Stand Your Ground (18 page)

He was safe for the moment, Mitch realized. Somehow, against all odds, he had survived.

But Hell's Gate was still under attack, and before this was over, it was possible none of the people inside the prison would make it through what was to come.

Lucas Kincaid was about to leave for the day when he heard the voices of people coming along the corridor outside the library's open door.

He hoped they would go on past, whoever they were, but as he recognized Warden Baldwin's gruff tones, he figured he was about to be paid another visit.

Sure enough, Baldwin came in with that Devereaux woman, the news crew, and John Howard Stark.

“We're going to have to borrow your library, Lucas,” Baldwin said. “I hope you don't mind.”

“It's your library, Warden, not mine,” Kincaid said. “With all due respect, sir, I just work here.”

Baldwin shrugged, and Kincaid got the feeling the warden was saying that he was lucky to be just an employee. And that was true as far as it went. Kincaid's responsibilities ended when he left the prison. Baldwin actually lived here, his quarters being located in the administration wing.

Although the personal lives of the people he worked with didn't mean much to Kincaid, he had heard that Baldwin was a widower, and his children were grown and gone. His entire life revolved around this prison.

“We're going to be conducting an interview in here,” Baldwin said, although he certainly didn't have to explain his intentions to Kincaid. “You're welcome to stick around if you want, but we won't actually need your help.”

Kincaid gave in to curiosity and asked, “What sort of interview?”

“Ms. Devereaux wants to talk to one of the new inmates.”

Kincaid was surprised Baldwin was going to allow that, but again, Baldwin was the warden and could do whatever he wanted.

“I'll stick around,” Kincaid said, once more acting on impulse. He thought this might be his only chance to lay eyes on one of the terrorists, since it was unlikely they'd ever be allowed to use the library.

It was possible he might even know the guy, he thought wryly. He had helped Company men and American contractors take down more than one terror cell.

Of course, that would mean he was running the risk of being recognized in return.

He was willing to chance it. The odds against anybody in Hell's Gate realizing he had been at Warraz al-Sidar were pretty damned high.

Those odds had been even more on his side before somebody got the bright idea of transferring all those fanatical bastards here. This prison had been a good, anonymous place for him to hole up until that happened.

Now he might have to start giving some thought to moving on, finding some other isolated spot, where nobody would think to look for a man wanted by the authorities at the highest level.

All because he hadn't been able to turn a blind eye to what was going on. All because he had tried to do the right thing . . .

“Will those chairs be all right?” Baldwin asked Alexis Devereaux as he gestured toward a pair of dark blue wing chairs.

“Can that one be turned so that I can look directly at the inmate?” she said.

“Sure.” Baldwin adjusted the chair himself. “How's that?”

Alexis looked at the woman with the camera—Riley Nichols was her name, Kincaid recalled—and asked, “Will that work?”

“Sure,” Riley said.

Kincaid had caught her sneaking glances at him. That was worrisome. She was in the news business. If she had a good memory for faces, she might recall that she had seen his somewhere, even though he had changed some in the past year.

Kincaid lowered his gaze to the floor and half-turned away from her. He wasn't going to make it easier for her to recognize him.

John Howard Stark came over to the counter while Baldwin continued talking to Alexis Devereaux and Travis Jessup. Quietly, Stark said, “We're sort of intruding on your bailiwick, aren't we, Lucas?”

“It's fine,” Kincaid said. “Like I told the warden, he has the right to do whatever he wants.”

“You don't feel a little territorial?”

Kincaid grunted. “About a prison library? Please.”

In a way, though, Stark had a point. Kincaid's apartment was just a place to eat and sleep. It wasn't really home.

He could never go back to his actual home in Louisiana. Even being next door, so to speak, in Texas probably wasn't wise if he wanted to keep his family safe. At least he was on the other side of Texas from them, and this was a pretty big state.

He had reconciled himself to the fact that he would never see them again. It wasn't easy . . . but it was best.

So maybe Stark was right. This library was his territory. The closest thing to a home he had right now.

