Stand Your Ground (34 page)

“They've blown the doors in the sally port!” Kincaid said as the ground still trembled under their feet. “We've got to get back there!”

Cambridge grabbed his arm to stop him.

“Wait a minute,” the young guard said. “We can't waste this chance, Lucas.”

“Chance?” Kincaid repeated. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“They'll be throwing everything they've got at the entrance to the maximum security wing. We can come out behind them and catch them in a cross fire.”

“Two men can't catch five hundred guys in a cross fire!”

“I wouldn't be so sure about that. There'll be so much racket, so many bullets flying around, we might be able to kill a lot of them before they even realize we're there.”

Even though Kincaid's instincts made him want to rush back to where he had left his friends, he realized that what Cambridge said made sense. Effectively using the things you had on your side was often at least half of winning a battle. He said, “You can put us in the corridor behind the main bunch of terrorists?”

“I can,” Cambridge stated.

“Let's go do it, then,” Kincaid said with a nod.

 

 

Raffir argued that his leader should stay back where it was safe. Dr. Hamil meant more to the Sword of Islam than just another fighter to be martyred in their holy cause.

Hamil appreciated that sentiment, but after everything that had happened, all the months of preparation, all the blood that had been spilled, there was no way he was going to miss out on the culmination of this glorious triumph.

He wasn't going to throw his life away recklessly, though. He wore a bulletproof vest and carried an AK-47. He thought he looked rather dashing—although Allah frowned on vanity and hubris, of course.

With satisfaction, he looked at the damage that had been done by the remote-controlled rocket launcher and bomb. Beyond the piles of rubble and the gaping holes where concrete walls had been, a crescendo of gunfire continued as members of the Sword of Islam fought their way along the cell block toward the last bastion of defenders at the far end.

“Another few minutes, Doctor,” Raffir said. “Another few minutes and it will be over. Our brothers will be free.”

“Have we lost many men?” Hamil asked.

Raffir shrugged and said, “Some. The Americans fight well . . . for infidels.”

“A thousand Americans will die for every Muslim. This is only the beginning, Raffir. Only the beginning.”

Raffir smiled and nodded. Then his head jerked a little and his eyes widened. A red-rimmed black hole had appeared in his temple. As his eyes glazed over in death, his knees folded up and dropped him to the debris-littered floor.

Hamil had no idea where the shot that had killed Raffir had come from, but he leaped behind a pile of rubble anyway, taking cover as he looked around frantically. With the air so full of gunfire, there was no way to isolate and identify a particular shooter.

But several men who stood nearby began to fall, blood welling from their wounds. Hamil remembered what Raffir had told him about someone killing some of their men earlier, before the final assault began.

American snipers were loose in the prison, Hamil thought. Even though he would never have admitted it, the thought struck fear in him for an instant.

Then he shoved it away. Allah would protect him.

But just in case, maybe it would be a good idea to stay here behind this rubble . . .

 

 

During a brief lull in the fighting, Riley Nichols said to Stark, “I don't want them to take me alive.”

“That's probably a good idea,” Stark said with a nod.

“I mean it. I'm saving one bullet for myself. Just like in the old Western movies. Unless I can count on you to . . .”

Stark grimaced and said, “I'm liable to be pretty busy. But I wouldn't go giving up just yet.”

Riley looked around the makeshift fort. About half of the guards and some of the inmates were dead. Several of the defenders who were still alive had been wounded. A bullet had broken Simon Winslow's arm. The hacker cradled it against him with his other arm. J.J. Lockhart's corpse sprawled to one side, a couple of bullet holes in his chest. Carbona and Gardner were both sporting bloody creases.

“They're going to overrun us any minute now,” Riley said.

“More than likely, but that doesn't mean we should stop fighting.”

A faint smile curved Riley's mouth as she said, “Remember the Alamo, is that it?”

“Something like that.”

“You Texans are a stubborn bunch.”

“Yes, ma'am, we are,” Stark said, “and here they come again!”

