In fact, there was one of them now, Hamil thought as he turned the car into the motel driveway. The man, tall and broad-shouldered and wearing one of those ridiculous-looking cowboy hats, was going into the office with a stunning blond woman in jeans and a dark blue blouse.
Hamil brought his car to a stop. His hands tightened on the wheel. Wait a minute, he thought. He recognized that woman.
She was Alexis Devereaux.
A smile slowly appeared on Hamil’s lean face. He hadn’t known that the Devereaux woman was going to be in Fuego this weekend. This was an unexpected but welcome development.
The whole world needed to know about what happened here, and Alexis Devereaux could help get the story out.
He would have to be sure that she wasn’t killed right away, Hamil decided.
The blond American bitch could die after she had served her purpose.
Jerry Patel leaned on the counter in the office lobby, feeling dizzy and trying not to collapse. If he didn’t know better, he might have worried that he had been exposed accidentally to the same poison he had used in the ice machine.
He knew that wasn’t the case, though. He was all too aware of why he felt so weak. He had spent the day running to the toilet and throwing up, and he hadn’t been able to eat a thing.
So much death. So much.
And most of it seemed completely pointless to him. The motel could have served as a rendezvous point without it. Nearly all of the guests would have checked out and moved on, and if anyone else stopped during the day looking for a room, Patel could have told them that the motel was booked up. Mr. Stark was the only one staying for several days, and somehow he was still alive. Patel had seen him walking to the café a while earlier.
But Fareed’s orders had been explicit. He had shown up the night before with the cylinder of poison and instructions to hook it up to the ice machine’s water supply line so that the odorless, tasteless, deadly stuff would go into the ice and kill anyone who used it.
Dozens of Americans would die for no good reason except . . . dozens of Americans would die.
Patel supposed that was reason enough for Fareed and the other leaders of the clandestine network that ran across the entire country. All he knew was that he was too afraid of Fareed not to follow the man’s orders.
The office door opened. Patel looked up and saw a woman coming into the office. Mr. Stark had opened the door and held it for her.
Patel caught his breath and straightened as he recognized the blonde. He couldn’t put a name with the attractive face at first, but he was sure he knew her from television or the movies. She was that beautiful.
Stark followed the woman into the office, nodded, and said, “Mr. Patel, this is—”
“Alexis Devereaux,” Patel interrupted as he realized who the woman was. “Ms. Devereaux, I’ve seen you on the news so many times. It . . . it’s an honor to have you here in my motel.”
She smiled and said, “Thank you.”
She was so gracious, Patel thought. But then, she would have to be, the way she must be surrounded by admirers all the time. She would have learned how to deal with them.
“Ms. Devereaux saw your No Vacancy sign,” Stark said. “She’s looking for a place to stay, and I hoped you might be able to help her out.”
An image suddenly flashed into Patel’s mind. A horrible, dreadful image of the beautiful Alexis Devereaux lying on the floor with her lovely face contorted in agonized lines of death.
“No,” Patel said instantly. “I’m sorry. The motel is completely full. There is no room.”
Stark said, “Well, actually, I was thinking that maybe you could give her my room. I can find somewhere else to stay.”
Patel shook his head.
“No,” he said again. “There is nowhere else. I . . . I am very sorry, Ms. Devereaux. It would be such an honor for you to stay here with us, but it is impossible.”
She let out an exasperated sigh and said, “This is ridiculous.”
“It certainly is,” a new voice said. “Hello, Alexis.”
Patel had been so busy staring at Alexis Devereaux and trying to banish the awful mental image of her dying that he hadn’t noticed the office door opening again. Now he looked toward the door and saw a handsome, well-dressed, dark-haired man coming in. He wore a smile on his face, and as Alexis turned toward him, he held out his arms to her.
“Phillip!” she exclaimed. “Phillip Hamil, is that you?”
“Of course it is,” he said.
She threw herself into his arms and said, “I never expected to see a friendly face in this godforsaken place!”
Stark thought the well-dressed stranger—Phillip Hamil, Alexis had called him—looked familiar, and that name rang a bell, too. After hugging him, she stepped back slightly and said, “What are the odds that two old friends from Washington would find themselves in Fuego, Texas at the same time?”
“Well, I don’t know about you,” Hamil said, “but I’m here to pay a visit to my old friend Jerry Patel.” Hamil extended his hand over the counter. “Hello, Jerry. It’s good to see you again.”
“And you as well,” Patel said as he smiled and gripped Hamil’s hand.
The funny thing was, it seemed to Stark like the motel owner had never seen this visitor before. That was just an impression, a hunch, really, but it puzzled Stark anyway.
Alexis kept her right arm linked with Hamil’s left as she turned and said, “Phillip, this is John Howard Stark.”
Hamil’s carefully plucked eyebrows rose as he said, “Really? Yours is a famous name, Mr. Stark.”
“Infamous is probably more like it in certain circles,” Stark said, “such as the ones the two of you travel in.”
