Stand Your Ground (11 page)

“Have the new prisoners caused any trouble so far?” Alexis asked quickly.

Kincaid saw the warden wince at the way Alexis pounced on that. Baldwin said, “As a matter of fact, they haven't—”

“So are they allowed to use the library?”

“Not at the moment. They're still confined to their own wing—”

“So they're being treated differently from other prisoners, simply because of their religion.”

Alexis sounded pleased with herself for scoring that point.

“That's not exactly an accurate description of the situation,” Baldwin argued. “Remember, those men have been here less than a week. We're still figuring out what our procedures will be for dealing with them. But security is our uppermost concern. Everything else has to come after that.”

“So you're denying them access to books and the Internet and whatever other services the library offers,” Alexis said, as if she hadn't heard anything that Baldwin had just told her.

The warden sighed in exasperation. He said, “Eventually we'll make some provision for those things, once the situation has settled down.”

“When will that be?”

“That's not really up to me, is it? You're the one who brought a news crew in here to stir everything up.”

Kincaid thought the warden's frustration must have gotten the best of him. Otherwise Baldwin wouldn't have made a comment like that. He was just playing into Alexis Devereaux's hands.

Once again, she pounced like a tigress.

“Stirring everything up? You think getting to the truth and telling it to the American people is stirring everything up, Warden?”

“We're not trying to hide anything here,” Baldwin insisted stiffly. “Why don't we move on? I think we've seen everything here that there is to see.”

Kincaid thought for a second that Alexis was going to argue. Maybe she thought Baldwin was trying to cover up something. Maybe she wanted to disagree just on general principles.

But she said, “All right. I'm sure there are plenty of other ways you're discriminating against those political prisoners, and I want to see them all.”

Baldwin didn't say anything. Kincaid was sure that was difficult for him.

As Alexis and the warden left the library, the man with the microphone stepped in front of the camera and said, “We continue now with our tour of the notorious Hell's Gate prison. This is Travis Jessup, reporting from Texas.”

The woman with the camera lowered it and said, “Okay, Travis, we'll pick it up at the next stop.”

“Fine. Did you get everything here?”

“I did.”

“So did I,” said the tall, bearded man with the sound equipment.

The three of them started to follow Alexis and Baldwin. On their way out, the woman paused for a second and glanced back at Kincaid.

Normally he didn't mind if a good-looking woman glanced at him, although he wasn't really in the market for even a fleeting relationship right now, but what he saw in this woman's eyes bothered him.

He would have sworn that she looked at him with recognition.

But then she was gone along with the others, leaving only John Howard Stark in the library with Kincaid. He expected Stark to go with the group, but the big man ambled over to the counter instead.

“You looked like that took you by surprise,” Stark commented.

“It did,” Kincaid admitted. “I just came in to do a little extra work on a day off. I didn't expect it to turn into anything.”

“What I'm curious about,” Stark said, “is why you didn't like having that camera pointed at you. What did you do to make you want nobody to recognize you, Lucas?”

Blood pounded ferociously inside Chuck Gibbs's skull as he stumbled into the police station's back door. He had sprinted all the way there.

“Raymond!” he yelled. “Raymond, where are you?”

The dispatcher came out of one of the other rooms and looked confused and upset.

“Chuck, I tried to call you on the radio. There was an explosion, and people are calling about gunshots, and . . . and I couldn't find you or the chief—”

“It's all right, Raymond,” Chuck broke in. He leaned over, rested his hands on his knees for a second, and tried to catch his breath. As he straightened, he went on, “Call everybody in. We need help. We've been invaded.”

“It's aliens, isn't it? I knew it was aliens!”

“Listen to me.” Chuck gripped Raymond's shoulders. “It's not aliens. It's worse. It's a bunch of crazy Arabs with guns. Not just guns. Grenade launchers. Who knows what the hell else they've got. But we have to stop them.”

Chuck heard gunfire coming from down the street. Lots of gunfire. The sound sickened him, because he knew there was a good chance it meant some of Fuego's citizens were dying.

“Call for help, Raymond,” he went on. “Call anybody and everybody you can think of.”

“O-okay.” Raymond swallowed and nodded. “I can do my job, Chuck.”

Chuck slapped the dispatcher on the shoulder and said, “I know you can, buddy.”

He turned and ran to the big, locked cabinet that served as the station's armory. The key was on his belt. He unlocked it and swung the door open.

Racked inside were several pump shotguns and a couple of AR-15s. Chuck knew he needed firepower, so he took one of the rifles and grabbed a couple of extended magazines for it as well. Then he took one of the shotguns and placed it on the counter.