 

 

Colonel Atkinson left a few dozen men in Fuego to finish mopping up there. The rest of his force piled into whatever vehicles they could find and headed for Hell's Gate.

The sun was coming up behind them.

Lee and Gibby were in a van with Atkinson and Sgt. Porter. The colonel had another cigar clenched between his teeth, holding it at a jaunty angle. Lee knew it was a pose, but he had to admit it looked good on Atkinson. And the colonel was one hell of a fighting man, that was for sure.

The prison came into view. Smoke spiraled up from it in several places. Even from a distance, it looked like the battleground that it was.

“We'll hit 'em hard and fast, boys,” Atkinson said. “I don't know where the folks still alive in there will have forted up, but we should be able to follow the gunfire.”

“Are we gonna wind up in federal prison for this, Colonel?” Lee asked. “Assuming we live through it, that is.”

“Well, I don't know, Officer Blaisdell. If the feds come in and try to arrest us when this is all over, we may wind up with another fight on our hands. Are you ready for that?”

Lee thought about Janey and the new life they were going to bring into the world, and he knew what a sorry state of affairs it would be if Bubba had to grow up in a country where up was down and right was wrong.

“I'm ready for whatever comes, Colonel,” he said. “As long as we've got good men to lead the way.”

Atkinson grinned back at him from the shotgun seat and said, “You're one of 'em, son. You're one of 'em.”

 

 

“That's Hamil,” Kincaid said to Cambridge as they knelt behind a fallen steel beam from a collapsed wall. “I recognize him from that TV broadcast we saw last night. This is our chance, Mitch.”

“Chance to do what?” Cambridge asked.

“Grab the son of a bitch and use him to make the others give up.”

Cambridge shook his head and said, “Do you really think they'll do that? They're fanatics. They come from a long line of people willing to blow up themselves and their loved ones to get back at their enemies. Even if you capture Hamil, the others won't stop now.”

“Maybe not, but it's worth a try. Give me some cover.”

Cambridge started to say something else, but it was too late. Kincaid had already darted out from behind the beam and was running in a looping pattern toward the pile of rubble where Hamil had taken shelter.

Hamil was watching the attack on the maximum security wing and didn't see Kincaid coming. Some instinct must have warned him, though, because at the last instant he twisted around and fired the AK-47. He hurried his shots and missed . . .

Except for one bullet.

That slug laced into Kincaid's side and knocked him half around. He lost his balance and fell, skidding behind the rubble. Hamil pounced, kicking the rifle out of Kincaid's hands. Then he stood over Kincaid, pointing the Kalashnikov down at him.

“Infidel,” Hamil sneered, “do you know who I am?”

Kincaid's jaw was tight against the pain that filled him. He ground out, “You're the head bastard.”

“I am the Sword of Islam! The living personification of Allah's great and glorious cause! I am the man who will bring your satanic country down to its knees and then crush it!”

“What you are is batshit crazy.”

Rage darkened Hamil's face. His finger started to tighten on the AK's trigger.

An explosion hammered the building. More gunfire rang out, and between the shots Kincaid heard voices shouting.

American voices.

Hamil had hesitated, and that was all the break Kincaid needed. He kicked the terrorist mastermind's knee and rolled aside at the same time. The burst of lead from the Kalashnikov chewed up the floor but narrowly missed Kincaid. He hooked a foot behind Hamil's ankle and tugged. Hamil was already off-balance from the kick. With a startled yell, he toppled over backward.

Kincaid went after him, ignoring the pain in his side as he scrambled up and landed on Hamil in a diving tackle. He grabbed the rifle with his left hand and wrenched it aside, while his right sought a hold on Hamil's throat.

Kincaid had changed his mind about capturing Hamil. He didn't know what was going on around him—all hell was breaking loose, from the sound of it—but it didn't matter. Hamil was too big a threat to the country.

He had to die, here and now.

Hamil twisted and rammed a knee into Kincaid's wounded side. Agony flamed through Kincaid's body and mind, but he fought it back and locked his fingers around Hamil's throat.

