Stand Your Ground

by William W. Johnstone

  He reached a corner, turned, and was gone.

  As soon as Kincaid hit the floor, he grabbed his right wrist with his left hand to steady it and began squeezing the pistol’s trigger. The 9 mm semiautomatic blasted twice.

  Both slugs punched into the chest of the first man in the group of attackers. He stumbled and fell, and the two men right behind him tripped over him.

  Kincaid shot each of them in the head.

  Even crazed terrorists were taken a little aback by being splattered with blood and brains from their comrades’ exploding skulls. They slowed their charge and then stopped.

  Kincaid knew they would recover from the shock in a matter of seconds and then come rampaging down the corridor toward him, and there was still no place for him to go.

  But he had done some damage, had killed three of the bastards, and he still had rounds in the gun’s magazine. He was ready to start firing again . . .

  That was when a riot gun roared and two more of the terrorists went down, shredded into bloody rags by a double load of buckshot. More shots slammed against the concrete walls and set up a deafening racket.

  Kincaid realized the front ranks of the enemy force had halted right where the corridors intersected. Some of the inmates must have made it out of the cell block by now, and obviously they were armed. They had started shooting at the first thing they saw.

  Which, to Kincaid’s great good fortune, had been the terrorists.

  His luck was only momentary, though. Either the inmates would overrun this bunch of terrorists and wipe them out, or else the terrorists would drive the inmates back into the cell block.

  Either way, he would be left facing a bunch of armed men who wanted to kill him.

  Unless he reached the next cross corridor while the two groups of killers were busy with each other.

  He rolled over and surged to his feet, ready to make a run for it.

  That good luck deserted him even faster than he thought it might. Several of the terrorists noticed him fleeing, broke off their battle against the inmates, and started to pursue him. A gun went off and the bullet whipped past Kincaid’s ear.

  He saw movement ahead of him and started to bring up the pistol, figuring that the way things were going he was trapped between two groups of terrorists, but it was John Howard Stark who stepped around a corner and smoothly brought an AR-15 to his shoulder.

  “Get down, Lucas!” Stark barked.

  Kincaid hit the deck again. Stark fired four swift shots over him. Guns clattered to the tile floor behind Kincaid.

  Stark lowered the rifle and called, “Come on!”

  He didn’t have to tell Kincaid twice. Kincaid was up and running again in the blink of an eye. He didn’t look behind him.

  He didn’t have to look in order to know that Stark had drilled the terrorists who were giving chase to him.

  Stark covered him until Kincaid reached the corner. Together, the two men ducked into the narrow service corridor that crossed the main corridor.

  “What are you doing here?” Kincaid asked as his pulse hammered inside his head. “You’re supposed to be at the maximum security wing with the others.”

  “Thought I’d do a little scouting,” Stark replied. “Find out how far into the prison those terrorists had made it.”

  “Now you know.”

  “Yeah,” Stark said. “That was the main cell block where they were fighting somebody, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “We’ve got guards holed up in there?”

  “No,” Kincaid said. “I turned the inmates loose and left guns for them.”

  They had been trotting quickly along the service corridor as they talked. Now Stark slowed, pausing to look over at Kincaid.

  “I know,” Kincaid said. “You don’t have to tell me. That’s wrong on so many levels. I used those men as cannon fodder.”

  “You did what any military commander who wanted to win a battle would do,” Stark said. “You devised a strategy to slow down the enemy’s advance and whittle down his numerical superiority.”

  “I did what every enlisted man and noncom has cussed the brass for, ever since war was invented. I saw men as pawns, instead of human beings.”

  “If that was true, what you did wouldn’t be gnawing at your guts right now. You know as well as I do the ones who really don’t regard any of us as human beings. It’s those terrorists. We’re just godless infidels to them. The more of us who die, the better. We’re trying to stop that.”

  Kincaid drew in a deep breath and nodded.

  “I suppose you’re right, Mr. Stark. But I still don’t think I’m cut out for command.”

  “Some of the best generals who have ever lived have thought the same thing. We’d better get moving again. And make it John Howard, all right?”

  “Sure,” Kincaid said. “Where to now, John Howard?”

  “We know the terrorists have reached the main cell block. Those inmates will keep them busy for a while, but I don’t think they’ll be able to stop that bunch. I think we should head back to maximum security and let everybody there know that they’ll be having company soon.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Just one thing . . . you better lead the way.” Stark grinned. “I hate to say it, but it was pure dumb luck that put me in the right place at the right time to help you. No matter how hard I try, I still get turned around in this place!”

  CHAPTER 33

  After the broadcast from Fuego, Phillip Hamil had left his men firmly in control of the town and driven out to Hell’s Gate to see how the assault on the prison was going.

  Raffir met him where the compound’s main gate had been. Now the fence and the building on the other side of it had been blasted into rubble. Gaping shell holes were visible here and there along the fence line and inside the fence.

  The entrance to the main building was in ruins as well. Hamil could see it from where he stood next to his car and listened to Raffir’s report.

  “We haven’t yet reached the maximum security wing where our brothers are being held?” Hamil interrupted with a frown of disapproval.

