Invasion USA (22 page)

Tom turned to walk along the sidewalk, but he had gone only a couple of steps when a big black car pulled up to the curb next to him. The front and rear passenger doors swung open as Tom stiffened, wondering if this was going to be another attack by M-15.

Two men got out of the car, but they weren't Hispanic gangsters. One was white, one black, and both wore sober dark suits and sunglasses. The thought that immediately flashed into Tom's mind was
Secret Service
. They looked just like the sort of agents he had seen on TV protecting the President.

“Mr. Brannon?” the black man said. “Would you come with us, please?”

“Why?” Tom asked bluntly.

“Someone wants to talk to you.”

“Well, what if I don't want to talk to
her
? She hasn't done anything to help matters down here. Hell, it's the sort of thinking that she and all her left-wing friends have done over the past thirty or forty years that's caused a lot of this problem!”

Both of the men frowned, and the white one said, “Sir, we don't know what you're talking about.”

“You're not Secret Service?”

“No, sir,” the black man said.

“Then who do you work for?”

“He'd prefer to introduce himself to you. But he said that if you were reluctant to accompany us, we should tell you . . . he can help with M-15.”

That was surprising, and just intriguing enough to make Tom curious. He wasn't sure things could get much worse than they were, and besides, these guys—and the two dressed just like them he could see through the open doors of the car—sure didn't look like
Mara Salvatrucha
.

“Why the hell not?” Tom muttered. He stepped down off the sidewalk to get into the car.

It was cool inside, despite the fact that two of the doors had been standing open for several minutes. The car was as sleek and fancy as any Tom had ever ridden in. He sat in the backseat, between two of the men. He had no idea where they were taking him, but surprisingly, they didn't go very far, just a few blocks, before the driver pulled the car into the parking lot of the local Dairy Queen. He stopped next to an old red pickup that must have dated from around 1960.

“Inside,” the black man said, nodding toward the Dairy Queen. “He's waiting for you.”

He went inside the Dairy Queen, which wasn't busy this time of morning. The breakfast rush was over, and it wasn't time for lunch yet. Only a few people were in the place, and one of them was a silver-haired old man who sat in a booth at the back. He saw Tom come in and raised a hand to catch his eye. Tom walked toward him.

The old-timer was a stranger. Tom knew he'd never seen him before. The man wore a cowboy shirt with pearl snaps instead of buttons on it, and at the sight of it a pang of grief and loss went through Tom. That was the same sort of shirt his dad had always worn.

“Tom Brannon, ain't it?” the man greeted him. “Sit down. Get you somethin' to drink or some ice cream, maybe?” The man twirled a long red plastic spoon in a cup full of some thick ice cream concoction in front of him. “Goddamn, I love these Blizzards! I been thinkin' I ought to buy Dairy Queen, just so I could have 'em all the time.”

“No, thanks,” Tom said as he slid into the booth.

The man extended a knobby hand across the table. He said, “My name's Hiram Stackhouse.”

It took Tom a couple of seconds to recognize the name as he shook hands with the old man. When it dawned on him, he couldn't stop himself from saying, “You own SavMart.”

Hiram Stackhouse nodded. “Damn right I do. Ever' single one of 'em, includin' the one right here in Little Tucson. And I don't take kindly to havin' a bunch o' thugs come in and shoot up one o' my stores and slaughter a bunch o' my employees and customers. It's bad for business.”

Stackhouse paused and took a bite of his ice cream, licking his lips as he savored the taste.

“What is it you want from me?” Tom asked.

“Don't want nothin' from you. I'm here to help you, son, give you anything you need to help you fight them M-15 bastards. Money, weapons . . . hell, you want it, I can provide your own private army of ex-Special Forces commandos.”

Tom leaned back against the hard plastic seat. “You've got your own army?”

Stackhouse chuckled and said, “Well, it might be better to call 'em a security force. The gov'ment tends to get a mite antsy when a private citizen talks about havin' his own army. Not that I'm all that worried about the gov'ment. Fact is, another reason I'm here is to call off the dogs. I can get the FBI and the Border Patrol off your back. Hell, if I kick up enough of a fuss, I can prob'ly get the pain-in-the-ass ACLU to leave you alone.”

“You can do that?” Tom said in disbelief. “You can call off the FBI and the Border Patrol?”