Hamil heaved up from the floor and with a surge of maddened strength broke Kincaid's hold on him. Kincaid hit him on the inside of the elbow and knocked the rifle out of his hand. For all Hamil's arrogance, fear showed in his eyes as he tried to writhe away.

Kincaid caught him from behind, looped his right arm around Hamil's neck, and locked it into place with his left hand on his right wrist. As Kincaid started to tighten the choke hold, Hamil gasped, “Who—are you?”

“Just an American,” Kincaid said. He leaned closer to Hamil's ear and whispered, “Just an American who knows what you and your kind are planning for this country . . . and I'm going to stop it.”

Then he broke Dr. Phillip Hamil's neck with a sharp, clean snap.

Heavy footsteps made Kincaid look up as he let go of Hamil's sagging body. He saw a tall, lean man with graying fair hair and a close-cropped beard grinning down at him. The stranger wore camo and had a cigar clenched between his teeth.

“Good work, soldier,” he said as he extended a hand to Kincaid.

Kincaid knew an officer when he saw one. He had been on the run for so long that he hesitated before reaching up and clasping the man's wrist.

But only for a second.

Somehow, he knew he could trust this man.

 

 

They came like the howling horde of barbarians they were. The last defenders of Hell's Gate, only two dozen of them now, stood at the makeshift barricade and fired until their weapons ran dry, and then they fought using rifles and pistols as clubs, along with anything else they could get their hands on.

In Billy Gardner's case, that was the body of a terrorist whose skull he had caved in. He picked up the corpse by the ankles and flailed around him with it, driving back the savages. Bodies piled up around him, but the only one that really mattered lay at his feet. Albert Carbona might be dead, but Billy would protect him to the last.

They had to shoot him at least thirty times before he went down, and when he fell he toppled across Carbona's body.

Somebody had had to show Travis Jessup how to fire a gun, but he had fought as long as he could before collapsing as blood flowed from his wounds.

When Jessup fell, Simon Winslow got in front of Alexis to shield her with his body. He had never been a fighter, never been physically adept at anything. That was one reason he had gotten so good with computers. But he gave it everything he had, even with a broken arm, and it was to his credit that it took six of the terrorists to haul him down and hack him to bits with knives.

Stark and Riley fought side by side and then back to back, and even in that desperate moment it occurred to Stark, who had two sons, that he would have been proud to have a daughter like Riley Nichols.

Then he grabbed one of the howling terrorists by the throat, took the man's pistol away from him, and used it to blow the bastard's brains out. Stark hung on to the corpse, using it to block some of the bullets aimed at him as he and Riley backed into a corner. As at least fifty more terrorists got ready to charge them, he thought about what she had said earlier about not wanting to be taken alive. That was pretty unlikely, but he could make sure of it.

Then he looked at her, saw the fierce snarl on her face, and knew he didn't have to worry, and neither did she.

There was no way in hell those grubby little varmints were going to take Riley alive.

She'd see to that—and she'd take as many of them with her as she could.

“Mr. Stark,” she said, “if by some miracle you ever see Lucas again, could you tell him—”

“Tell him yourself,” Stark said, “because here he comes now.”

It was true. The terrorists started falling like bowling pins, chopped down by relentless fire from behind them, and leading the way were Kincaid and Cambridge, their faces streaked with gore and their clothes stained with blood and the guns in their hands spouting flame and righteous vengeance on the murderers who had invaded Hell's Gate.

When the last of the terrorists were down, kicking out their worthless lives, Kincaid rushed forward and swept Riley into his arms. She clutched him with equal desperation.

Stark didn't know how they were going to work things out, but as he limped out from behind the barricade, he thought there was a good chance they would find a way.

Then he frowned as he looked at one of the men with Kincaid, the one who seemed to be in charge, in fact. And in that man Stark saw something familiar, something that took him all the way back to Vietnam and a skinny soldier who always seemed determined to do things his own way, no matter what his orders said.