Stand Your Ground (31 page)

Hamil walked along the line of captives, and as he did so he pulled the hoods off them one by one. With each terrified face that he revealed, he announced the prisoner's name.

“Brent Sanger . . . Peter Garcia . . . Kevin Caldwell . . . Theo Morris . . . Jack Conley . . . Steve Brashears.” Hamil reached the end of the line. “These young men are all members of the Fuego High School football team. Their only concerns should be their team, their schoolwork, their girlfriends. And yet earlier today they took up arms against the holy cause of Islam. They are responsible for the deaths of valiant freedom fighters who even now receive their just rewards as martyrs in Heaven. I call on them to kneel and ask forgiveness.”

Close-up after close-up of the prisoners appeared on TV screens all over the country. Their faces were pale with fright, streaked with tears, and yet stubborn defiance still shone in their eyes. Hamil's mouth thinned into a grim, angry line when he saw that.

Not one of the prisoners knelt. Hamil confronted one of them and asked tautly, “Don't you want to live, boy?”

“When I hit my knees it's to pray, not to beg for anything from scum like you, mister,” the young man said.

With an effort, Hamil controlled his rage. He turned to the camera again and said, “There can be no forgiveness for infidels.”

He strode away from the captives. The gunmen who had gathered into a group behind the ballplayers opened fire.

In control rooms across the country, directors tried to cut away so they wouldn't be accused later of showing this mass execution on live TV. But no matter how quickly buttons were pushed and switches were thrown and keyboards were tapped, enough footage went out over the air to produce indelible images.

Images of innocent young men screaming in agony as scores of bullets ripped into their bodies . . . images of bright red blood spurting into the air and splashing across the green turf... images of bodies literally shredded into pieces by the storm of lead . . .

When the carnage was over, Hamil said into the camera, “America, you have until dawn to turn over our brothers now being held in Hell's Gate prison. If that does not happen, then you—all of you—will be responsible for the deaths of more of the people of Fuego.” He gestured, and the camera followed the movement to show the hundreds of prisoners in the stands. Then it went back to Hamil, who said, “Their blood will be on your hands. Remember . . . you have until dawn.”

Then the feed from West Texas went dark.

Hamil knew that all over the country, people would be crying and wailing over what they had just seen. Some would be in their bathrooms getting sick. Others would be cursing him in the most blasphemous terms.

None of that mattered to him. The only thing he cared about was knowing that he had just won. By morning the American government would be glad to cooperate with him to prevent another such atrocity.

Because Americans were weak. They didn't understand that sometimes a righteous cause required payment in blood.

Hamil looked at the heaps of bloody, quivering flesh that had been six young men, heaved a sigh of satisfaction, and whispered, “Allahu akbar.”

Even though day and night didn't mean much in the maximum security wing, Stark and his allies knew that night had fallen because the skylights in the exercise area had grown dark. Some of the lights in the wing had been turned off as well, at Mitch Cambridge's suggestion. They didn't have an inexhaustible supply of fuel for the generators, and they didn't know how long they would be trapped in here, so it was wise to lessen the load on the power supply as much as possible.

One area where they hadn't skimped was in the lighting and video coverage of the approach to the wing. Whatever the terrorists tried next would come from that direction.

Stark was walking along the wing when someone hailed him. He looked over and recognized Albert Carbona, the old mobster, along with Billy Gardner, Carbona's former bodyguard, and J.J. Lockhart and Simon Winslow.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Carbona?” Stark asked as he came up to the four men.

“Mr. Stark, we been thinkin',” Carbona said. “Now, don't just say no without considerin' my proposition.”

“It sounds like you think that might be exactly what I'll say.”

“I'm just askin' you not to be narrow-minded. My friends here and I, we got a lot to offer.”

“I'm listening,” Stark said.

Carbona said, “We think you should give us guns.”

That came as no surprise to Stark. He'd had a hunch that was where this conversation was going.

“That's not my decision. Lucas Kincaid is in charge since the warden is wounded.”

“Yeah, turns out the guy is more than just a librarian, right? Who'd'a figured? By the way, how's the warden doin'? Mr. Baldwin's a right guy, ya know?”