Stark had remembered why he recognized Hamil’s name and face. Like Alexis Devereaux, Hamil had appeared on TV often enough that he would seem familiar to anybody who watched the news very often. Whenever he was interviewed, the graphic at the bottom of the screen always identified him as “Dr. Phillip Hamil.” He was some sort of professor, Stark recalled, not a medical doctor, and he was an expert on U.S.–Arab relations.
Hamil laughed and said, “I’ll admit, you’ve gotten under the skin of a number of my political acquaintances, Mr. Stark. Several presidents have gotten some gray hairs over the activities of you and your friends.”
“Just trying to do the right thing,” Stark said.
“Of course.” Hamil put out his hand. “It’s all politics. There’s nothing personal in it.”
Maybe that had been true at one time, Stark thought as he shook hands with Phillip Hamil, but not anymore. Politics had become the religion of the left, since they had no real religion of their own, and as true believers everything became intensely personal to them, including politics. No one could disagree with them simply on the basis of logic and reason. No, anyone who opposed even the smallest part of the “progressive” agenda was not only wrong but also evil, to be demonized, spat upon, and destroyed.
It was a damned shame people had to get like that, Stark had thought more than once, instead of being able to sit down and work out their differences like reasonable human beings.
But elections had consequences, even stolen ones, and one such consequence over the past decade had been a hardening of the Democrats’ belief that “compromise” meant that they should get everything they wanted all the time, every time, in every way, and anybody who didn’t go along with that was just a crazy Republican obstructionist.
Stark tried not to let any of that show on his face as he shook hands with Phillip Hamil, who asked, “What brings you to this part of Texas, Mr. Stark?”
“Like you, I’m just visiting an old friend,” Stark said.
“Who might that be?”
Being a lifelong Texan, Stark was too naturally polite to tell the man it was none of his business. Instead he said, “George Baldwin.”
Hamil cocked his head to the side.
“From the prison?”
“That’s r
ight. George and I served in the military together, a long time ago.”
“I see. Well, I hope you enjoy your visit.” Hamil turned toward the counter again. “Now, Jerry, what’s this about you not having a room for Ms. Devereaux?”
“We’re . . . we’re full up,” Patel said. Stark heard an undercurrent of nervousness in his voice. “I’m sorry, but—”
“But you’re holding one of those rooms for me, right?” Hamil broke in.
“I am? I mean, yes, of course I am.”
“Well, there you go. Give her my room.”
Alexis said, “Oh, no, Phillip, I couldn’t put you out of your room. That just wouldn’t be right.”
“Nonsense. I insist.”
“But where will you stay?”
Hamil gestured at Patel and said, “I’ll bet Jerry here can put me up. Hate to put you on the spot like this, Jer, but hey, what are old college buddies for? You’ve got a sofa you can make up for me, don’t you?”
“Of course,” Patel said. “Of course you can stay with Lara and me. We’d be glad to have you.”
Despite his effusive words, Patel looked like he was welcoming a scorpion or a diamondback rattler into his home, Stark thought.
“So it’s all settled,” Hamil said.
“And nobody gets put out of a room,” Alexis said. “Mr. Stark was trying to give up his for me when you came in, Phillip.”
“You know how chivalrous Texans are,” Hamil said with a chuckle. “Maybe we’ll see you again before you leave, Mr. Stark.”
“Could be,” Stark said. He tugged on the brim of his Stetson and nodded to Alexis. “Good night, Ms. Devereaux.”
“Good night, Mr. Stark,” she said. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you.”
Stark gave everybody a smile all around and left the office. He wasn’t smiling inside. Something really odd was going on here, and he thought he knew what it was.
It couldn’t be a coincidence that just a few days after those Islamic terrorists had been brought to Hell’s Gate and locked up there, a couple of liberal icons like Alexis Devereaux and Phillip Hamil showed up in Fuego.
There was only one explanation that made any sense.
One of the networks was going to do a live broadcast from here. They might even try to get into the prison. A little ambush journalism at its finest.
Tomorrow when he went out there, Stark thought as he let himself into his room, he would have to warn George Baldwin that trouble was likely on its way.
Once both of the Americans were gone, Fareed came out of the office into the motel lobby, where he and Hamil embraced and slapped each other on the back. Hamil was glad to see his second-in-command.
Fareed Nassir was tall and lean, with wiry muscles, a shock of black hair, and a face pockmarked from a childhood illness. Hamil knew that he had personally executed at least three men, traitors to their cause who had tried to sell them out to the infidels. It was quite likely that Fareed had killed more than that, but the details didn’t matter.
Patel was staring at them. Obviously, he was unaware of Hamil’s place in the organization. Hamil smiled thinly and said, “Judgment.”
Patel swallowed and nodded.
“Judgment,” he replied. “I had no idea—”
“That’s all right. You weren’t supposed to know about me. But you did a good job of playing along. For now there are only two things you need to know.”
Patel nodded again, indicating that he was ready to hear them.
“One, I’m in charge here, and two, you need to go shut off that ice machine and put a sign on it saying that it’s out of order. Lock it up if you can. Do it quickly, before Ms. Devereaux has a chance to get any ice out of it.”
“You don’t want her to—”
“Absolutely not,” Hamil said. “The more media coverage we can get tomorrow, the better.” He smiled. “We want the whole world to know that the triumph of Islam is inevitable. We want everyone to watch as we plunge a dagger into the heart of America.”
