Stand Your Ground

by William W. Johnstone

  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.

  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.”

  CHAPTER 41

  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 desp
ised 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.

  CHAPTER 42

  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 he
r 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.”