Invasion USA

by William W. Johnstone

  Carla thought that things couldn’t possibly get any worse, but she was wrong. Andy came stumbling into the room, being pushed from behind by a third man, who must have gone around to the back to stop anyone from getting away. Andy had Emily in his arms, and both of them were crying.

  The man leaning his forearm across Carla’s throat put his face close to hers and hissed, “Your kids are scared. They’re scared we’re gonna hurt you. They’re right. We’re gonna hurt you, and then we’re gonna hurt them. The old lady, too.”

  “D-don’t!” Carla managed to gasp out. “I’ll d-do anything you say. Anything!”

  “Damn right you will.” With the hand that held the little pistol, the man took hold of Carla’s shirt and ripped it down the front, sending the buttons flying. He pulled it back, exposing her bra, and said, “Lupe.”

  The man who had punched Doris stepped over and took a switchblade out of one of the pockets of his baggy jeans. He flicked the blade open, slid the tip under Carla’s bra, between her breasts, and pulled the knife sharply upward, cutting the bra in half. The tip of the blade had scratched her skin slightly, leaving a little mark between her breasts where blood seeped out.

  The man holding her down used his gun hand to flip the bra back, baring her breasts. He ran the pistol over them. The metal prodded painfully at her flesh. He lifted the pistol and then rested the barrel against her left nipple.

  The man whispered, “There’s only one way you can save yourself and your kids.”

  “Any . . . anything!”

  “Leave.”

  She struggled to focus her eyes on him, surprised by the single word he had just spoken.

  “Wh-what?”

  “Leave,” he repeated. “Get out of town. Leave Little Tucson today.”

  “Wh-where do you want me to go?”

  “Don’t care. Just so you ain’t here. Just run, and don’t stop.”

  Understanding was beginning to seep into Carla’s stunned, terrified brain, just as the blood was slowly seeping out of the cut on her chest. These men hadn’t come here to rape and kill her, although if she didn’t cooperate they might certainly do just that. They just wanted her to leave so that she couldn’t testify against their fellow gang member, the bank robber who was now behind bars in the county jail. That was fine.

  The man had eased up a little on her throat. She was able to speak more easily as she rasped, “You mean if we leave town and don’t come back, you won’t kill us?”

  “That’s right. You a smart little bitch. Cute, too.”

  “We’ll go,” she said without hesitation. “I . . . I promise.”

  “You gimme your word?”

  “Yes. I swear! Just . . . just leave us alone!”

  “You know, I almost believe you. You just got to convince me a little more that you’re tellin’ the truth.”

  “What do you want?” Carla asked desperately.

  Without answering her, the man turned his head and said, “Lupe, cut the little boy’s ear off. Either one, it don’t matter.”

  “No!” Carla screamed. “Oh, God, no, don’t hurt him! Don’t touch him! We’ll go! We’ll pack up and leave tonight! My God, please! We’ll go and never come back!”

  “Hold on, Lupe,” the man said. He leered down into Carla’s face and went on, “You’ll hide where the law can’t ever find you and drag you back here?”

  “Y-yes! I swear it! I . . . I know some people I can call.”

  The idea had just occurred to her. Back in the days before Danny left, she had toyed with the idea of leaving him. She had done some poking around on the Internet and found a group in Phoenix that helped women get away from abusive husbands. It was an underground organization that would hide a woman and her kids and help them get new identities, so that her husband would never be able to find them and force them to return. Sure, it was for women who were in real danger—but if she didn’t qualify, who did? It didn’t matter that the threat came not from her husband but rather from an evil gang that was spreading out insidiously all along the border.

  Her voice was a little stronger as she went on, “We’ll hide so well that no one will ever be able to find us.”

  “You are wrong. The law may not be able to find you . . . but Mara Salvatrucha will always know where you are. You double-cross us, and we’ll get you. Your kids, too. They’ll scream for a day or two before they die, and you’ll be right there to hear every minute of it.”

  Carla closed her eyes and shuddered. “I’ll do what you say.”

