Invasion USA

by William W. Johnstone

  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 t
here?”

  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?”

  “Absolutely not,” Spinelli said. “I’ve heard all the talk about how M-15 is going to attack the town, and I don’t believe it. I’m still not sure this so-called M-15 really exists. I think it’s just a boogeyman you and your friends invented to use as an excuse for oppressing poor immigrants who don’t want anything except a chance at their rightful share of the wealth this country had hoarded illegally.”

  Lauren just stared at her for a moment before saying, “My God, are you really that stupid?”

  “Careful, Sheriff. I’ll slap you with an injunction so fast—”

  Lauren took a step toward her. “How about if I just slap you?”

  “Ladies, ladies,” Tom said, moving to get between them.

  “Don’t patronize me like that!” Spinelli whirled on him. “You white, patriarchal oppressor! It’s you and your kind who are to blame for everything that’s wrong with this country!”

  Eggleston mopped sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief and said quietly, “Callie.”

  She ignored him and continued her tirade directed at Tom. “Ever since your kind set foot in America and started stealing from it and killing its rightful owners, you’ve tried to grind everyone who’s different than you under your heel—”

  “Callie,” Eggleston said more forcefully.

  “You make me ashamed to be an American—”

  “Callie!”

  She turned to him and yelled, “What?”

  “Will you shut the fuck up!”

  Spinelli stared at him in shock. Her mouth opened and closed several times before she was finally able to say, “What did you say to me?”

  “I said shut up,” Eggleston snapped. “All you know how to do is run your mouth and blame America for everything that’s wrong in the world. That’s crazy.”

  “But, Chet,” she said, aghast, “you know that America is to blame for everything that’s wrong in the world! You work for the ACLU! You have to know that!”

  “I signed on with the ACLU thinking that I would actually be defending people’s civil rights. Instead all I’ve been doing for years is forcing things they don’t want down their throats. And I’m sick of it. I’m sick of listening to all the politically correct crap that’s been coming out of my mouth—and yours.”

  “How dare you!”

  “To tell you the truth, Callie, I don’t really know how I dare anything anymore, since I handed over my balls to you years ago.” Eggleston turned to look at Tom. “You see, she’s not just my law partner . . . she’s my wife. Not that she would ever use my name or even let me tell anybody that we’re married. That would be too patriarchal.”

  Lauren said, “This domestic drama is fascinating, but you folks better get out of—”

  Tom lifted a hand and said, “It’s too late. Listen.”

  They all stood silently on the sidewalk, even Spinelli, and they heard the rumble of engines growing louder and louder. A lot of vehicles were approaching Little Tucson, and that could mean only one thing.

  “Here they come,” Tom said.

  Down the street, the digital clock on the sign in front of the bank changed from 11:59 to 12:00. It was noon.

  High noon in Little Tucson.

  23

  There were at least fifty cars and pickups in the convoy speeding toward Little Tucson from the southeast. Tom was on the roof of the auto parts store, watching the approach of M-15 through binoculars. He had two pistols stuck behind
his belt and two more tucked in the small of his back. A lever-action Winchester leaned against the short wall around the roof. In the store below him, Bonnie, Lauren, and Louly waited behind the heavy counter, all of them armed and ready. Callie Spinelli was there, too, huddled on the floor crying in fear. At least she had been when Tom left to climb up to the roof.

  He heard something behind him and turned around to see Chet Eggleston clambering onto the roof from the ladder that was propped against the building in the rear alley. The lawyer had taken off his suit jacket and tie and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt.

  “Better get back down there,” Tom told him. “They’ll be here in just a few minutes. Stay as low as you can and you ought to be all right.”

  “The hell with that,” Eggleston said. “If you’ve got an extra gun, I want in on this.”

  Tom frowned. “You can use a gun?”

  “Don’t tell Callie this, but I used to go hunting with my dad when I was a kid. I wouldn’t do it now, you understand—I really do believe it’s wrong—but I can use a gun.”

  Tom picked up the Winchester and handed it to him. “Here you go, then.”

  Chet looked down at the weapon almost as if he were surprised to find himself holding it, but then he smiled and nodded. “Thanks, Mr. Brannon.”

  “You love her?”

  Chet looked up. “Yeah. Yeah, I really do. That’s what made me realize some things are worth fighting for.”

  Tom clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Keep showing her that. She’ll come around.”

  Then there was no more time for talk, because Mara Salvatrucha was here. The cars came around the curve just east of town and started along Main Street. They slowed, though, allowing a big black limousine to surge out in front. The limo stopped under the red, white, and blue banner. The driver got out, as did the man in the front passenger seat. Both of them were big and strong looking, with enough of a resemblance to almost be twins. They carried assault rifles. The rest of the cars had stopped about fifty yards up the street, in a double line that stretched for several blocks.