“He's resting as comfortably as possible under the circumstances,” Stark said. “He needs some real medical care, of course.”

“Yeah, I hope he gets it soon. But what about our idea?”

Stark shook his head and said, “I don't think Kincaid is going to agree to arm you.”

“Why not?” Billy Gardner asked. “When it comes to those damn terrorists, we're all on the same side, ain't we?”

J.J. Lockhart put in, “And we may wind up having to protect ourselves, Stark. We can't do it with our bare hands.”

Lockhart actually had a point, Stark thought. If the terrorists ever made it in here, the defenders would need every able-bodied man fighting as hard as he could.

“I'll talk to Kincaid,” he said. “But I don't make any promises.”

“That's all we ask,” Carbona said. “Just think about it.”

Stark nodded and started to turn away, but Simon Winslow stopped him by saying, “Mr. Stark, do we know what's going on in the outside world?”

“All we know is that there was some bad trouble in Fuego. But I don't have any details.”

“You don't have any communications?”

Stark shook his head and said, “Nobody's phones work, and the computer network is off-line. They've blocked it somehow.”

Winslow smiled.

“I might be able to do something about that,” he said quietly.

Stark recalled that Winslow's specialty was computers—and that was putting it mildly. He had used his hacking skills to steal millions of dollars. Or was it billions?

If anybody could get them connected again, it was Simon Winslow.

“All right, come with me,” he said.

“What about our request?” Carbona asked.

“I'll talk to Kincaid.”

“Fair enough. Thanks, Mr. Stark. Tell him he's got my word that we won't double-cross you guys. And anybody in my line of work can tell you, Albert Carbona's word is his bond.”

Oddly enough, Stark found himself believing the mobster. He nodded to Carbona and led Simon Winslow toward the guard station where Kincaid and Cambridge were.

When they came in, Stark noticed Alexis Devereaux and Riley Nichols sitting together in a corner of the room. Alexis was still crying, and Riley had her arm around the older woman's shoulders. Even though it had come out that Riley despised Alexis, she was still trying to comfort her. That was the sort of person Riley was, Stark supposed. Compassion came first.

Funny how those on the left always insisted that conservatives were heartless bastards who wanted to starve the children and push Grandma off a cliff. And yet studies had shown again and again that conservatives not only donated more money to charity, they spent more time volunteering and actually helping people than liberals did. Most conservatives he'd known were quick to help somebody who was really down on his luck. Even when they didn't have much themselves, they had a generosity of spirit that drove them to do whatever they could to lend somebody a hand.

That came from the way they'd been raised, Stark reflected. Them, and the generation before them, and the one before that, and right on back up the line to the Greatest Generation. And yet a liberal wouldn't believe that a conservative could ever do anything good, even if he saw the evidence of it with his own eyes.

It was a real shame that the so-called champions of tolerance were so filled with hate for anybody who disagreed with them.

Stark led Winslow over to the control console where Kincaid and Cambridge were sitting and talking quietly. One of the other guards was posted at the sally port with a rifle to shoot anything that moved down at the other end of the corridor.

“What's up, John Howard?” Kincaid asked as he looked at Stark and Winslow.

“Simon here thinks he might be able to get the computers working again,” Stark said.

Cambridge said, “It's against the rules for Winslow to touch a computer—” He stopped short and then laughed humorlessly. “I guess the rules don't really mean much anymore, do they?”

Winslow said, “Look, the last thing on my mind is trying anything criminal. I mean, I'm worried about surviving here. Maybe it would help if we could get in touch with the outside world.”

“Somebody in the main office has taken all the computers off-line,” Kincaid said.

“I'll bet that's what they want you to think,” Winslow said with a smile. “I guarantee they've left themselves a back door to gain access. And if they can program it, I can find it and crack it.”

Kincaid frowned and asked, “You think?”

“I
know.
”

Kincaid looked at Cambridge and shrugged.

“Might be worth a try,” Kincaid said. “Simon's got a point. It wouldn't do him any good to try to steal anything if he's not alive in the morning to benefit from it.”

“I say we give him a chance,” Stark put in.

Cambridge thought about it for a few seconds and then nodded. He stood up and waved Winslow into the chair where he'd been sitting.