Raymond had sat down behind the console and was on the radio, talking as quickly as he could as he told somebody that there was bad trouble in Fuego and they needed help. In his excitement and fear, he stumbled over some of the words, but he kept going, determinedly.

When Raymond paused, Chuck laid a hand on the shotgun and said, “This is for you.”

“But I'm not supposed to handle guns. The chief said so.”

“The chief 's not here, and I'm making an exception to that rule. Listen to me, Raymond. If men try to come in here and you don't know them . . . if they have guns and they look like they're gonna hurt you . . . it's okay for you to shoot at them.”

Raymond shook his head and said, “I don't know if I can do that. I might hurt them, and I don't want to hurt anybody.”

“Neither do I, but if somebody's trying to hurt you, it's okay to stop them, even if it means hurting
them
. That's just the way it is. Understand?”

Raymond still looked doubtful, but Chuck didn't have time to stand around trying to convince him.

He needed to be back out there on the street, doing
something
. Anything to stop this madness.

But he had a sinking feeling that it was too big and had gone too far to be stopped now.

 

 

The scene of wanton slaughter that had taken place in the First Baptist Church had been duplicated in Fuego's other churches. At each house of worship, a truckload of the Prophet's followers had pulled up outside, and the heavily armed men had swarmed in to carry out their holy mission of death.

Phillip Hamil's forces had lost a handful of men. Some of the Americans had been armed. In this damned Texas with its concealed carry laws, some people even took their guns to church, Hamil thought as he listened to the reports from his lieutenants in the command post he had established at the motel. Those pitiful few defenders had put up a fight, but they were no match for Hamil's men.

Things were going well so far. The only real setback had been the destruction of the police car. One of his men had overreacted to the threat posed by a lone policeman and had blown up the officer's cruiser.

Hamil had had a use in mind for that car.

But there were other police cars in town, he was sure, and as long as none of them got blown up, his plan could proceed.

Hamil had picked a man named Raffir to take Fareed's place as his second-in-command. He told Raffir now, “Take men and capture the police station. We want to control any communications from there. Also, you're to seize any police vehicles and weapons you find.”

“Yes, Doctor,” Raffir said. “And the officers?”

“Kill them, of course,” Hamil said offhandedly.

His mind was already moving on to something else.

One tiny, niggling detail annoyed him.

The police officer whose car was blown up had gotten away.

 

 

It seemed like wherever Chuck went in Fuego, he heard two things—gunfire and screaming.

He was sick with grief and fear. He wanted to throw up and then crawl in a hole somewhere and pull it in after him.

But he had his duty to perform. He had sworn to uphold the law and protect the citizens, and he was going to do his best to carry out those solemn tasks.

He had another worry gnawing at his guts as he trotted along an alley with the AR-15 held at a slant across his chest.

Three worries, actually.

His parents—and his little brother Ernie.

Chuck hadn't lived at home for several years. He had an apartment in Fuego's lone apartment complex. But Ernie did, since he was still in high school. He had talked for a long time about how he was going to move in with Chuck when he graduated. Chuck had tolerated the talk, but he didn't think it was ever going to happen.

He was still close to his family. He knew that on Sunday morning, his mom and dad would be at the Methodist church. Ernie, more than likely, was at home asleep.

Chuck had decided to head for the church first. He wanted to be sure his folks were all right. If he could find them, then they could try to reach the house and get his little brother.

He stuck to alleys and backyards as he made his way across town toward the church. He didn't want to get caught in a firefight with the invaders, not because he was afraid—although he was scared shitless, what person in his right mind wouldn't be?—but because he couldn't afford to let anything happen to him before he was sure that his family was safe.

He was about a block away from the church when he realized that the shooting had tapered off. That was a bad sign, Chuck thought as he heard pistol shots in the distance, usually one report followed quickly by another.

The classic double-tap.

Somebody was finishing off survivors.

That thought sent a stab of fresh pain through Chuck. He knew that a lot of people had to be dead already. People he was supposed to take care of and make sure nothing bad happened to them.

But it had happened anyway, on a beautiful Sunday morning in autumn, in a peaceful little town where folks should have been safe. Evil had come in with no warning and wreaked bloody havoc.

Maybe the universe really was a cold, chaotic place. Maybe the love and kindness in people's hearts was just an illusion, a wisp of smoke to be blown away by the winds of an uncaring reality.

Chuck tried not to think about that as he stopped at the rear corner of a house across the street from the church. He pressed his back against the wall and slid stealthily along it until he could get a look at the church.

He had to clench his jaw to keep from groaning. As it was, a tiny sound of grief and desolation escaped from him.

The doors of the Methodist church were wide open. Several of the invaders stood in front of them, guns tucked under their arms, laughing.

Chuck knew what that meant.

