C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-FIVE
Stark shoved Fred to one side and twisted his body the other way. That took Stark out of the way of the sign, which whipped down between him and Fred and smashed into the hood of his pickup with a resounding
clang!
The missed blow threw the protester off-balance. Stark thought about decking him, but he knew the news cameras were pointing at him by now and didn't want to do anything in front of the whole country that would just be twisted to make him look bad. He stepped back as the man swung the sign at him again.
A couple of police officers arrived then and grabbed the protester from behind. Another cop wrestled the sign away from him.
“Let me go!” the man yelled. “We're here to strike a blow against racism!”
“Racism!” Fred shouted back at him. “You nearly bashed my Mexican brains out, you idiot!”
The cop who had taken the sign away from the protester pointed a finger at Fred and warned, “Watch it with that hate speech, mister.”
“Hate speech!” Fred's face was flushed with fury. “Can't you people get it through your headsâ”
Stark took hold of his friend's arm and urged him toward the pickup's passenger side.
“Come on, Fred. We've done what we came here to do. Let's go home.”
Fred pointed at the protester and said, “I want to press charges against him. What he did was assault with a deadly weapon!”
“We'll let Hallie handle it. She can talk to the district attorney.”
The cops led the protester away. He was still practically foaming at the mouth with hatred. But it was hatred in the name of tolerance and diversity, Stark thought, so it would be celebrated by certain factions, by people who were blind to the utter illogic of their political positions.
Stark's other companions had started toward them when the trouble broke out, but they had stopped when the police stepped in. Stark waved at them now to let them know that he and Fred were okay. Everybody got back into their vehicles and headed back toward Shady Hills.
The knowledge that he hadn't even thrown a punch at that nutty protester gnawed at Stark as he drove. There was a time when he would have put the fella on the ground in the blink of an eye. Maybe he was getting too old for this sort of dustup. Or maybe he had just thought better of it and tempered his reaction.
But Lord help us all, he thought, when John Howard Stark was the voice of reason.
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Not surprisingly, the protester who had attacked Stark and Fred wasn't arrested or charged with anything. The district attorney declined to prosecute, saying that the man, who gave an address in Austin as his place of residence, had acted in the heat of the moment and no one had been hurt. Stark had a pretty good ding in the hood of his truck where the sign had hit it, but he wasn't going to bother suing the guy in small claims court for the price of getting it fixed. He could tap it out and touch it up himself without much trouble.
Two days later, Hallie showed up at Shady Hills to deliver the good news in person.
“Judge Oliveros has verified the signatures and certified the petitions,” she told Stark, her father, and the Gomezes as they sat in Stark's living room. “He's set the election for September seventh.”
“That's only three weeks away,” Alton said. “Will that give us time to campaign?”
“We don't need to campaign,” Fred said. “Everybody who signed the petition in the first place will vote for incorporation. It'll be a landslide.”
Hallie said, “Don't be so sure. There'll always be people on the other side, as well as people who don't want to incorporate because they don't want to pay city taxes.”
“You can't blame them for that,” Stark said. “Lord knows, we're already taxed almost to death in this country. People forget that the âtea' in Tea Party stands for Taxed Enough Already.”
“Let's not muddy the issue,” Hallie suggested. “We'll keep it simple, have some signs and flyers printed that make it very clear what the benefits of incorporation are, and hope for a good turnout. The weather should be nice for the election, anyway, and that'll help get the voters out.”
They began making their plans for the campaign leading up to the election, but Stark's mind wandered. This wasn't the sort of thing he was good at. Alton, Fred, and Aurelia seemed to think this was a major hurdle, that once Shady Hills was incorporated things would be better. Stark wasn't convinced of that. His gut told him there was still plenty of trouble ahead.
For one thing, he wasn't convinced that the election would go off without a hitch. Shady Hills had become a symbol, a symbol of people standing up for their rights against not only vicious criminals but also against a “do nothing but tax, spend, and regulate” government. Because of that stance, Shady Hills would always have enemies because it threatened the status quo. It threatened the hold on power by an overreaching federal government and the rule by fear of the Mexican drug cartel.
No, things were not going to go smoothly, Stark thought, no matter what his friends might hope.
It was just a matter of trying to figure out where and how hell was going to break loose next.
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For several weeks now, Nacho Montez had been smarting from the defeat at Shady Hills. He had known that those old gringos would be armed and ready for trouble, but he had expected the feint at the front gate to fool them, and he had been convinced any resistance would collapse quickly once he and his men were inside the retirement park.
Who could have guessed that the residents would fight back so fiercely and so effectively?
It was all Stark's fault, Nacho had thought more than once as a bitter, sour taste filled his mouth. Stark was their leader, the one from whom those old people drew their inspiration. Who knew he would fight like such a devil?