  “It has been more difficult than we anticipated, Doctor,” Raffir answered. “We were able to break through the outer line of defense and kill many of the infidels—”

  He waved a hand to indicate the numerous corpses littering the area, looking like heaps of torn, bloody clothing once the men of the Sword of Allah were finished with them.

  “—but the resistance inside the prison has been stronger than we expected,” Raffir went on. “Not only have the guards been fighting us, but we’ve received reports over the walkie-talkies from squadron leaders that the inmates are taking part in the battle as well.”

  “The American prisoners are trying to stop us?” Hamil asked. This news surprised him. “I assumed the prison authorities would abandon them in their cells while they cowered before our unstoppable might.”

  “I know.” Raffir sighed and shook his head. “All the men were looking forward to slaughtering every one of them in the name of the Prophet.”

  Hamil grimaced and waved a hand.

  “It doesn’t matter. The inmates can only slow us down. They cannot prevent us from achieving our glorious goal. Have you heard anything from our man who was inside the prison before our holy jihad began?”

  Once again Raffir shook his head.

  “We’ve had no communication with him since we let him know the attack was about to begin.”

  “The infidels may have discovered that he was one of us and murdered him,” Hamil said. “Just as they have murdered so many of our people. Our innocent loved ones.”

  It was one of the great ironies of politics that many, many more Muslim lives had been lost to the Americans in the past twenty years under Democratic administrations than when the supposedly war-mongering Republicans were in power. From time to time the Democrats still beat the drum of blaming George W. Bush for every evil in the world, from natural disaste
rs to the trouble in the Middle East that had spilled over onto American soil. And their followers continued to swallow that scenario without hesitation, swilling at the trough of lies like pigs.

  The stupidity of the American “progressives” would be amusing if they weren’t so . . . well, stupid. One could only feel sorry for them.

  Not that Hamil did, of course. The stupider, the blinder the Americans were, the better for his cause. Let them continue electing Democratic presidents and members of Congress. That only made his work of destruction easier.

  “Let me know when we reach the cell block where our brothers are being kept,” Hamil instructed his second-in-command. “I want to be there when we carry out Allah’s will and liberate them from their unjust captivity.”

  “Yes, sir,” Raffir answered crisply.

  “Have you seen any sign of Alexis Devereaux and the newspeople who were with her?”

  Raffir shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, Doctor. We have not encountered them. Do you have orders regarding them?”

  Hamil had to be careful. He couldn’t allow his men to see him extending any mercy to infidels. He especially didn’t want them to believe that he was concerned about Alexis because she was a beautiful woman.

  In truth, her beauty hadn’t really entered into his thinking. True, he wouldn’t mind bedding her if the opportunity ever arose, but the real reason he hoped she would survive this bloody chaos was because she was useful. No matter what the situation, she could be counted upon to find a way to blame her fellow Americans for what had happened and bellow that ridiculous opinion at the top of her strident lungs.

  So it would be fine if things worked out so that she lived, but if they didn’t . . .

  “If they’re captured, Ms. Devereaux should be brought to me,” he said. “I don’t care what you do to the others. But if they’re all killed in the fighting . . .” Hamil shrugged. “Such is the will of Allah.”

  Alexis had never been so scared in her entire life . . . and she had spent most of her adult years around dangerous gun nuts, Bible thumpers, teabaggers, hillbillies, rednecks, birthers, tax protesters, healthcare reform dodgers, climate change deniers, and other right-wing whack jobs, doing her best to expose them as racist, misogynist, homophobic bigots who posed the real threat to the country and to the progressive agenda that would transform the United States into a universal, government-controlled, centrally planned paradise of tolerance and diversity if only all the stupid, obstructionist Republicans could be done away with somehow.

  It had been a hazardous, thankless job, but somebody had to do it.

  The really odd thing was that none of those horrible people had ever tried to hurt her or even really been rude to her, and now here she was with her life apparently being threatened by peace-loving Muslims who had never wanted anything except the respect that their religion deserved.

  She didn’t believe it—she couldn’t believe it—and yet she heard the explosions and the gunfire and the way the people around her were talking about how they were going to have to make a stand here and fight off the terrorists for as long as possible.

  That was insane. This was all a trick. A right-wing conspiracy. It had to be.

  Alexis wished she was back in Washington or San Francisco or anyplace where people were normal.

  Riley Nichols came over to her and said, “I know this is probably a foolish question, Ms. Devereaux, but do you know how to use a gun?”

  “A gun?” Alexis repeated in disbelief. “I’ve never even touched a gun, let alone fired one!”

  Riley sighed and said, “Then it’s a good thing millions of Americans haven’t minded touching a gun over the past hundred years or so, or else we’d be speaking German or Japanese or Russian right now.”

  “I don’t understand,” Alexis said with a frown and a shake of her head.

  “No, you wouldn’t.” Riley turned away, adding over her shoulder, “Maybe the best thing you can do to help is just stay out of the way.”

  Alexis’s chin jutted out in anger. She said, “You can’t talk to me that way. I can have you fired, you know.”