  He prodded her again with the gun. “You’ll never know where we are, never know when we’re gonna get you. Only way to be safe is to play along with what we want.”

  “I will, I will,” she said. How many times did she have to promise before he believed her?

  Suddenly, the painful weight on her throat went away. She blinked her eyes open and saw that the man had stood up. She didn’t move. She was afraid to move.

  The man who had done the talking jerked his head toward the front door. “Be seein’ you, lady,” he said with a mocking smile. The three of them went out, closing the door carefully behind them.

  As soon as the men were gone, Andy rushed over to the sofa, bringing Emily with him. They piled down on top of Carla, hugging her frantically. She tried to comfort them, but she was almost too scared and stunned to do so. Finally she managed to sit up and pull the remnants of her shirt together over her breasts. Doris was stirring around on the other side of the coffee table. After a moment, she grabbed hold of the table and pulled herself into a sitting position. Her mouth was covered with blood.

  “Wha . . . wha’ . . . happened?”

  Carla ignored her mother for the moment. Her pulse was still racing, but it had begun to slow a little as she regained more control over herself. “Andy,” she said quietly, “go to your room and pack for a long trip.”

  He sniffled, wiped his eyes, wiped his nose. “Where are we goin’, Mama?”

  “Far from here.”

  “Are . . . are we gonna go see Daddy?”

  Carla shook her head. “I’ve told you before, Daddy doesn’t want us anymore. And now those men don’t want us to stay here, so we’re moving. Okay?” She would explain the details of it to him later, how they would all have new names and how they could never, ever trust anybody again or tell anybody the truth.

  “Wha’ the hell?” Doris muttered.

  “Go and pack now,” Carla told Andy. “Pack for your little sister, too. Can you do that?”

  “We’re goin’ tonight?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Yes. Tonight.”

  Andy headed for the room he shared with Emily, holding his little sister’s hand as he led her out of the living room. Doris put her hands on the coffee table and said, “Damn it, Carla May, if you don’t tell me what’s goin’ on—”

  “You want to know what’s going on?” Carla cut in sharply. “We’re going on the run so those men won’t come back and torture us all to death. Simple enough for you, Mama?”

  Doris just gaped at her.

  “And whether you like it or not, you’re part of this now,” Carla went on as she stood up, trying to gather the tattered shreds of her dignity about her as she was doing with her torn shirt. “I hope you said good-bye to that trailer of yours, because you’re never going to see it again.”

  “Damn it, girl, have you lost your mind? I can’t go nowhere! I got a job—”

  “I think they can find another waitress at the truck stop. Now get up. You haven’t unpacked yet, so that’ll make things easier.”

  “You’re crazy!” Doris said as she stumbled to her feet. “I never heard of such foolishness!”

  “Mama . . .” Carla took a deep breath. “Shut the hell up.”

  That did the trick. Doris fell silent and just stared at her again, mouth open.

  Carla wished she had known all along it was that easy.

  10

  Tom Brannon was in bed reading when Bonnie came out of the bathr
oom brushing her hair. It was a pretty good book, a Western novel by one of his favorite authors, but it would have had to be a damn sight more interesting than it was to keep his attention while his wife was standing there only a few feet away, wearing a pair of semi-transparent babydoll pajamas and brushing her long, thick brown hair so that her still-firm breasts rose and fell against the sheer material. The pajama top was short enough to leave her long, sleek, tanned legs bare.

  “I didn’t think they made babydoll pajamas anymore,” he said as he laid the book aside on the little table next to the bed.

  “They still make everything,” Bonnie said. “You just have to order it on the Internet now.” She turned and moved over to her dressing table, bending slightly to set down the brush. That gave him one hell of a nice view—as she knew perfectly well. As she turned back to him, she went on, “I didn’t buy these on the Internet, though.”

  “Where’d you get them? You look really nice.”

  Bonnie glanced down at herself and smiled slightly. “Not bad for fifty years old, eh? That’s half a century, Tom.”

  “Good Lord, you know you don’t look a day over thirty-five. I’m the one who’s getting decrepit.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” she replied, looking pointedly at the erection tenting the sheet over his groin.