They had finished their bloody work inside.

In all likelihood, Chuck's mother and father were dead.

The hell with it, he thought. He brought the rifle to his shoulder. He could cut down most of those bastards before they knew what hit them. That would draw more of them, but he didn't care. He was ready to die . . .

As long as he could hit back at them first.

Before he could pull the trigger, the screech of rubber on pavement made him jerk his head to the right. A pickup careened around a corner a couple of blocks away. For a second Chuck thought it was going too fast to make the squealing turn and was about to roll over.

But then the tires caught and the vehicle lunged ahead, and to Chuck's shock, he recognized it.

The truck belonged to his brother, Ernie.

Through the windshield, he saw Ernie hunched over the wheel. The kid was trying to get away from something.

A second later, Chuck saw what his little brother was fleeing from. A bigger truck, a military-type truck, came around the corner after Ernie. The driver sawed at the wheel, trying to control the vehicle, as another man leaned out from the passenger door and fired an automatic weapon at the pickup. Chuck heard the bullets pinging against the tailgate.

He acted instinctively, bringing the AR-15 to his shoulder. He blasted two rounds through the truck's windshield, then dropped his aim to the front tires. As he kept up a steady fire, the truck's left front tire exploded.

The driver was already having a hard time keeping the truck under control. Now he either lost it from the blowout—or he was dead from those slugs Chuck had put through the now-shattered windshield.

Either way, the truck went over, crashing down on its right side, with any luck squashing the gunner on the passenger side into bloody pulp. It flipped, then flipped again before it smashed into the front of a hardware store, obliterating the business's big plate glass front window.

Chuck heard bullets whipping past his head and realized the guys who had been standing in front of the church had opened fire on him. He ducked and swung the rifle toward them, but he was outnumbered four to one. They had automatic weapons, too.

They were going to chop him into little pieces.

The pickup's engine roared. Ernie didn't slow down, but he veered hard to the right, up onto the sidewalk. The invaders must have realized he was rocketing toward them, because a couple of them appeared to forget about Chuck. They turned their guns toward the onrushing pickup instead.

From one knee, Chuck aimed and fired. His bullets punched into the men who were about to open fire on Ernie and knocked them down.

A second later, the pickup hurtled over them, crunching bones and mangling flesh, and then its grille slammed into the remaining two gunmen. One of them went down and the truck roared over him. The other flew through the air like a carelessly tossed rag doll.

That man landed in a heap.

Chuck shot him twice just to make sure he was dead.

Then, not seeing any more of the invaders in the vicinity, Chuck leaped up and burst out from his meager cover. He ran toward the pickup, which had slowed to a stop after ramming the quartet of invaders.

“Ernie!” Chuck yelled. “Ernie!”

His brother threw the driver's door open and leaned out to wave an arm.

“Chuck! Over here! Come on, before any more of those sumbitches catch up to me!”

Keeping an eye out for more of the enemy, Chuck ran around the front of the truck, jerked open the passenger door, and leaped inside. Ernie floored the gas and spun the wheel, and the pickup surged out onto the side street where the Methodist church was located.

“Mom and Dad . . . ?” Ernie gasped. As far as Chuck could see, he wasn't hurt, although the pickup was shot up pretty bad. It was still running, though.

“I'm pretty sure they're dead,” Chuck said. The awful words sounded hollow in his ears. “I think those guys wiped out everybody in the church.”

Ernie clenched a hand into a big fist and pounded the dashboard.

“No! It can't be true! It just can't!”

“What are you doin' here?” Chuck asked as he swapped the partially depleted magazine for a full one.

“I knew Mom and Dad were at church. I . . . I couldn't find you . . . I drove around all over town lookin' for you . . . Then I saw your police car all burned out—” Ernie had to stop and draw in a deep, ragged breath. “I figured you were in there, Chuck. I figured you were dead. So I thought I'd try to get to the folks—”

He started to cry, big tears running down his cheeks.

“What is this, Chuck?” he asked in a tortured voice between the sobs. “Who are those guys? Why're they doin' this to our town?”

“I don't know for sure, Ernie,” Chuck said. “All I know is they're bad guys and we have to stop them.”

“You and me? There's a whole freakin' army of 'em!”

“I know. So we need an army of our own.” An idea had occurred to Chuck. “All the numbers of the guys on the team are in your phone, right?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Hand it here.”

Ernie took the phone from his shirt pocket and handed it to his brother.

“What are you gonna do?”

“I'm going to call and tell them to get to the high school if they can. We'll meet in the field house. Let's head for there right now.” Chuck took a deep breath in an attempt to calm his raging nerves. “We may need an army . . . but what we've got are the Fuego Mules.”