Stackhouse said, “Son, you have any idea how much money goes through SavMart in a year? You know how much hell it'd raise with the economy if folks got up in the mornin' and every single SavMart store was shut down, even for a day? I could do that, you know. I'm the boss. I don't answer to no corporation or nothin'. I say shut 'em down, and they stay shut down until I say open 'em again. And if I wanted to, I could just leave 'em closed from now on, with all the merchandise still inside 'em. I got so damn much money already I couldn't spend it all if I lived to be five hunnerd years old!” He laughed again and went on, “So you damn well better believe folks in Washington sit up and take notice when I call and say I want somethin'.”

Tom could believe it. And he had the feeling that this old man might be crazy enough to follow through on any such threat. He remembered reading about Hiram Stackhouse. He was either the richest or second-richest man in the country every time the financial magazines published such a list. And while he wasn't quite as eccentric and reclusive as Howard Hughes had been, he was right up there.

The hope that just about disappeared from Tom after what had happened to Buddy suddenly reignited. One man couldn't do much against
Mara Salvatrucha
. . . but one man with the backing of a billionaire who controlled an economy larger than that of many countries . . . well, anything might be possible there.

“You know,” Stackhouse said when Tom hesitated, “killin' your ma and pa like that, ain't very Christian. If it was me, I'd open a can o' whoopass on them greasers.”

Tom nodded slowly and said, “Yeah, I reckon it's time we did exactly that.”

22

Ernesto Luis Montoya was followed by Cipriano and Leobardo Asturias when he stalked into the luxurious office on the fortieth floor of the Mexico City high-rise. Montoya carried a folded American newspaper in his hand and slapped it lightly against his thigh as he approached the desk where Sami Al-Khan sat. The Saudi wore an annoyed expression on his round, normally bland face. He had not summoned Montoya to Mexico City or called this meeting. It was Montoya's idea, and Al-Khan didn't like being told what to do. He was cooperating, though, because he did not wish to offend an associate of Señor Garcia-Lopez.

“Señor Montoya,” Al-Khan said curtly. “What can I do for you?” Then, in an attempt to smooth over the situation somewhat, he added, “How was your flight from Nogales?”

Montoya ignored the second question and slapped the newspaper on Al-Khan's desk so that the headline faced up. It read
PATRIOT PROJECT RALLY IN LITTLE TUCSON
. In smaller type, a subhead read
VOLUNTEERS FROM ALL OVER COUNTRY TO CONVERGE ON ARIZONA TOWN
.

Al-Khan glanced down at the newspaper, which came from Phoenix. “I saw it,” he said with a shrug of his narrow shoulders. “Why should it concern you, Señor Montoya? You know nothing will come of it. In the end, the Americans will not be able to stop us. They have too great an appetite for drugs and cheap labor. Their own weakness will destroy them.”

Montoya picked up the paper again and read from it. “Patriot Project organizer Tom Brannon said that with the new volunteers, the patrols will be able to stem the tide of illegal immigration across the border, especially by members of the notorious M-15 gang. Brannon said, ‘No bunch of cheap thugs is going to invade this country and get away with it. We will stop the so-called
Mara Salvatrucha
from ever bothering honest people again.'” In a sudden burst of rage he ripped the paper in two. “Cheap thugs! He called us cheap thugs! Such disrespect cannot go unpunished!”

Al-Khan spread his hands. “It is annoying, yes. It sends a bad message to our men for such things to be said. But what can you do? You already killed this man's parents. Perhaps you should kill his wife next. Or perhaps his children, if you know where to find them.”

Montoya threw the pieces of newspaper on the floor and said, “I intend to kill Brannon.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Al-Khan said with a nod. “I suppose the time has come to do that. Once he is dead, this Patriot Project of his will fall apart.”

“No,” Montoya said. “If there is one thing my people know, it is the power of a martyr. If we simply kill Brannon, people will rally around his memory. They will still plague us like gnats.”

Al-Khan was getting impatient now. “What else can you do?”

“Kill them all. Burn Little Tucson to the ground. Wipe it from the face of the earth so that no one will ever dare to disrespect or defy
Mara Salvatrucha
again.”

Al-Khan stared at Montoya in obvious disbelief for a long, silent moment. Then he said, “You are insane! You cannot attack an entire American town like that!”

“I have three hundred men, all of whom will follow my every command. Little Tucson has only an acting sheriff and a handful of deputies—”

“And the Patriot Project!”

Montoya waved a hand. “A few dozen gringos, most of them ignorant rednecks. If we attack tomorrow, on the day of this rally, we can wipe them out, too.”