And it was being invaded by a loudmouthed, liberal lady lawyer. Soon a cold-blooded killer whose only real goal in life was to massacre innocent Americans was going to be brought in here as well.

Both of them were threats to the America where Kincaid had grown up.

And to be honest, he didn't know which type posed the biggest danger in the long run. He thought maybe it was easier to fight an avowed enemy from without than it was to combat the liberal rot from within.

The real enemies of the United States know how to exploit the country's weaknesses. How to burrow deep within the system. How to do things that appeared innocuous, even benevolent, when all the while they were designed to bring down everything good about the nation and make it impossible for the American way of life to carry on. And they would do it all with smiles on their faces, promising to make things better. We're from the government, and we're here to help you.

That was the true evil, the true threat facing the United States.

And Kincaid didn't like having it in his library, but there wasn't a blasted thing he could do about it.

“What about that inmate, Warden?” Alexis asked with an impatient note in her voice.

“I already made the call,” Baldwin said. “A security team should be bringing him in here in a few minutes.”

True to Baldwin's prediction, only a couple more minutes had passed when they heard footsteps in the corridor. A pair of guards wearing protective gear and helmets and carrying shotguns appeared in the doorway.

“Ready to bring the prisoner in, Warden,” one of them said to Baldwin, who nodded for them to go ahead.

The guard who had spoken nodded in turn to someone out in the corridor, then he and his companions came into the library and flanked the entrance. Another guard backed in, shotgun at the ready.

A prisoner in an orange jumpsuit followed him, shuffling awkwardly because of the leg irons clamped around his ankles. His wrists were manacled together, too, and a chain ran from those cuffs to a ringbolt set into a wide leather belt strapped around his waist. He had to hold his hands close together in front of him with only a couple of inches of play in any direction.

The man had a close-cropped dark beard touched in a place or two with gray. His hair was equally dark, but long, hanging down over his ears and almost touching his shoulders. His face was thin enough that Kincaid figured he had gone on a hunger strike sometime in the past, while being held at another facility.

Three more shotgun-toting guards came into the library after the prisoner. The room was getting a little crowded.

The prisoner's eyes immediately found Alexis Devereaux. He must have read the sympathy in her eyes, because he said in English with a slight British accent, “I appear to be completely harmless, don't you think?”

“You certainly do,” she assured him. She turned to Baldwin and snapped, “Is it absolutely necessary to treat this man in such a degrading fashion?”

“He's a highly dangerous prisoner,” Baldwin said. “He masterminded an attack on one of our embassies that killed more than a dozen Americans.”

The prisoner said, “They were war criminals executed by men fighting for the freedom of our people.”

“As I recall, the suicide bombers who actually carried out the attack were women and children,” Baldwin said.

“Allegedly.” The answer was cool, arrogant.

“He's right,” Alexis said. “He's presumed innocent until proven guilty. Have you forgotten that, Warden?”

“I haven't forgotten anything.”

With a smirk, the prisoner said, “You haven't introduced us, Warden. You seem to have forgotten that.”

Baldwin grunted. Kincaid heard the contempt in the sound.

“Ms. Devereaux, this is Abu Rahal.”

“And I know, of course,” Rahal said, “who Ms. Devereaux is. Your efforts on behalf of political prisoners worldwide are well-known and much appreciated,
madame
.”

“You're welcome,” Alexis said, all but preening under the praise.

Baldwin reached out as if he were about to take hold of Rahal's arm, then stopped himself with a vaguely repulsed look, like he had realized he was about to touch something unclean.

He turned the movement into a gesture toward the chairs.

“Sit down,” he instructed Rahal.

“I would be more comfortable if my hands and feet were free.”

“Well, nobody else in here would be.”

“Speak for yourself, Warden,” Alexis said. “I don't mind if Mr. Rahal's restraints are removed.”

“That's not going to happen,” Baldwin said. “Let's get on with this. I want this over with.”

“So that you can send this man back to his confinement?” Alexis asked.