“Go to it, Simon. Find out what's happened in Fuego and see if you can get in touch with the authorities. We need to know if any help is on the way.”

“Give me a few minutes,” Winslow said as he sat down and pulled a keyboard to him. “A half-hour, tops.”

While Winslow's fingers were moving too fast on the keys for Stark to follow them, Stark turned and went over to Riley and Alexis. The lawyer was still sniffling, but she'd stopped sobbing. Her eyes were red and swollen.

“Is . . . is
it
still out there?” she asked Stark.

He knew she was talking about Andy Frazier's head. He said, “We can't very well go and get it.”

“Somebody . . . somebody should
do
something.”

Somebody should do something, thought Stark. The motto of the liberal. Somebody—meaning the government, most of the time—should do something—with the taxes all those evil rich people had been forced to pay—about something, anything, whatever. Some folks don't have insurance? Well, let's wreck the insurance industry and cripple health care for everybody, just so long as we
do
something about it. Somebody with mental health issues so dangerous he should be locked up for his own protection, as well as everybody else's—almost without exception a Democrat, at that—gets hold of a gun and kills a bunch of people, so let's pass a bunch of new laws that will do absolutely nothing to prevent such tragic occurrences, laws that criminals will laugh at and ignore, laws that won't accomplish anything except to inconvenience honest, law-abiding citizens, and oh, by the way, make it easier for the government to come and take any legally owned guns away from those honest, law-abiding citizens should they decide to, but we have to do it anyway because . . . somebody should
do
something.

These days, folks with half a brain in their heads didn't know whether to laugh or cry over what had happened to the country.

“I'm sorry, Ms. Devereaux,” Stark said quietly. “It's a terrible, terrible thing your friend did.”

“You can't blame that on Phillip—”

“Oh, for God's sake,” Riley said. “You saw him with your own eyes, Alexis. You watched while he cut that poor kid's throat. We all did.”

Alexis started crying again. Between sobs, she choked out, “But . . . but Islam is a religion of peace.”

Stark and Riley exchanged a despairing glance. Stark shook his head.

“All right, guys,” Simon Winslow announced. “I'm in. There was a back door, just like I thought.”

Stark turned to go back to the console. Riley stood up, leaving Alexis crying this time, and joined him. Kincaid and Cambridge were already looking over the inmate's shoulders. As Stark and Riley came up, Riley laid a hand on Kincaid's shoulder. Stark noticed that and thought that if they lived through this, Kincaid needed to do whatever it took to hang on to that woman.

Unfortunately, given everything that Kincaid had told Stark about his past and the people who were after him, that might not be possible.

Somehow, Winslow had pulled up a live news feed from the football stadium in Fuego and put it on one of the monitors. The five of them leaned forward to watch it.

And as they did, as they watched six fine young men, six innocent young men, murdered in cold blood, expressions of horror slowly etched themselves on their faces.

Stark looked at Phillip Hamil's face, saw the smirk of arrogance and satisfaction on it, so proud of the wanton slaughter, and one thought burned through Stark's brain.

Somehow, before this was all over, that son of a bitch needed to die.

At the Simmons farm, Lee Blaisdell had spent quite a while talking to Governor Delgado on Colonel Atkinson's shielded, encrypted satellite phone. He could tell that everything he told her shocked her to the very core of her being.

Then Lee had handed the phone back to Atkinson, and the colonel had had a long conversation with the governor, one that, judging by Atkinson's expression, was pretty upsetting at times. When that talk was over, Atkinson motioned for Lee and Flannery to follow him outside.

Janey tagged along. Lee didn't try to send her back. He wanted to keep her with him as much as possible, wanted to feel her hand warm in his.

Besides, whatever the colonel had to tell them, Lee figured it would be a good idea to get Janey's take on it, too. She was probably smarter than he was, and he didn't have a problem admitting that and seeking her advice.

Atkinson walked out a short distance from the farmhouse. Millions of stars burned brightly in the chilly night sky overhead.

“Governor Delgado and I agree that we have to make a move, and it can't wait,” Atkinson said. “While we were talking, something else happened. The governor had to step away from the phone for a few minutes to watch the news coverage on TV. It seems that Phillip Hamil, the leader of the Sword of Islam, has executed some of his hostages.”

