C
HAPTER
F
IFTY-SEVEN
Stark leaped to his feet and ran toward the location of Miranda's voice. He called her name softly, and she said, “Here!” He could hear the pain that drew the word taut.
Dropping to a knee beside her, he said, “How bad are you hit?”
“I'll be all right,” she said. “A bullet nicked me on the hip and knocked me down, and then one of them came out of nowhere and grabbed one of the girls. Help me up and we'll go after them.”
Stark took hold of her arm and hauled her to her feet, but he said, “You're getting out of here. I'll find the girl. Can you move fast enough to catch up with Ben?”
“She won't have to,” Ben said as he loomed up out of the darkness. Stark almost shot him but held off on the trigger.
“Where are the kids?” Stark asked tersely.
“I ran into Keith and Luiz and some of the other fellas and sent 'em on to the river with them. We're missin' one, though.”
“I know. I'm going to find her now. Take Miranda. Get her back safe.”
“We can come with you and helpâ” Miranda began.
“You're both wounded,” Stark said. “Now go! We're wasting time!”
He set off at a lope in the direction the fleeing gunmen had taken. Miranda called after him, “Be careful! There were three of them!”
A faint band of red light, the vestiges of the day, lingered just above the western horizon. Stark trotted toward it, and as he ran he reloaded the .45, his movements smooth and efficient even though he was working by feel.
Three against one wasn't very good odds, especially when the three were bloodthirsty cartel thugs, with a hostage to boot. But this was a job Stark needed to finish. He might not ever do anything else in his life, but this he was going to finish.
Like a runaway freight train, somebody came out of the darkness and slammed into him, knocking him off his feet. Stark twisted, knowing that if the attacker landed on top of him, the weight might break his ribs and incapacitate him. That was the same as a death sentence. He hit the ground, but whoever had crashed into him landed beside him.
Stark rolled and came to his feet. His eyes were adjusted well enough to the darkness by now that he could make out the huge shape of the other man. The big, bearlike figure was about to lunge at him again.
Stark's memory flashed back to the first night at Fred Gomez's mobile home when the three men had come looking for Antonio. He didn't think it was likely that two of the cartel foot soldiers would be this massive, so he took a chance and said, “Hey, Chuckie.”
The man stopped short and said, “Huh?”
Stark shot him three times, the blasts coming so close together they almost sounded like one. At that range, even somebody as big as Chuckie couldn't stand up to three .45 rounds in the chest. He flung his arms in the air and went over backward, dying without a sound.
“Chuckie!” a man screamed not far away.
Stark whirled toward the cry, but the man was already shooting. A bullet gouged a furrow in Stark's upper left arm and knocked him halfway around. He didn't know where the girl was, so he hated to return the fire, but if he stood there and let the gunman kill him, he couldn't do her any good anyway.
So he triggered twice at the muzzle flashes and heard a shout of pain. Flame split the darkness again. Stark felt the impact of the bullet and rocked back a step. He fired again and then his strength suddenly deserted him. Without even realizing he had fallen, he found himself on his knees.
A rail-thin shape sauntered toward him, silhouetted for a second against the last of the light from the sunset. Jalisco. The gunslinger, Stark thought. Nacho and Chuckie were dead, but Jalisco was still alive.
“You and me, old man,” Jalisco said as his gun came up.
Stark dived forward and fired. At the same time he thought he heard another shot somewhere nearby. Jalisco staggered to the side. The gun in his hand roared and spat fire. Stark triggered again and again until Jalisco spun off his feet and fell to the ground with a heavy thud that told Stark he wouldn't be getting up.
Stark's ears rang from all the blasts. His voice sounded odd to him as he called, “Girl! Girl, are you there?” He wasn't sure he would be able to hear her, even if she answered.
But then she came stumbling out of the shadows, whimpering, saying, “Please don't kill me, please, please . . .”
Stark struggled to his feet. He reached out for her and said, “It's all right, it's all right.” His hand fell on her shoulder and she flinched and started to pull away, but he went on, “I've got you now, you'll be all right.”
“You're . . . you're hurt!”
