Free Invasion USA by William W. Johnstone

barely escaped with my life.”
    â€œBut you didn’t escape with the money.” The accusatory words stung like a lash.
    Señor Montoya’s eyes seemed to glow in the shadows.
    â€œNo, Señor,” he said. “I could not get back to the car, where the money was. As I said, I barely escaped—”
    â€œYes, with your life, I know.” Finally, Señor Montoya leaned forward so that the light fell on his face. It was a handsome face in a way, with rugged, powerful features below thick, dark hair, the cheeks faintly pitted from some childhood illness, the eyes dark and deep-set and blazing. What Enrique saw in those eyes made him shudder, and he knew in that moment why people sometimes called Señor Montoya El Babania Comida —the Eater of Babies. At this moment, he looked like he was fully capable of making a meal out of an infant.
    Just like a jaguar that stole out of the jungle to bring death and terror to those unfortunate enough to cross its path.
    â€œAnd what makes you think,” Montoya went on, “that your life is worth more to me than the money you ran off and left behind, Enrique?”
    Struggling to find his voice, Enrique said, “Señor, I . . . I apologize. I know it was wrong to lose the money—”
    â€œIt was wrong to leave Porfirio behind, too. If he is alive, he can testify against us. I don’t fear the American law, but I don’t like needless complications.”
    â€œSeñor, Porfirio would never—”
    â€œAnd there is the woman you kidnapped, too,” Montoya went on as if Enrique had not spoken. “And this crazy gringo who attacked you. They are all what the Americans call loose ends.” Montoya shook his head slowly. “I don’t like loose ends, Enrique. What should I do with them?”
    Enrique gulped. “C-cut them off, Señor?” “Exactly.” Montoya leaned back again. “You, too, are a loose end.” He nodded to his segundos .
    Enrique cried out in pain as the jaguar-men grabbed him. The one on his right jostled his broken arm. Enrique screamed even louder. No one outside this soundproofed room would hear him though.
    Montoya got up, his movements sleek and unhurried. He opened a drawer in the desk and took out a machete. Enrique could tell by looking at it that the blade was razor-sharp. He writhed and struggled, but especially with his broken arm, he was no match for the animal strength of the two men who held him.
    â€œYou made a mistake, Enrique,” Montoya said as he came around the desk. “And mistakes cannot be tolerated.”
    He plunged the machete into Enrique’s throat and with a swift, incredibly powerful downward stroke cut the man open from neck to nuts. Enrique lived long enough to scream again and watch in horror as his bloody insides slopped onto the carpet. Darkness closed in around him.
    Montoya shook his head slowly. “Such a mess,” he said. “I really should learn not to give in to these impulses. Now the carpet may have to be replaced.”
    His two men stood there, stolid, silent, still clutching the arms of the eviscerated thing that barely looked human now.
    â€œTake that out of here and get rid of it,” Montoya snapped. “Then send someone to Little Tucson. I don’t want any of those witnesses talking. Shut them up. If necessary, they are to be killed.” He paused, thinking momentarily about the crazy gringo Enrique had mentioned. Montoya had to wonder about a man like that. What gave him the cojones to attack two well-armed killers, just to protect a woman? It might be interesting to talk to such a man . . .
    Montoya said, “That’s all,” and his men left the room, dragging what was left of Enrique Colon.

7
    Considering that there could have easily been a massacre inside the Little Tucson Savings Bank, Buddy Gorman thought the town had gotten off relatively easy. Al Trejo was dead—and that