“So that we can quit running this security risk. Sit down, Rahal.”

The terrorist shuffled over to one of the chairs and carefully sat down. Alexis took the seat opposite him. Riley Nichols moved closer, keeping the camera trained on Rahal while Travis Jessup intoned a low-voiced introduction.

Then Alexis leaned forward with a sincere smile and said, “Thank you for agreeing to speak with me, Mr. Rahal.”

“It is my pleasure,” he said, “although I was given no choice in the matter.”

Instantly, a look of professional concern appeared on Alexis's face. She said, “Were you threatened or in any way coerced to come here and speak with me?”

Baldwin said, “There were no threats—”

“I asked Mr. Rahal, not you,” Alexis cut in coldly.

Kincaid thought the warden looked like he could chew nails right about now, but somehow Baldwin controlled his temper and didn't say anything else.

“My continued illegal imprisonment is coercion enough, don't you think?” Rahal asked. “The rest of the world knows that the United States is holding me and my fellow fighters for freedom without any right to do so. Sooner or later those who persecute us will be held accountable for their crimes. Judgment is coming for them.”

“Some might say that sounds like a threat.”

Rahal shook his head. “I make no threats. Islam is a religion of peace. We seek only justice and respect.”

“Have you been mistreated since you've been brought here to Hell's Gate?”

Rahal's face twisted for a second. Kincaid saw the hatred there before Rahal was able to control it and restore the blandly pleasant mask he wore.

“I am a devout man. Is it not mistreatment to force me to live in a place called Hell's Gate? When I pass from this world, my destination will be Heaven, not Hell.”

Where ninety-nine beautiful virgins would be waiting for him as a martyr, Kincaid thought. He had heard that bullcrap over and over. Some of the foot soldiers in the fanatical Islamist movement probably even believed it.

Not the leaders, though. They didn't care what awaited them on the other side, if anything.

All that really mattered to them was their hate and their lust for inflicting pain on America.

“Are you allowed to conduct your religious practices? Can you pray as your faith demands?”

“We are allowed to practice our religion . . . although it is difficult, surrounded by infidels as we are.”

“Is there anything you'd like to say to America?”

Rahal glanced at the camera and asked, “This is going out live?”

Alexis had to glance at Jessup for the answer to that question. Jessup looked at the soundman, who was in touch with the truck outside. The tall, bearded man nodded, and Jessup said, “Yes, this is going out live to the entire country, Ms. Devereaux.”

She smiled and said, “If you have a message for the country, Mr. Rahal, now is the time to deliver it.”

“Very well.” Rahal took a deep breath. “I do have something I want to say . . . you filthy American whore.”

Alexis gasped in surprise. Rahal ignored her and leaned forward to stare into the camera with a cold, hate-filled glare.

“When I said judgment is coming to America, I meant it will be delivered with a sword! All unbelievers will die, cut down by the righteous wrath of Allah's warriors! We will gut you like the pigs you are and sing praises to God for the rivers of your blood we spill! America will die and its corpse will rot! Allahu akbar! God is great!”

As soon as Rahal's rant had started, John Howard Stark had stiffened and started to take a step toward the prisoner. Kincaid leaned over the counter and touched the big Texan's arm. When Stark glanced at him, Kincaid shook his head.

He understood how Stark felt. He wanted to go over there and shut up that evil, raving lunatic, too.

But maybe this was a good thing, Kincaid mused. Maybe all the people who were sympathetic to the terrorists would see for themselves just how crazy they were.

The guards reacted to Rahal's tirade, too, moving in with their weapons ready in case the man tried to fling himself across the intervening space at Alexis Devereaux.

The stunned expression on Alexis's face was priceless. She had devoted herself to defending Rahal and his fellow terrorists, and now, without warning, he had thrown her sympathy back in her face and called her a filthy whore.

The abrupt 180-degree change in Rahal's attitude had even rendered Travis Jessup speechless, something that couldn't have happened very often. He stood there with his mouth hanging open as if he couldn't believe what he had just heard.