He felt the wet heat of blood on his side and his arm, but he was steady enough on his feet, especially when she slipped an arm around his waist to help him.
“Come on,” Stark said. “We need to get to the river.”
“How . . . how will we find it in the dark?”
Stark looked up at the sky. The stars had come out.
“We'll find it,” he said. “There's somebody up there showing us the way.”
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They didn't have to steer by the stars the whole way to the river. With a throbbing
whup-whup-whup
from their blades, helicopters with bright searchlights flew over the landscape, lighting it up almost as bright as day. Flashing red and blue lights appeared in the distance. It wasn't long before men in helmets and flak jackets were swarming all over the area between the river and the cartel's headquarters, rounding up Stark, his friends, and the rescued teenagers like they were stray cattle.
Stark didn't mind being rounded up, either. Everybody who was wounded needed medical attention as soon as possible, himself included. Almost before he knew what was happening, he found himself in the back of an ambulance, speeding toward Devil's Pass. He was headed for the hospital. . . .
But he knew that as soon as he was patched up, he'd be headed for jail. He didn't mind. Seven of those kids were still alive who wouldn't have been otherwise. Whatever the government did to him now, it would be worth it as far as he was concerned.
Anyway, he figured to have the last laugh on them.
He was mighty curious, though, if he had imagined that other shot that had helped him bring Jalisco down. And if it was real, if he hadn't imagined it, then who had fired it? One of the men who'd come with him? If that was the case, why hadn't the fella stuck around to help?
Stark would have pondered it some more, but the drugs coursing into his veins through an IV were starting to take hold, and he let the welcome darkness claim him.
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“He did it again?
Again?
I don't frickin' believe it!”
“Well, he didn't actually invade Mexico this time, sir,” the chief of staff said. “The battle took place on American soil.”
“What about the hostages?”
“One was killed, but the other seven are all right. In remarkably good shape, in fact, and unfortunately, the press managed to get to some of them before we could slap a lid on the thing. They all talked about how Stark and his friends were like the Navy SEALs or something from a video game. And of course those interviews are all over the Internet by now. That genie's not going back in the bottle, sir.”
“Screw the genie,” the president said. “What are we going to do about Stark? Surely he and his friends broke dozens of state and federal laws!”
“Yes, sir, undoubtedly. They also have the Mexican government so upset there are going to be protests lodged for a week. But he's also widely regarded as a huge hero.”
“Again.”
The chief of staff sighed.
“And it certainly doesn't help matters that one of the bodies found at the ranch was identified as a known Islamic terrorist and member of Hezbollah. But if it's any comfort, sir, you're the not the first president Stark's caused trouble for.”
“It's no comfort at all,” the president snapped. “He's in the hospital, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“In the custody of the local authorities?”
“That's right. He hasn't been charged with anything yet, but the sheriff down there isn't going to turn loose of him any time soon.”
“The district attorney in that county . . . he's one of us, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
The president nodded and said, “Let him know, unofficially, of course, that if he doesn't charge John Howard Stark with murder, he'll never be elected again.”
“What about the people who were with Stark?”
“I don't give a damn about them,” the president said with a shake of his head and a dismissive wave. “They're not important. But whatever it takes . . . John Howard Stark is going to prison.”
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Ryan set aside the gun he was cleaning and answered his phone.
“You bastard!”
“That's no way to talk,” Ryan said. “I'm hanging up now.”
“Wait!”
Ryan didn't break the connection.
“You've seen the news? You know what happened?”
“I know all about it,” Ryan said.
“You could have prevented this if you'd just killed Stark weeks ago like you were supposed to. Like you were paid to!”
“Only the first half of my fee. I wouldn't dream of trying to collect the other half until the job is done.”
The man on the other end of the connection heaved a sigh.
“I don't suppose it would do any good to ask you why you've waited so long. You'd just give me that crap about how everything has to be done at the right place and the right time.”
“It's not crap if you live your life by it,” Ryan snapped. “If that's all you've got to sayâ”
“No. You can still do the job.”
“What's the point? Stark's going to be tried for murder. I saw
that
on the news, too.”
“As long as he's alive, he'll be stirring up trouble. Mark my word for it. Even in prison he'll do
something
to embarrass this administration. Some people are just too damned larger than life. But he's not larger than death.”
