Stand Your Ground (30 page)

Martin Corey limped out of the Simmons farmhouse before Janey could say anything else to Lee about what had happened in Fuego. The bloody rag that he had tied around his left thigh explained the limp.

“They were waiting for us, Lee,” Martin said in a hollow voice. “The bastards knew we were coming.”

“They knew about us, too,” Lee said. “It was a trap all the way around.” He gestured toward Martin's leg. “How bad are you wounded?”

“This?” Martin waved a hand at the makeshift bandage. “Hurts like hell, but the bullet missed the bone. Once we got the bleeding stopped, I was all right. It'll heal. I may limp for the rest of my life . . .” He laughed. “But that probably won't be too long, will it?”

“Don't talk like that, Martin,” Janey told him. “We'll find a way out of this.” She looked at Lee again. “Maybe we should all load up and leave. Just get out of this part of the country and never come back.”

Colonel Atkinson had climbed out of the back of the pickup with the others and now leaned against its fender, his attitude appearing casual when it was probably anything but. He said, “I wouldn't recommend that, Mrs. Blaisdell.”

“Who's this?” Janey asked Lee. “I don't remember ever seeing him around town before.”

“This is Colonel Atkinson,” Lee explained. “He, uh, works for the governor.”

“Governor Delgado?”

“Yep. She sent him and some other folks in to take a look around and figure out what needs to be done.”

Atkinson straightened and came over to them. He nodded to Janey and said, “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Blaisdell. I wish it were under better circumstances.”

“So do I,” Janey said curtly. “What did you mean, it wouldn't be a good idea to get out of here? Do you think the terrorists would stop us?”

“Probably not. I'd say there's a good chance they know where you are right now. They could come after you if they wanted to. You're insignificant to them right now. What you'd have to worry about is running into the cordon set up by Homeland Security.”

Janey shook her head and said, “I still don't understand. Wouldn't they help us?”

“I reckon maybe I get it,” Lee said. “From what you were sayin' earlier, Colonel, it sounds like some of the people runnin' things in the government don't want the truth about what's happenin' here getting out to the public.”

“Exactly,” Atkinson said. “Those Homeland Security agents might ‘help' you right into a lockup somewhere. I'm talking about the kind of place where they throw you down a hole and nobody ever sees you again.”

Janey looked back and forth between the two men and said, “That's crazy! Nobody could get away with such a thing in this country.”

“Just like the Democrats couldn't get away with their candidates receiving more votes in some precincts than there are registered voters?” Atkinson asked with a cocked eyebrow. “You wouldn't think that could happen, either, but it has in every national election for more than a decade now. I hate to tell you this, Mrs. Blaisdell, but this isn't the country you think it is. Not anymore.”

A look of hopelessness appeared on Janey's face. She asked, “Then what can we
do
?”

“Fight back,” Atkinson said.

Martin said angrily, “How are we going to do that? We had close to forty men, and less than a dozen of us made it back from Fuego. The rest were all killed or captured. Half the town's been wiped out, and all the rest are prisoners. We might be able to come up with fifty or sixty more people if we scoured every farm and ranch in the county, but that wouldn't be enough to make a dent in those terrorists.”

“That's why you need help from outside.”

“But you just said the government won't help us!” Martin exclaimed.

Atkinson held up a finger.

“I said the federal government won't help you. I didn't say anything about the State of Texas.”

“What are you talking about?” Flannery asked. “I can see the governor ordering the rest of the Rangers in, but there aren't enough of us to recapture the town. Maybe if she called in all the DPS troopers, too . . .”

Flannery's voice trailed off as Atkinson shook his head.

“No offense, Lieutenant, but I'm not talking about law enforcement personnel,” the colonel said. “I'm talking about soldiers. One of the first things Governor Delgado did when she took office was to get me on her team. I was placed in charge of putting together a military force that can respond to dangerous situations when the feds either can't or won't.”

“Or situations where the feds
are
the enemy?” Lee guessed.

“I won't comment on that, Officer. You'll have to draw your own conclusions. But I can tell you that the call went out earlier today. Men are gathering from all over the state. Some are law enforcement, some are ex-military, some are what used to be called soldiers of fortune.”

“You mean mercenaries,” Martin said.

“No. Mercenaries work for anybody who pays them. The sort of man I'm talking about sells his fighting skills, all right, but not necessarily to the highest bidder. He wants to put his talents to what he considers a good use.”

“How many men are we talking about?” Lee asked.

“Upwards of a thousand . . . but they won't all be able to get here. I'd say there's probably a well-armed force of four or five hundred heading this way already. Enough to do the job.”

Flannery said, “Homeland Security won't let them through.”

“What Homeland Security doesn't know, they can't do anything about,” Atkinson said.

“How can you get a force that big into Fuego without anybody knowing?”

Atkinson glanced at the sky.

“It'll be dark soon,” he said. “I think we can figure something out. Right now, though, we need to get on the horn to the governor. Lee, you need to tell her everything you've told me. If she's going to commit that many men . . . if she's going to take action that the federal government will regard as a slap in the face, with God knows what consequences . . . she has to know that it's necessary.”

“It's necessary, all right,” Lee said. “Even if those terrorists got everything they wanted, you reckon they'd leave any of us alive behind them?”

“Not a one,” Atkinson replied grimly. “When you get right down to it, killing infidels means more to them than anything else.”

 

 

Night fell, and an uneasy peace descended on Fuego. The Sword of Islam remained in firm control of the town. In the football stadium next to the high school, the hundreds of prisoners—hostages was probably a better term to describe them—huddled together on the bleacher seats because they were cold and scared. At this time of year, the days were often still warm, even downright hot, but the dry West Texas air cooled quickly once the sun went down.

