if I'm backed into a corner, Tom, you know I will. But this is different. You're just asking for trouble.”

“What would you rather we do?” he asked stiffly.

“We could pack up and leave. We could go stay with Brian or Lisa. We could even move for good.”

Her answer shocked Tom. He stared at her for a moment before he was able to say, “I couldn't do that. This is my home. I've lived here all my life. My folks, and their folks, are from these parts. Our kids grew up here, I've got a business here. Those roots go too deep to pull up.”

“It's just land,” Bonnie said, her voice dull and touched with hopelessness now. She knew she was fighting a losing battle. “We could live anywhere else and be just fine, as long as we're together.”

“I don't think so. I think I'd leave too big a part of myself here.” Tom couldn't stay sitting down. He got to his feet and began to pace back and forth between the sofa and the TV. “And it's not just land. It's our home. Some people want to come in here and either force us out of our home or kill us. I'm surprised you want to cooperate with them.”

Bonnie shot up from the sofa and moved in front of him, making him stop abruptly. “You think I'm a coward?” she blazed at him. “You think I want to give up?”

“I know you're not a coward,” he said. “But it sure sounds like you're thinking about giving up.”

“I just . . . I just don't want to see you hurt.” Her voice broke. “I don't want to see anybody else hurt. I saw too many people die . . .”

Her hands came up and covered her face as sobs began to wrack her. Of course she was upset, Tom told himself, thinking that he deserved a swift kick in the butt for arguing with her at a time like this. After all, it had only been a matter of hours since she had been trapped in the middle of a terrifying bloodbath and had barely escaped with her life. She'd been forced to witness the atrocity at close range, and he was sure that some of those awful images would plague her for the rest of her life.

He stepped closer to her and put his arms around her, relieved that she didn't draw away. He held her tightly and murmured softly to her as he patted her on the back with one hand. She sobbed against his shoulder. He couldn't change anything, couldn't make it better, but at least he could hold her.

Finally, after drawing in several deep, shuddery breaths, she calmed down enough to straighten and look into his eyes. “You're going through with it, aren't you?”

“I don't have any choice,” he told her softly.

She wiped at her eyes with the back of a hand. “Well, then, I'm part of it, too.”

“Now, wait a minute . . .” Tom began.

“Are you saying I'm not a patriot?”

“No, not at all—”

“Then I'm going on patrol with you.” She smiled weakly. “Hell, I'm a better shot than you.”

He didn't like the idea, but he decided it would be better to wait until later to argue with her. Let the trauma of today's events fade a little first.

“We'll see,” he said.

“No, we won't,” she insisted. “I'm not a kid, Tom. I know perfectly well what that means. And I'm telling you, I'm part of this.”

“All right,” he said, frustrated because she knew him too well for him to put anything past her. “I guess I can use somebody to watch my back, anyway.”

“And you'll watch mine.”

“Of course.”

“We'll be a team.” She laughed. “M-15 won't stand a chance against us.”

Tom smiled back at her and wished that was true.

 

 

The word got around fast. When Tom and Bonnie drove up to the City Hall in Little Tucson the next day, there must have been two hundred people milling around in front of the building—and that didn't include the dozens of media members carrying on with their feeding frenzy.

That frenzy got worse when the reporters spotted the F-150 and recognized it. Instead of parking in front of the building as the crowd surged toward the pickup, Tom gave the vehicle some gas and wheeled quickly around to the back. He and Bonnie barely made it through City Hall's rear door before the shouting reporters got there.

The city council was waiting for them inside the meeting room. Buddy Gorman and Pete Benitez were there, too, along with a man Tom didn't know. Obviously, though, the man recognized Tom. He stood up and extended his hand, saying, “Mr. Brannon?”

Tom hesitated but took the man's hand, casting a curious glance at Buddy as he did so. Buddy's face was impassive, not giving away any information. Tom shook hands with the man and said, “I'm Tom Brannon. This is my wife Bonnie.”

“Ralph Vandiver,” the stranger introduced himself. “I work for the U.S. Border Patrol.”

Tom's eyes narrowed. “I reckon you're taking the place of the agent who quit yesterday.”