“No!” Janey exclaimed. “My God, how . . . how could anybody . . .”

In a flat, grim voice, Atkinson went on, “He took a young man out to the prison and beheaded him so the defenders could see it.”

“Do you know who it was?” Lee asked. He knew that whatever Atkinson said, the answer was going to sicken and horrify him.

“A high school boy named Andy Frazier.”

Janey put her hands over her face and started to sob.

“I guess you know him,” Atkinson went on.

“Yeah, we do,” Lee said, trying to keep emotion from choking his voice. “He was the quarterback on the high school football team. A really good kid, too.”

“Well, it gets worse,” Atkinson said. “Hamil had six more members of the team machine-gunned at the stadium, in front of millions of people on live TV. The guy's totally insane now. He may think he's doing God's work, but he's really just a mad-dog killer.”

“Six more kids,” Lee murmured.

“Is . . . is this nightmare ever going to end?” Janey managed to say between sobs.

Atkinson nodded curtly and said, “Yes, ma'am, it is. Before morning, in fact. Hamil issued a deadline. If those terrorists in Hell's Gate aren't released by dawn, he's going to kill more of the hostages. He's hinted that he's got that whole football stadium wired to blow.”

Flannery asked, “How can you stop him? Even if you have a force of men on the way, they can't fight their way in past that federal cordon. Even if a few of them get through, the others will be wiped out or captured.”

“That's why they're not going through the cordon,” Atkinson said. “They're going over it.”

“How are they going to do that?”

The colonel took a cigar from his shirt pocket and put it in his mouth. He didn't light it. Instead he asked around it, “Ever hear of HALO?”

“The old computer game?” Lee asked with a frown.

Atkinson shook his head.

“It stands for high altitude, low opening. Our men will be coming in by parachute.”

“What about the no-fly zone?” Flannery asked.

“That's where the high altitude part comes in. The planes will be so high up they'll be able to escape detection.”

Lee said, “You've got the resources to do something like that?”

“This is Texas,” Atkinson said, grinning around the cigar. “We find a way to get things done.”

Flannery frowned and said, “The feds won't like this when they find out about it.”

“Well, it'll be too late to do anything about it by then. And right now, I don't think the governor gives a damn what the feds like or don't like.”

“This is a chance to hit those bastards without them knowin' that it's comin',” Lee said. “When's this gonna happen?”

“It'll take a while to set up,” Atkinson said, “but that's all right. If everything goes according to plan, the drop will be about an hour before dawn. We'll be there in time to stop Hamil.”

“We?” Janey repeated.

“I'm not going to miss out on the finish,” Atkinson said.

“Neither am I,” said Flannery. “Anyway, if we launch an attack of our own, it'll serve as a distraction to help the paratroopers get down safely.”

“Exactly what I was thinking. So you're in, Lieutenant?”

“I'm in,” Flannery said grimly.

“So am I,” Lee declared.

Janey took hold of his arm and said, “Don't you think you've done enough already, Lee?”

He shook his head and said, “I'm sorry, Janey, but I don't. Not by a long shot.”

 

 

The argument continued most of the night, with Lee insisting that he had to go along with the small force led by Colonel Atkinson, while Janey tried to persuade him not to risk his life again.

When she played the pregnancy card, the “leave your son to be raised without a father” card, that had almost been enough to sway him.

But then he said, “What kind of world would it be if folks won't stand up for what's right?”

“
This
kind of world!” she said. “Look around you, Lee. Relatively speaking, do you see anybody but a handful of people who even worry about what's right and what's wrong anymore? Most of them are too busy wondering what the government's going to give them this month!”

“That doesn't change things,” Lee insisted stubbornly.

“All right!” Janey said as she threw her hands in the air. “I give up. Go and get your head shot off! See if I care. But you can bet I'll tell Bubba what a reckless fool his daddy was.”

Those words hurt, sure enough, but as Janey stomped off, Lee told himself it didn't matter. Nothing really worthwhile came without pain and sacrifice.

And Lee couldn't think of anything more worthwhile for a fella to do than to stand his ground against evil.