“But there will be more volunteers there—”

“Tourists and news media,” Montoya said with a sneer. “Not fighting men. They will stand no chance against us, especially with me leading our men personally.”

Al-Khan stared down at his desk with his fingers pressed to his temples. “This is mad, utterly mad,” he muttered. “We cannot do this. To attack so openly . . . An organization such as ours is best served by stealth. We operate in the shadows.”

“No,” Montoya declared flatly, “an organization such as ours is best served by fear. The fear our enemies feel when we drive them before us. The fear they feel when they hear the cries of their women. And the fear their deaths will inspire in others who might someday dare to cross us.”

Al-Khan shook his head. “It's too risky. It will draw too much attention. The American government turns a blind eye to us because it is easier to do so, and because they worry about offending the world community that doesn't give a damn about them to start with. But such an attack will bring them together, galvanize them . . .” He looked up in horror at Montoya. “In the name of Allah, we don't want to wake them up again, now that they've finally gone back to sleep! I forbid it! Do you hear me, Montoya? I forbid it!”

“I hear you,” Montoya said. He made the slightest of motions to Cipriano and Leobardo, then went on to Al-Khan, “If it worries you so much, amigo, you must put it out of your mind.”

The brothers did not appear to move hastily, but suddenly they were around the desk. Al-Khan let out a startled yelp as Cipriano pulled him up out of his chair. Then Cipriano's hand closed around his throat, cutting off any further outcry. Leobardo picked up the heavy chair in which Al-Khan had been sitting, and handling it as if it weighed very little, he slammed it against the wall of glass behind the desk. The glass was thick and sturdy and required several blows before it shattered. Pieces of broken glass plummeted forty stories to the street below. Car horns began to honk as the deadly missiles rained down. Cipriano forced Al-Khan toward the broken window. The Saudi struggled desperately, but he was no match for a man with the speed and strength of a jaguar.

Montoya walked leisurely around the desk and reached the broken window just as Cipriano and Al-Khan did. He reached out and placed his hand on Al-Khan's chest, feeling the expensive fabric of the Saudi's jacket against his palm.

“Put it out of your mind,” he said again as he pushed. At the same time, Cipriano let go of Al-Khan, and the man went backwards out the broken window, shrieking in terror. He kept screaming as he fell toward the ground so far below.

Forty stories up, the three men still in the office were too high to hear the impact when Al-Khan landed. But they heard the car horns begin to honk even more frantically, and Montoya smiled. He led the way out of the now-empty office, taking out his cell phone as he did so. He punched in the number of CNN's Mexico City bureau, which he had looked up earlier.

He had a news tip about what was
really
going to happen in Little Tucson tomorrow.

 

 

“—breaking news. A man identifying himself only as the leader of
Mara Salvatrucha
, the notorious gang also known as M-15, has contacted CNN and claimed that he and his men will be in Little Tucson tomorrow when the rally for the so-called Patriot Project takes place. We've just spoken with Tom Brannon, the organizer of the Patriot Project and the rally, and he insists that everything will go on as planned.”

A videotaped image of Tom appeared on the TV screen. “We're not going to let ourselves be scared off by some punks,” he said. “Besides, I don't think they'll really show up. They're just bragging.”

Back to the news anchor, a woman with sleek blond hair. “According to Lauren Henderson, the acting sheriff of Sierrita County, there will be extra officers on duty tomorrow to provide security for the rally. Henderson said that law and order will prevail in Sierrita County.

“Meanwhile, as news of this development spread through the town of Little Tucson, many of the residents began to pack up and leave.”

A shot of the highway to Tucson, clogged with slow-moving cars and pickups and SUVs.

“This looks like something we see when a hurricane approaches the coastline, something which these desert dwellers have never experienced. The exodus shows that while Brannon and Sheriff Henderson maintain a show of confidence, most of the citizens of Little Tucson fear the threat of M-15 and are getting out while they can. Meanwhile, many of the would-be volunteers for the Patriot Project who planned to arrive in the little town for the rally tomorrow have changed their plans and will be staying home instead, far away from the scene of potential violence.

“In Washington tonight, at the White House, the President downplayed the threat, stating that she had assurances from the Mexican government that there would be no attack on Little Tucson. Therefore, no National Guardsmen or other federal troops will be deployed to the area. ‘We must learn to settle our differences through talking,' the President said. ‘It is my hope this controversy will open up a healthy dialogue between people on both sides of the border.'