“That's right.” Vandiver didn't look uncomfortable as he admitted that fact. “Jerry Prescott's a good man, but he got carried away.”

“Sounded to me more like he got fed up.”

“I don't know of a single Border Patrolman who's not frustrated by the situation,” Vandiver said bluntly. “Everything Jerry said was true. We don't have enough money, enough manpower, enough equipment . . . you name it, and we don't have enough of it. Except for miles and miles of border and thousands and thousands of people who want to get across it. Those things, we have plenty of.”

Tom found himself instinctively liking the lanky, brown-haired Border Patrolman. He wasn't going to let his guard down just yet, though. “Why have you been sent here to Little Tucson?” he asked. “What is it you're supposed to do?”

“Are you asking as the mayor of Little Tucson?”

Tom shrugged. “If you want it that way, sure.”

“All right, then. Officially, my orders are to monitor the situation and make sure that all federal laws and regulations concerning immigration are followed to the letter.”

“And unofficially . . . ?”

Vandiver grinned. “Unofficially, I'm here to catch you doing something wrong and nail your ass to the wall, Mayor.”

Tom grunted in surprise and said, “At least you're honest about it. Why don't you have a seat, and we'll get this meeting underway.”

Walt Deavers asked, “Are you sure you want this gov'ment man here, Tom?” He waved a big, gnarled hand at Vandiver.

“I don't mind,” Tom said as he pulled out a chair for Bonnie and then sat down himself. “Mr. Vandiver can see for himself that the Patriot Project is going to be perfectly legal.” He took a notebook out of his pocket. He had jotted down a few thoughts before coming to the meeting. “First of all, we have to set up some criteria for volunteers. I think they should be at least eighteen years old. We can't have any minors running around out there.”

There were nods of agreement from the others.

“They'll have to furnish their own weapons and be legally licensed and qualified to carry them,” Tom went on. “I don't want any troublemakers, either. Nobody who's been in trouble with the law for anything worse than a parking ticket.”

Deavers grinned. “Goin' back to the age limit thing . . . I'm seventy-five. Is that too old?”

Tom smiled back at him. “I wouldn't turn away anybody who's still as spry as you, Walt. We'll judge that on a case-by-case basis.”

“What about women?” Vandiver said.

Tom looked at him in surprise. “What about them?”

“Will you accept female volunteers? Because this Patriot Project of yours is a public organization, correct? If you don't accept women, you'll be guilty of sexual discrimination.”

“I plan to be part of the patrol, Mr. Vandiver,” Bonnie spoke up. “I don't think anybody will be turned away simply because she's a woman.”

“That's right,” Tom agreed. “And before you bring up the question of racial discrimination, you'd better look around the room. There are several Americans of Hispanic descent here.”

“And I'm one of 'em,” Pete put in. “Don't let this red hair fool you.”

Warren Miller said, “I'm part Apache, and I've already had several members of the tribe ask me about joining up. So I reckon we've got the Indian angle covered, too.”

“I don't see any blacks here,” Vandiver pointed out.

“Check your census records,” Pete said. “There aren't any blacks living in Sierrita County at the moment. That's not because they're not welcome, though. Several black families have lived here in Little Tucson in the past, and there's never been any racial trouble. Black, Hispanic, Native American, we don't care. We all get along.”

“You can call us Indians,” Warren said. “We don't particularly care about that political-correctness crap.”

Vandiver leaned forward, rested his hands on the table, and said, “You're telling me you don't have any rednecks in this county?”

“Now who's prejudging people?” Tom asked quietly.

Vandiver grimaced and sat back in his chair, but he didn't say anything.

“Sure, we've got some bigots in the county,” Tom went on. “No matter how hard the government tries, you can't legislate away somebody's dislike for somebody else. But we don't have any trouble from them because we've got a damn fine sheriff. If some skinhead or white supremacist wants to raise hell, he goes up to Tucson or Phoenix to do it, because he knows if he tries anything around here, he'll wind up in jail.”

There was a moment of silence after Tom's forceful statement, a moment that was broken by Buddy Gorman's quiet, “Thanks, Tom.”