  Tom laughed. “Well, the important things still work, anyway.”

  Bonnie came over to the bed and sat down, swinging a leg over so that she straddled him. The sheet and her panties were still between them, so she just snuggled against his chest, resting her head on his shoulder while he put his arms around her.

  “You don’t remember these pajamas, do you, Tom?”

  “You’d think that I would, but . . . no, I’m afraid not.”

  “They’re the ones I wore after Lisa was born, after enough time had passed . . . the first time that we, you know . . .”

  “Ohhhh,” he said. “Yes, I do remember now. That was quite some night, if I recall correctly.”

  “You recall very correctly.” Her hips began to move so that she pressed intimately against him.

  Tom Brannon felt a lot of things in that moment, primarily love for his wife, a love that was mixed with a strong, healthy lust. But there was also a sense of relief. He had worried that she would want to talk about everything that had happened today. She might get upset again, angry at the way he had risked his life to help Carla May. He could understand that, he really could. Bonnie didn’t want to lose him. He was glad she felt that way about him. But sometimes there were troubles that a man just couldn’t avoid, things that he couldn’t turn his back and walk away from—not and still be a man.

  She kissed him, parting her lips eagerly as he slid his tongue into her mouth. Her arms went around his neck. His hands slid down her back to pull up the pajama top and delve under the tight panties.

  When Bonnie broke the kiss, she said breathlessly, “I want you in me now, Tom.”

  She lifted her hips a little, and while he pushed the sheet down, she worked some sort of feminine magic that got rid of the panties and pajama top. They fit together so well after all this time that when she lowered herself onto him, neither of them had to guide him into her. It seemed to sheath itself in her heated clasp.

  They both knew how to pace themselves, taking it slow and easy until their passion was just too strong to tolerate any more delay. Then Tom began thrusting harder and faster, and Bonnie met each of his thrusts with one of her own. She reached orgasm first, throwing her head back and gasping, but he was right behind her. Spasms shuddered through him, matching hers.

  When it was over, she sagged against him, breathing hard. He rubbed her back and shoulders and stroked her hair while they whispered that they loved each other.

  It was easy to forget, at a moment like this, that there was anyone else in the world except the two of them. Tom wanted to shut all the rest of it out, and for a while, he was able to do just that.

  “Those pajamas must really inspire you,” Bonnie said.

  “Yeah . . . That was as good as that other night . . .”

  She laughed softly. “Only back then, you were good for two or three times in one night.”

  He gave a mock groan and said, “Good Lord, woman, give a man a chance to recuperate! If I had known you were such a wanton, I . . . I . . .”

  “You would have what?” she asked.

  “I would have married you sooner,” Tom said, and kissed her again.

  They would have stayed there like that, cuddled together, if Max hadn’t begun to bark somewhere outside. The sound had an angry, almost frantic urgency to it.

  Bonnie pushed herself upright and frowned. “What’s he carrying on about?”

  “Probably got another snake cornered. Where there’s one, there’s usually another.”

  Bonnie shuddered. “I hate snakes.”

  “Me, too. I’d better go have a look.”

  “You’re saying you want me to get off of you?”

  “It’s not necessarily what I want . . . but Max is liable to get bitten.”

  Bonnie slid off to the side. “Be careful.”

  “I’ll just call him in if he’ll come,” Tom said as he got out of bed. “If there’s a snake out there, it can go on somewhere else as far as I’m concerned.”

  He pulled on some jeans and slid his feet into a pair of sandals beside the bed. A fella didn’t tramp around barefoot in the middle of the night. There were too many varmints in this part of Arizona that stung or bit.

  There were other kinds of varmints, too, that were even bigger threats. He hadn’t said anything to Bonnie and she hadn’t seemed to think of it, but he couldn’t forget the warning Buddy Gorman had given them earlier in the day about Mara Salvatrucha seeking vengeance. That danger hadn’t gone away.