Ryan had his own reasons for it, but he said, “Don't worry about it, amigo. I give you my word. John Howard Stark will never see the inside of a prison cell.”
C
HAPTER
F
IFTY-EIGHT
It was the trial of the century. It didn't matter that the century was less than a quarter finished. All the TV pundits and newspaper editorialists and celebrity bloggers said so. Some people even proclaimed it to be the trial of the millennium, which had barely gotten started. The trial had its own Twitter hash tag. “Who is John Howard Stark?” was a question on
Jeopardy!
There would never be a bigger legal spectacle.
Which was all a bunch of bull as far as Stark was concerned.
Hallie had begged him to bring in some high-powered firm of defense attorneys. Stark refused, saying that he had faith in her and she was plenty good enough as far as he was concerned. She told him she wanted to seek a change of venue.
“You won't get a more sympathetic jury in San Antonio or Dallas or Houston,” he said, adding with a shrug, “Fort Worth, maybe. But here is fine. This is my home now, and we'll have the trial here.”
The district attorney made a perfunctory offer of a plea bargain: plead guilty to multiple counts of first-degree murder and get a life sentence. That was better than lethal injection.
When Hallie passed along the offer to him, Stark just shook his head.
So they went to trial, and the prosecution called witness after witness: survivors from the cartel who had been granted immunity; the students who had been rescued, testifying as hostile witnesses because they'd had to be subpoenaed and threatened with prosecution themselves to get them into court, where their testimony might hurt Stark's case; and Reuben, Ben, Miranda, and the others who had gone in there with Stark to free the prisoners, also testifying under subpoena and the threat of jail time. Stark had told them just to tell the truth. He wasn't just about to be responsible for any of his friends being charged with perjury. Besides, he knew that if they didn't cooperate with prosecution, the district attorney would come after them next, and he would come with all legal guns blazing.
“John Howard, this is crazy!” Hallie whispered to him while they sat at the defense table during a brief break. “I'm doing what I can, but there's just too much evidence against you. Pleading self-defense when you're tackling some would-be car thieves is one thing, but when you assemble an armed group and launch an invasionâ”
“We didn't cross the border,” Stark said mildly.
“I don't think that's going to do you much good.”
He patted her hand and said, “You're doing fine. I'm not worried.”
“I'm glad one of us isn't,” Hallie muttered.
The district attorney, who was handling the case personally, paraded his witnesses through the courtroom for several days until he finally rested the state's case.
Stark leaned over to Hallie and said, “You can rest, too.”
She gave him a narrow-eyed look and said, “The hell I will.” As she came to her feet she went on in a louder voice, “Defense calls John Howard Stark.”
Stark leaned back in his chair in surprise.
“You can't put me on the stand!”
“Yes, I can,” she insisted. “Get up there.”
“I won't do it!”
The judge, a stocky Hispanic man named Garza, said, “Counsel? Is your client going to cooperate? I can't force him to testify, you know.”
“I know, your honor,” she said. She looked at Stark. “John Howard, please.”
With a frown on his face, Stark got to his feet. His wounds had all healed while he was out on bail, waiting to go to trial. He had lost quite a bit of weight during his recuperation, though. With obvious reluctance, he walked up to the witness stand and was sworn in.
Hallie stood at the defense table and said, “Mr. Stark, have you been seeing a doctor on a regular basis?”
“You know I have,” Stark said. “I got shot.”
“I don't mean because of your wounds. I mean have you been seeing a doctor for some other reason?”
“Hallie,” Stark said so quietly that those in the back row of the packed spectator's benches had to strain to hear. “Don't.”
“I don't have any choice,” she told him. “Please answer the question, Mr. Stark.”
Shifting uneasily in his seat, Stark glanced up at Judge Garza. The judge said, “I don't know what the relevance is, Mr. Stark, but you'll have to answer the question.”
Stark drew in a deep breath and blew it out through his nose.
“I didn't know you knew about that, but . . . yes, I have been seeing a doctor.”
“Tell the court why.”
The district attorney came to his feet.