Before even the faint flush of gray in the eastern sky heralding the approach of dawn appeared, Atkinson gathered the men at the farm. They all carried as many guns and as much ammunition as they could. There was no point in holding anything back. One way or another, this was going to be the end.

Lee was about to climb into Gibby's pickup. The big youngster had been freshly devastated by the news of Andy's death, along with those of the other members of the team who had been executed by the terrorists. In less than twenty-four hours, Ernie Gibbs had lost his brother, his best friend, and half a dozen more friends and teammates. It was entirely possible that Gibby's parents were dead in Fuego, too. How could any young man cope with that much loss?

Gibby was behind the wheel, though, apparently ready to go. Lee paused with the door open and asked, “You okay, Gibby?”

“No, sir,” Gibby answered without hesitation. “I don't figure I ever will be again. But takin' the fight to those terrorists is the only thing I can still do for Chuck and Andy and everybody else.”

“I reckon you're right about that,” Lee said.

He was about to climb into the cab when he heard his name called behind him.

He turned and Janey rushed into his arms, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him. The kiss shook Lee right down to his toes.

“You come back safe and sound,” Janey said when she took her mouth away from his. “Don't you dare do anything else, you hear me, Lee Blaisdell?”

Lee grinned and said, “I hear you. Don't worry about that. I hear you loud and clear.”

Letting go and stepping away from her was one of the hardest things he'd ever done.

But there were monsters waiting in Fuego, monsters that had to be exterminated if there was ever going to be any justice in the world. It was up to Lee and the men with him to see that it was done.

A few minutes later, the heavily armed convoy started toward town. The drivers steered by starlight, since the headlights on all the vehicles were dark.

Earlier, Atkinson had said, “If the terrorists have a pipeline into the NSA and Department of Defense and can access their satellite intel, they'll be able to use infrared to see that we're on the move. So they may be ready for us.”

“That's what we want, isn't it?” Flannery had asked. “We want them concentrating on us instead of watching the skies.”

“That's right. But it does put us in sort of a precarious position.”

“Not as precarious as those poor folks in that football stadium,” Lee had said. No one could argue with that.

So none of them had any doubt that they were doing the right thing as they headed for Fuego. They would do whatever was necessary to break the terrorists' hold on the town.

At the same time, Lee was going to do his level best to stay alive, too. For Janey, and for their child. No way he was gonna go and get himself killed when he hadn't even had a chance to say hello to that little rascal.

The lights around the football field were visible for a long way in this mostly flat West Texas terrain. That was their destination for two reasons. The terrorists would expect them to head for there, since that was where the hostages were being kept, and so that would serve the purpose of being a distraction. Not only that, but maybe when the force sent by the governor arrived and launched the real attack, Lee and his group would be in position to free some or all of those prisoners . . . perhaps without getting themselves and everybody else blown up in the process.

Atkinson and Sgt. Porter were leading the convoy in the pickup they had stolen in town the previous afternoon. Porter brought the vehicle to a stop when they were about a mile from the stadium. Lee and Flannery joined the colonel next to the pickup.

Atkinson was chewing on a cigar again. He said, “All right, we'll spread out in a line to advance from here. I want at least fifty yards between each vehicle.”

“That's spreading out, all right,” Flannery said. “Spreading pretty thin.”

“They'll have to devote more resources to stopping us that way,” Atkinson explained. “Also, a lucky shot won't take out but one vehicle. And they'll make some lucky shots, I think we all know we can count on that. We won't all come through this alive, gentlemen. But then, that's true of life itself, isn't it?”

“Are we ready to go?” Lee asked tensely. “I'm ready to get this over with.”

“Patience, Officer. I'm just waiting for a signal—”

As if on cue, the satellite phone buzzed. The colonel took it out of his pocket and said, “Atkinson . . . Yes, I understand . . . Thank you, Governor. We'll do our best.”

He broke the connection, stowed the phone away, and looked at the men gathered around him in the starlight.

“The planes have successfully penetrated the no-fly zone at high altitude. The drop will be in approximately seven minutes. From that high, it'll take about three minutes for our men to reach the ground. So we have to keep those bastards busy for the next ten minutes or so. Let's go!”