Kill Stark, and it would be like cutting the head off a snake. The problem was, killing Stark would not be easy. Nacho had people watching him, and Stark was always armed when he went anywhere. Not only that, but he usually had several well-armed companions with him. Nacho didn't want to take a chance on failing again. He was already worried that Señor Espantoso might be losing confidence in him.
The señor had summoned Nacho and Jalisco to the ranch today. Chuckie was at one of the cartel's safe houses on the other side of the border, recuperating from wounds he'd received during the fighting at Shady Hills. For a while there, Nacho had been very worried that his brother was going to die.
If that had happened, it would have been just one more score to settle with that gringo bastard John Howard Stark.
Now it looked like Chuckie was going to recover. He had the best medical care available, of course. The cartel could afford it. Not that they had to pay, because everyone was so frightened that they were eager to help in any way they could.
The Arab was still here, Nacho saw with distaste as he and Jalisco were shown into the sumptuous living room by Señor Espantoso's bodyguards. Nacho didn't like the man and didn't see why the cartel was so eager to do business with strangers from the Middle East. Although born and raised on the Texas side of the border, Nacho considered himself a Mexican. He could tolerate the presence of Colombians in the cartelâthey provided most of the product, after all, and at least they were Latinoâbut getting involved with the Islamic terrorist groups seemed like a mistake to him. The cartel could get along just fine without their help.
No one asked his opinion about such things, though, so he simply ignored the Arab and said to Espantoso, “You honor us with your invitation, señor.”
“Never mind that,” the señor snapped. “The people at Shady Hills are going to get their election. It was just on the news.”
Nacho felt a surge of anger. This whole business of the retirement park trying to become a town was just another slap in the face of the cartel. Nacho knew that, and his wounded pride wanted to strike back at them.
He forced himself to remain calm, though, as he said, “It means nothing, señor.”
“It means they will be able to hire their own police force. I want that land, Montez, and yet they continue throwing up obstacles to obtaining it.”
“Even if Shady Hills becomes a town, it will be tiny and poor. What sort of police force can they afford?”
“They defeated you and your men without a police force,” Señor Espantoso pointed out ominously.
Again Nacho struggled to control his anger.
“Only because they took us by surprise,” he said. “I promise you, we will never underestimate them again. When we strike at them the next timeâ”
“And when will that be?” the señor cut in.
Nacho thought fast. He said, “They have to hold an election to become a town, no? That would be a good day to teach them a lesson they will never forget.”
Espantoso frowned, and Nacho knew that the señor was considering the idea. But after a moment Espantoso shook his head.
“There is more to what we do than just simple killing,” he said. “We are not like bandido warlords who just crush anyone who defies us.”
And that was sort of a shame, Nacho thought. The legends of those simpler times held a great appeal to him. He had often thought that he would have liked to ride with Villa.
“We proceed tactically,” Espantoso said in an annoying lecturing tone. “And one such tactic is to let our enemies do our work for us.”
Nacho had to shake his head.
“I don't understand, señor.”
“We are not the only ones opposed to the idea of Shady Hills becoming a town,” Espantoso said with a wolfish smile. “Perhaps we should just sit back and let their other enemies do our work for us.”
C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-SIX
The president, his chief of staff, and the attorney general sat in the Oval Office, and the latter two men looked distinctly uncomfortable as their boss slapped a folded newspaper down on the big desk.
“This has gone on long enough,” the president said. The headline on the paper read:
ELECTION APPROVED FOR TEXAS TERROR TOWN
. “What sort of judge would approve an election to create a haven for gun-toting, Bible-thumping, racist vigilantes? Who appointed him, anyway? It couldn't have been one of us.”
“He, uh, wasn't appointed by anyone, sir,” the chief of staff said. “He isn't a federal judge. He's a local county judge. He was elected.”
The president rolled his eyes.
“And that's why we don't trust the voters in this country. They make mistakes like that all the time!”
“What do you want me to do, Mr. President?” the attorney general asked.
“I know you both said we ought to stay out of this as much as possible.” The president's finger stabbed down at the newspaper. “But this can't be allowed to stand! I want a federal injunction against this election, ASAP.”
“I'm not sure about jurisdictionâ” the AG began.
“Screw jurisdiction! We're the federal government! We can do whatever we want!”
The chief of staff said, “Maybe it would be better to let them have their election . . . and lose.”
The president leaned forward with a frown.
“Can we do that?” he asked.
“You just said it yourself, sir. We're the federal government. We can do what we want.”
The attorney general said, “The Justice Department can send observers to make sure the election is conducted fairly and to guard against voter suppression and voter fraud.”
“And there can be organized demonstrations to protest the election,” the chief of staff added. “That ought to keep turnout down.”