  The shotgun was in the kitchen, still loaded. He picked it up as he went to the door and snapped on the garage light. If Max was barking at a coyote or something like that, the light might be enough to scare it away.

  Max kept carrying on, though, so Tom opened the door and called, “Max! Max, get in here!”

  The barking stopped abruptly. Tom didn’t like the sound of that. He stepped into the garage, poking the barrel of the shotgun out in front of him. The light spilled through the open garage doors, illuminating a stretch of the gravel driveway that led around to the side of the house where the garage was located. Tom moved closer to the doors, sliding quietly along beside Bonnie’s SUV.

  As the shotgun barrel moved past the back of the Blazer, a strong dark hand suddenly shot up and clamped around it, wrenching the weapon forward. Tom yelled in alarm and stumbled ahead as he tried to maintain his grip on the gun, but whoever had hold of it managed to jerk it out of his hands. Tom knew then what a bad mistake he had made by coming out here. It was an idiot move, just as surely as teenagers splitting up in a horror movie.

  He could still fight back, though. Earlier that afternoon, he hadn’t hung the hoe back on its hooks. He had just set it on the workbench. It was close at hand, just to his left. He snatched up the hoe and whirled it over his head as the man came out from behind the SUV, still holding the shotgun he had taken away from Tom. The guy hadn’t turned the weapon around, though; he still had hold of the barrel. Tom swung the hoe and the wooden handle of the implement cracked across the man’s forearm. He cried out in pain and dropped the shotgun.

  It struck butt-first on the concrete floor and discharged, the heavy boom deafening in the close confines of the garage. The charge of buckshot went almost straight up, blowing a huge hole in the raised garage door. A few of the pellets tore through the arm of the intruder. He staggered back, clutching his bloody arm.

  Tom didn’t hesitate. He pressed the attack, swinging the hoe in a backhanded stroke at the man’s head. The blade struck him on the cheek and opened up a gash from which more blood spurted. Tom lowered the hoe and rammed it into the guy’s belly, making him double over and stumble back against the Blazer. Quickly, Tom twirl
ed the hoe so that he could strike with the handle and brought it down as hard as he could on the back of the man’s neck. The blow landed solidly and knocked the man face-down on the garage floor.

  The bastard was out cold, and for a second Tom considered using the hoe to chop his head off, just as he had with the rattlesnake. But he didn’t have time to think about that, because inside the house, Bonnie screamed.

  It made sense that more than one of the gang members came out here to his house. He never should have left Bonnie alone in there. Still clutching the now bloodstained hoe, Tom lunged through the door into the kitchen.

  He was halfway to the bedroom before he realized he should have grabbed the shotgun off the garage floor before he ran in.

  Too late to do anything about that now. He skidded around a corner in the hall and sprinted into the bedroom, where he saw by the light of the bedside lamp that Bonnie was struggling furiously with a strange man. She had pulled a robe on over her nudity after Tom left the room, but it hung open as she pulled a hand free from the man’s grip and clawed at his face while they stumbled around beside the bed.

  Tom didn’t warn the man by yelling, even though he was filled with rage that wanted to burst out of him in an incoherent shout. Instead he just lifted the hoe and swung it with all his might at the bastard’s head.

  If the blow had landed as Tom intended, it would have smashed the intruder’s skull and the hoe would have wound up lodged in his brain. That was no more than he deserved. Instead the guy moved at the last second through pure bad luck, rather than intentionally dodging the blow, and the hoe struck him on top of the left shoulder. He screamed as the blade penetrated flesh and scraped on bone and then came free. Bonnie shoved him away. He stumbled against the wall.

  Tom was a little off-balance from putting all his strength into the blow that had partially missed. The intruder recovered first, snatching a switchblade from his pocket, flicking it open, and coming at Tom. The long, wicked-looking blade slashed back and forth. Tom tried to ward it off with the hoe, but a couple of the strokes got through and left bloody cuts on his forearms. His anger enabled him to ignore the fiery pain for the moment. The slashes weren’t deep enough to keep his muscles from working as he tried to defend himself against the knife-wielder.