  “Lady, if you think I’m worried about my job right now—” Riley stopped and blew out an exasperated breath.

  “How’s Warden Baldwin?” Alexis asked. “I know you were helping take care of him earlier.”

  Riley looked a little surprised that Alexis would ask about the warden. She said, “He’s resting fairly comfortably at the moment, and I think the bleeding from his wound has finally stopped. He’s lost a lot of blood, though. He needs to be in a hospital.”

  “Well, surely we can appeal to the humanitarian instincts of those so-called terrorists everybody keeps going on about—”

  Alexis stopped in mid-sentence as Riley began to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” Alexis asked with an angry glare.

  “Humanitarian instincts. It’s hilarious that you think those monsters have any humanitarian instincts.”

  “You don’t have to be uncivil and resort to name-calling,” Alexis sniffed.

  “Yes, because the real threat is that somebody might get their precious little feelings hurt, rather than a horde of barbarians trapped in the Middle Ages who’d like to behead everybody who doesn’t pray exactly the same way they do. Those guys are perfectly fine with you.”

  “You are never going to work in Washington again.”

  “Yeah, I’ll lose some sleep about that . . . assuming we get out of here without those buddies of yours raping us to death.”

  The two women might have continued to argue, but just then Mitch Cambridge hurried up to them and said, “You ladies need to pull back now. Somebody’s coming up the corridor toward the cell block, and we’re not sure who it is yet.”

  “I can fight,” Riley told him without hesitation.

  “You may have to before this is all over,” Cambridge said. He looked at Alexis. “What about you, Ms. Devereaux?”

  “Don’t waste your breath,” Riley told him before Alexis could say anything. “Ms. Devereaux is still convinced this whole thing is some sort of right-wing trick.”

  “I never told you that,” Alexis said, not adding that Riley was correct.

  Riley shrugged and said, “You didn’t have to tell me. I know how your kind thinks.”

  “My kind? That’s a—”

  Alexis stopped short and frowned, momentarily stymied as to how to respond.

  “What, a racist thing to say? We’re both white. Misogynist? Both women. Homophobic? It’s pretty common knowledge that you’ve slept with half the male lobbyists and politicians in Washington, and I know I’m straight, so that doesn’t really apply, either. What progressive buzzword does that leave you, Alexis?”

  “You’re . . . you’re mean!” Alexis sputtered.

  “Ah, hurt feelings again. The last refuge of the liberal.”

  Cambridge held up his hands and said, “Ladies, enough. You need to back off now. There may be bullets flying around here soon, and I promise you—they don’t discriminate against anybody. They’ll kill you just as dead no matter what you think.”

  Stark and Kincaid hadn’t encountered any more of the terrorists on their way back to the maximum security wing. When the sally port at the entrance to the wing came into sight at the far end of the long corridor, Stark felt a little relief as he realized that everything looked as it had when he left. There hadn’t been any trouble here—yet.

  The outer door was closed. As the two men trotted toward it, the door began to slide to one side with a rumble of the engine that drove it.

  “You said this wing has its own power supply?” Stark asked.

  Kincaid said, “Yeah, the doors, lights, and everything else run off generators. So the terrorists can’t hope to do any good by cutting our power. They can’t get to it.”

  “Where are those generators located?”

  “Underground, in a sub-basement under this wing. They’d have to know exactly where the generators are and
then tunnel a long way to get to them.”

  That knowledge eased one of Stark’s worries.

  Of course, there were still plenty more.

  They were about halfway down the corridor, which was fifty yards long, when a strident yell sounded behind them. That shout was followed by gunfire. Bullets smacked into the walls behind them as both men instinctively put on a burst of speed.

  Stark looked over his shoulder and saw that half a dozen terrorists had reached the far end of the corridor. They had opened fire at the sight of the two men heading for the entrance to the maximum security wing.

  The outer door had opened almost all the way before the shooting started.

  Now it lurched to a halt and then started to grind back the other way.

  Stark and Kincaid were about to be caught in what amounted to a deadly shooting gallery.

  Cambridge had just started the door closing when Riley appeared at his side, exclaiming, “No! You can’t do that! They’ll be trapped out there!”

  “I warned Mr. Stark this might happen,” Cambridge said. “I told him he might get stuck on the wrong side of the doors. Now get back beyond the inner door, Ms. Nichols!”

  Riley ignored the order and said, “Damn it, the least you can do is give them some cover!”

  Without any warning of what she was about to do, she turned and snatched an AR-15 out of the hands of an unsuspecting guard.

  “Hey!” Cambridge yelled as Riley darted through the entrance’s narrowing gap.

  She brought the rifle to her shoulder. During her time in the service, she had carried a weapon similar to this and fired it many times. She knew what she was doing as she aimed down the corridor.

  Kincaid and Stark must have realized what she was about to do. They veered to their right, giving Riley a narrow firing lane. She settled her sights on the charging terrorists and started shooting.

  Slugs ripped into the group of men and blunted their attack. One man yelled in fear and tried to turn back. Riley put a bullet in the back of his head.