“But I thought we just said we'd guard against voter suppressionâ” The president stopped short, then said, “Ah, I understand. Never mind. It's not voter suppression when we do it, now is it, boys?”
All three men smiled.
“There are other things we can do as well to influence the outcome,” the attorney general said. “And it's certainly true that it's an even bigger win for us if they hold their election and then fail. We can spin that as a triumph for equal rights.”
“Do it,” the president said decisively. “Do whatever you need to do, just make sure those people come off like the racist yokels they are.”
“One thing,” the chief of staff said. “There are quite a few Hispanics and blacks living in Shady Hills who actually support the idea of turning the place into its own town. If people see them on the news, they're going to start asking how we can portray this as a racist effort.”
“Well, that's easily taken care of, isn't it?” the president asked. “Just make sure nobody ever sees them on the news.”
“I'll do my best, sir, but it's not like we completely control the media in this country. Almost, maybe, but not quite.”
The president leaned back in the big chair and folded his hands on his stomach.
“Well, perhaps that's something we should work on another day, gentlemen,” he said.
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Ryan opened his cell phone and said, “What is it?”
“You're still in Washington.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Do you think we're not keeping an eye on you?” the voice asked angrily. “You're here, and that bastard Stark is still down there in Texas causing problems for us.”
“John Howard Stark will be dealt with in the proper way, at the proper time,” Ryan said.
“And who decides how and when that is?”
“You know the answer to that,” Ryan said. “I do.”
Silence came over the phone for a few seconds before the man on the other end of the connection heaved an exasperated sigh.
“I swear, if you hadn't gotten results for us so many times in the pastâ”
“But I always do, don't I?”
“Yes,” the man admitted. “You do.”
“This time won't be any different. But I have to admit, I'm sort of enjoying watching the show down there in Texas. It must be driving you and your friends crazy to see a bunch of people refusing to knuckle under like that. Don't they know they're supposed to be good, proper American sheep and do whatever their betters tell them to do?”
“You let us worry about the political end of it,” the man snapped. “You just take care of the job you've been hired to do.”
“I've never let you down before,” Ryan said. “I won't this time, either.”
He broke the connection without saying good-bye because he was annoyed by the call. He didn't like being doubted or having his methods questioned.
Of course, the caller had a point, Ryan thought. To be fair, he
had
been dragging his feet on this Stark job, and he wasn't sure why that was the case. He had no fondness for John Howard Stark. All he had to do was glance at his maimed right hand to remind him of why he hated the former rancher.
But you had to sort of admire the man, Ryan realized. Stark, despite having served in Vietnam, wasn't a lifelong military man, wasn't a trained commando. Bigger, stronger, faster than the average man, maybe, but when you got right down to it, still a common man, not a superhero.
Yet he'd had the audacity to challenge the cartel once before and, after that, the Mexican army during that trouble at the Alamo. Now he was up in the cartel's face again, making a nuisance of himself. A deadly nuisance, if what Ryan read in the papers and on the Internet was true. Ryan still had some contacts south of the border, even though he didn't work for the drug smugglers anymore, and he wondered who was running things along the Rio Grande now. Whoever it was had to be getting mighty tired of hearing about John Howard Stark.
The thought suddenly occurred to Ryan that he ought to reach out to the cartel. Maybe he could get a bonus from them for killing Stark and still collect his fee from his regular employers. It was an intriguing idea. Double-dipping, so to speak.
He set the phone on the nightstand beside the bed and then reached over to slap the delectably bare rump of the young woman sleeping beside him. She stirred a little, then asked in a voice thick with drowsiness, “Is it time to go to work?”
“It's the middle of the morning, my dear,” Ryan said. “You were late for work two hours ago.”
She bolted upright and yelled, “Oh, my God! Why did you let me sleep so late? Why didn't you wake me up?”
“Because you looked so adorable lying there.”
“You don't understandâ”
“Don't worry. They found some cute young thing to fill in for you on the morning show, and they didn't say anything about you not showing up. They just said you had the day off.”
“Was it that little bitch Carly? I'll bet it was her! She's been after my job for six months! I'll claw her eyes out! Damn it to hell, Simonâ”
He shut her up by closing his hand around her jaw. Not tight enough to cause any pain, but plenty firm enough to let her know that he wanted her to stop yammering at him. He leaned closer to her and whispered into her ear. At the same time he began to caress her, and despite his grip on her jaw, she responded to his touch as she always did.
The single word he whispered to her was the same one his father had shouted at him when he was growing up in El Paso, an angry bellow that usually was followed by a slap, or if his mother tried to intervene, a beating for her. Ryan had grown to hate that word, but that hatred hadn't stopped him from adopting it as a nickname later in life, a highly appropriate nickname considering his line of work and how very, very quiet graves were.
“Silencio.”