More prisoners had been brought in a short time earlier, the survivors from what had sounded like a fierce, if short-lived, battle. Among them were several members of the Fuego High School Fighting Mules, who had known moments of both victory and defeat in this stadium.

Tonight, all of them had to be wondering if they had played their final game.

In the rest of the world, most eyes remained focused on Fuego and on Hell's Gate prison, several miles out of town. The cable channels were full of the story. There wasn't much new to report, but that had never stopped network talking heads from talking. Everybody had an opinion.

The White House was saying very little except that the area remained under military quarantine. The Texas governor had no comment at all, deferring all questions to the federal government. That was unusual for the normally outspoken Maria Delgado, but with everything else that was going on, no one paid much attention to it.

In major cities across the country, martial law had been declared because of riots by Muslim protesters in support of the Sword of Islam. The local mayors and police departments had to make do with the resources they had on hand, because so far, requests for assistance from the National Guard had gone unanswered, leading a few conservative commentators to wonder if the administration actually sympathized with the rioters.

Such an idea was roundly and loudly condemned as racist hate speech by those on the left, of course.

As far as what was going to happen next, no one really knew . . . but the whole world seemed to be holding its breath as it waited to find out.

 

 

In the motel on the eastern edge of town, Jerry Patel was drunk. Had it really been only forty-eight hours since the man called Fareed had walked into the office, said the word “Judgment,” and started this seemingly never-ending horror show in motion?

Surely that had been at least a week ago, Patel thought as he stared into his glass of whiskey. It seemed more like a month.

He was a terrible Muslim, he told himself. He shouldn't be drinking like this. He would never know the delights of Heaven that Dr. Hamil had promised to all those who took part in this holy war against the Americans.

He wondered if he got in his car and drove away, would they let him go? Or was he trapped here, trapped in his own way just like the infidels who had been marched into the football stadium at gunpoint?

A car stopped in front of the office. Patel looked up, his vision fuzzy from the alcohol. It took him a second to recognize the man who got out of the car as Dr. Phillip Hamil.

Patel was sitting behind the counter. He pushed himself shakily to his feet as Hamil stalked into the office.

“Doctor,” he said. “Wha . . . what can I do for you?”

Hamil stopped and frowned at him.

“Are you drunk, Jerry?” he demanded. “Have you really turned into that much of an American, that you have to take refuge from reality in a bottle?”

“I . . . I didn't expect it to be like this.”

“How did you expect it to be? Did you think we would walk in here, tell the godless American devils our demands, and they would just give us what we wanted?”

“I didn't know so many people would . . . would have to die.”

Hamil nodded solemnly and said, “It's true, many of our brothers in arms have martyred themselves for our sacred cause.”

“No, I was talking about—”

Patel stopped short and looked ashamed.

“I know what you were talking about,” Hamil said in a quiet but cold and dangerous voice. “You've grown weak, Jerry. You think of the infidels as people, not as enemies of Allah to be destroyed in any way possible.”

Patel shook his head emphatically. That made him sick, so he had to struggle not to throw up.

“I understand, Doctor, I truly do,” he was able to say after a moment. “I've done everything that was asked of me.”

“Yes,” Hamil admitted, “you have. Despite your moments of weakness, you have been a most excellent servant of the Prophet, Jerry. No one will forget that.”

“Th-thank you, sir. If there's anything I can do for you . . .”

“No, I just came back to get a few hours of sleep. Nothing seems to be happening right now.” Hamil's mouth twisted in a grimace. “All this should have been over by now. Our brothers should have been freed. It took us too long to subdue the Americans here, I suppose, and then the ones inside the prison have proven to be more stubborn than I expected. Tomorrow—”

Hamil stopped. A fresh determination came over his face.

“Tomorrow is too long to wait,” he went on. “The Americans need another reminder tonight.” He turned back toward the door, then paused and looked at Patel. “Thank you, Jerry.”

“Me? For what, Doctor?”

“For showing me how easy it is for a normal person to become discouraged.”

“Oh. Well, I . . . I'm glad . . . I guess.”

“I don't want the Americans going to sleep tonight thinking that they can wait us out. I want their dreams to be haunted by the inevitable results of their own evil.”

Hamil had looked weary when he came in, but he seemed filled with renewed energy now as he walked out of the motel office, Patel thought.

That probably portended something bad for someone.

Something very bad.

 

 

The broadcast from Fuego came just before ten o'clock, local time. Hamil had waited a little while before putting his new plan into action. He wanted as much news coverage as possible.

When the video feed went live from the football stadium, the camera showed one end zone. Phillip Hamil stood there alone.

“Earlier today,” he began, “our humanitarian plea that our illegally imprisoned brothers be freed was ignored by the Americans still in partial control of the facility known as Hell's Gate. They have been given warning of the dire consequences that await if they continue their lawless, godless actions. To demonstrate our determination to triumph in our righteous cause, we were forced to give them an example of what their refusal has caused.”

Hamil nodded to someone offscreen, then added, “Do not look away. This is a reminder of what America has brought on itself.”

But all across the country, people did look away as video footage shot with a cell phone was cut into the broadcast. The grisly, sickening spectacle of Andy Frazier's beheading went out to the entire nation.

That video lasted only a little more than a minute. With a solemn expression, Hamil faced the camera again and continued, “The responsibility for this young man's tragic death rests solely on the shoulders of the American government and the American people. You have the power to prevent such things in the future by realizing that the Sword of Islam is blessed by Allah and that the Muslim people and their beliefs must be respected. In case you stubbornly refuse to understand this . . .”

Again he nodded to someone off-camera.

The camera swung slowly to reveal six figures standing to one side of the end zone, their hands tied behind their backs, hoods over their heads. Men with scarves wrapped around their faces to disguise them stood behind them with automatic weapons.