“A spokesperson for the American Civil Liberties Union stated that while it was unlikely there would be any trouble in Little Tucson tomorrow, ACLU attorneys will be on hand to monitor the situation and ensure that due process is followed at all times and that no one's civil rights are violated by vigilantes.”

As Tom chuckled, Bonnie said, “I thought all the lawyers had left.”

“They have, as far as I know. They took off for the tall and uncut as soon as they heard that M-15 might show up tomorrow in full force. They're all afraid there may be shooting.”

“There will be, won't there?”

Tom nodded slowly. “I'd say you can count on it.”

“I'm not leaving. I'd be lying if I didn't admit that part of me wants to . . . but I'm not going.”

“I'm not surprised. Part of me wishes it had never come to this, too. But a showdown is the only way. We could never root them out below the border, so we had to make them come to us.”

“They'll be here, all right. After the things you said, they can't not come.”

“Tomorrow,” Tom said. “At high noon.”

 

 

At first glance, Little Tucson looked like a ghost town. Nobody was moving on the street. All the businesses were closed. The windows in some of them had been boarded up, increasing the resemblance to a community waiting for a hurricane to hit.

That was a pretty apt comparison, Tom thought as he stood on the sidewalk in front of the auto parts store. A hurricane of evil and violence called
Mara Salvatrucha
was probably bearing down on Little Tucson at this very moment.

He glanced up at the sun, which was almost directly overhead. It wouldn't be much longer now. If M-15 was coming, they would be here soon.

A sheriff's cruiser turned the corner and came to a stop in front of the store. Lauren Henderson got out and came around the front of the car to step up onto the sidewalk, in uniform now, her service revolver on her hip and a pump shotgun in her hands.

“Buddy and Fred Kelso and all the other patients from the hospital are on their way to Tucson in Careflight helicopters,” she told Tom. “Buddy's hanging in there.”

He nodded. “I'm glad to hear it. That's one thing less we have to worry about. What about the rest of the citizens?”

“There's not more than thirty people left in town,” she said, “and that counts me and my deputies. The others who stayed behind are all well-armed and ready. They'll converge on Main Street at the first sign of trouble.” She shook her head. “It's hard to believe that an American town is about to come under attack by an outside force, and the government is standing by and doing nothing.”

“They can't afford to do anything. It would make them look bad.”

“How are they going to look after what happens here today?”

“Lord knows,” Tom said softly. “I suppose that all depends on what we do. But I can tell you one thing . . . if we all get wiped out, the folks in Washington will wring their hands and cry crocodile tears, and in the end they won't do a damned thing except maybe send a strongly worded note to the Mexican government. Putting on a show is all this administration knows how to do.”

“What a damned shame it's come to that.”

“Yeah,” Tom agreed. “A damned shame.”

They both took deep breaths and squared their shoulders, as everybody in America except the politicians did in times of trouble. “You're going to make your stand here?” Lauren asked.

He nodded. “Bonnie and Louly are inside the store. I tried to talk Louly into leaving town with the others, but it was a waste of time.”

“Yes, I imagine it would be,” Lauren said.

That brought a slight frown to Tom's face. He hadn't realized that Lauren even knew Louly. But he didn't have time to think about that now.

For one thing, he heard footsteps on the sidewalk and turned to see the last two people he thought he would see in Little Tucson this morning. Callista Spinelli strode toward him angrily, followed by the sweating Chet Eggleston. Tom had thought that all the ACLU lawyers were gone. Obviously, he'd been wrong.

“You're really going through with this?” Spinelli demanded angrily as she and Eggleston came up to Tom and Lauren.

“Going through with what?” Tom asked.

Spinelli gestured toward the red, white, and blue banner strung across Main Street from the auto parts store to the building across the street. The banner read in big letters
WELCOME PATRIOT PROJECT
.

“This stupid rally, that's what,” Spinelli snapped. “I checked. You don't have a permit for it, and even though you're the mayor, you need a permit for a public assembly.”

Tom just looked at the lawyer for a moment, then glanced over at Lauren. Both of them burst out laughing. The very idea of Spinelli getting in a snit over a permit was ludicrous. The fact that they were laughing at her just made Spinelli more furious.

“All right, tell you what,” Tom said. “The rally's cancelled, how about that? Matter of fact, there was never going to be a rally. Now, why don't you and Mr. Eggleston get in your rental car and get out of Little Tucson while you still can?”