CHAPTER 8
Sunday morning promised a beautiful autumn day when the sun rose in a deep blue sky dotted with puffy white clouds. The temperature was around fifty degrees, just low enough to be pleasantly cool. A light wind blew out of the south, indicating that the day would warm up nicely later.
The café near the motel was the only place open for breakfast, and it was doing a fairly good business when Stark came in. Empty stools were plentiful at the counter, though, so he took one of them. The café wasn’t really that busy because most people didn’t go out for breakfast before heading to church, and Fuego was a churchgoing town, at least compared to most places these days. Christians had been so belittled for so long that many of them elsewhere had drifted away from attending services.
“Coffee, hon?” the redheaded waitress asked Stark as she came along the counter toward him. She already had the carafe from the coffeemaker in one hand and a cup and saucer in the other.
“Yes, ma’am,” Stark said with a smile.
She filled the cup, pushed a bowl with little plastic containers of half-and-half and packets of various sweeteners within his reach, and asked, “What’ll you have?”
“Stack of pancakes with bacon and hash browns,” Stark replied.
She grinned at him, nodded, and said, “Can’t beat the classics, can you?”
“No, ma’am, you sure can’t.”
An elderly man in overalls, a flannel shirt, and a gimme cap sat two stools over. He gave Stark a friendly nod and asked, “You go to the game the other night?”
“I happened to be there,” Stark said. He knew how important high school football was to the folks in towns like Fuego. They’d be talking about the McElhaney game all week . . . until the next game.
“Mighty excitin’,” the old man said. “Ain’t had much of a team so far this year, but that game might’ve been enough to turn it around.” He sighed. “If our startin’ quarterback hadn’t broke his leg, that is. Gonna have to go with a underclassman now.”
“Have you heard how the boy’s doing?” Stark asked, mildly curious.
“He’s still in the hospital. Ought to be able to go home in another day or two, his daddy said. Bert Frazier—that’s Andy’s daddy—stopped by here for coffee a while ago on his way to work. He’s a guard out at the prison, you know. Good fella. Used to be a cop. He’d been by the hospital to see his boy.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear the youngster’s doing as well as can be expected.”
“Yeah, he’ll be all right. Done for the year, though, as far as playin’ football. That’ll hurt his chances of gettin’ a good scholarship. Tough break.” The old man grunted. “No pun intended.”
Stark smiled and drank some of his coffee.
The waitress brought his food a minute later, and he dug in with enjoyment. The talkative old-timer let him eat a while, then asked, “You ain’t from around here, are you, mister?”
“No, just visiting,” Stark said.
“Thought so. I know just about everybody in town. Ain’t hard for me to pick out a stranger . . . and the town’s full of ’em this mornin’, let me tell you.”
“It is?” Stark said with a slight frown.
“Yep. Seen some of ’em down at the grocery store parkin’ lot and here and there around town. Funny-lookin’ fellas, too. Thought at first they was Mexicans, comin’ in for some sort o’ construction project, but I ain’t so sure about that. Looked to me like they might be some other kind o’ foreigner.”
That was odd, Stark mused. His first thought at hearing the old man’s words had been a worry that cartel soldiers might be moving into the town for some reason. The whole area had had so much trouble with drug smugglers, with the problem continuing to grow worse over the past decade because of budget cuts and what passed for immigration reform to Democratic politicians, and Stark’s personal history included so many violent clashes with the cartel that it was natural his thoughts would turn in that direction.
But t
hen the old-timer had said that he thought the men he’d seen weren’t Hispanic. What did that leave?
Middle Eastern, Stark thought as his frown deepened.
Alarm bells went off in the back of his head.
He finished his food, then asked the waitress, “Where’s the police department?”
She looked surprised as she asked, “Something wrong with the food?”
“What? Oh, no.” Stark laughed and shook his head. “The food was great. Perfect. Wonderful bacon. No, I need to talk to somebody about something that doesn’t have anything to do with the food.”
She blew out a mock sigh of relief and said, “That’s good to hear. The police department’s a couple of blocks up Main, on the other side of the street.”
Stark nodded and said, “Yeah, I think remember seeing it when I was walking around town yesterday.”
“You probably won’t find anybody there but the dispatcher, though,” the waitress told him. “And there’ll only be one officer on patrol on a Sunday morning like this.”
“Well, it probably doesn’t amount to anything,” Stark said. “I just want to check on something.”
“All right, hon. Hope it works out for you.”
Stark paid his check, nodded, said so long to the old-timer he’d been talking to, and left the café. He walked back over to the motel, and as he did, he saw a couple of men striding quickly from one of the units to another.
With their dark hair and skin, they could have been taken for Hispanic, all right, he thought. But like the old man in the café, he didn’t think they were.
Instead of going to his room, Stark got into his pickup and started it. He backed out of the space and pulled from the parking lot onto Main Street. It took him less than a minute to reach the Fuego Police Department, which was housed in a tan brick building with some shrubs growing along the front. The entrance was down at the end of the building, facing a parking lot to the side.
Stand Your Ground Page 5