“I fail to see the relevance of this, too, your honor,” he said. “I have to objectâ”
“Overruled,” Judge Garza said. “For now. Mr. Stark?”
Stark grimaced, scratched his ear, and said, “I have cancer. There's a tumor in my brain. The doctors say there's nothing they can do about it.”
That set off such an uproar in the courtroom that Judge Garza had to bang his gavel on the bench for a good three minutes before the noise even started to subside. The hall outside was filled with reporters, and they started shouting when the news reached them. The chaos soon spread outside, where the courthouse lawn was packed with people waiting to find out what the result of the trial would be.
“Recess!” Judge Garza bellowed. “Thirty-minute recess!”
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When the trial finally resumed, Stark was still on the stand, and a bunch of additional bailiffs and sheriff 's deputies had been brought in to keep order, not only in the courtroom but all over the courthouse square.
Hallie's next question was, “What's the prognosis for your condition, Mr. Stark?”
“They say it'll kill me, but they don't say when,” Stark answered with a grim smile.
“They've given you an estimate, though, haven't they?”
“They have,” Stark said. “The tumor's a slow-growing one. I've got a year, maybe. Eighteen months, if I'm really lucky . . . if you consider that luck. Two years at the outside, and that's
way
outside.”
“How long have you known about this?”
“Since the day those three punks tried to steal my pickup.”
The district attorney stood up and said, “I object again, your honor. This has absolutely no relevance to the case at hand.”
Hallie began, “Your honor, the defendant's state of mindâ”
Judge Garza shook his head.
“I'm afraid I have to agree with the district attorney, counselor. This isn't relevant to the facts of the case. I'm going to strike this entire line of questioning.”
“In that case, your honor . . .” Hallie sighed. “I have nothing further.”
Judge Garza looked at the district attorney and said, “Your witness.”
The district attorney stood there for a long moment, obviously thinking, then said, “Mr. Stark, do you believe that a man's medical condition, assuming that he's of sound mind, excuses him for any crimes he may commit?”
“No, sir, I don't,” Stark said. The district attorney nodded and started to turn away, but Stark went on, “But I don't believe I've committed any crimes. I acted only in defense of my own life and the lives of others.”
“That's not a determination for you to make,” the district attorney snapped, clearly annoyed that Stark had gotten that statement in.
“Well, who else is going to make it? I was the one who was there. You weren't, and the judge wasn't. The members of the jury weren't. I was there when those thugs were shooting at me and my friends and those kids. I just did what I had to do to save our lives.”
“Objection, your honor! The witness isn't responding to a question. Move to strike!”
“Sustained,” Judge Garza said. “All the witness's comments following his answer to the prosecution's question will be stricken, and the jury is to disregard them.”
Good luck with that
, the expressions on the faces of the jury members seemed to say.
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Hallie rested the defense's case as soon as Stark stepped down from the stand.
“I can't do any better than what you just did,” she told him when he returned to the table.
“Practically everything I said was stricken from the record,” Stark pointed out.
“There's the record . . . and then there's the truth. That's what the jury heard.” She paused. “I'm sorry about having to spring that on you.”
“I didn't know you knew,” Stark said.
“Your doctor told me. He said he didn't care how much trouble he got into for breaking the confidence. He said they could take away his license if they wanted to. He wasn't going to let you go down without a fight.” She rested her hand on his. Tears sparkled in her eyes. “But I'm so sorry, John Howard. So sorry about . . . everything.”
“Don't be,” Stark told her. “I'm not. I've sort of gotten used to the idea by now. I figure that even if we lose, there'll be enough appeals to keep me out of prison for the time I've got left.”
“You're not going to lose,” Hallie said with a fierce note coming into her voice. “Not after my closing statement.”
She sat there, looking down at the table while the district attorney spent five minutes damning John Howard Stark for every crime in the book, or at least it seemed like it. Then, when he sat down, she stood up and walked over to face the jury.
“âSomebody ought to do something about that,'” she said. “How many times have you seen something that's unfair, or cruel, or just plain wrong, and said to yourself, âSomebody ought to do something about that'? How many times have we all said that? And if the thing you're looking at is bad enough, you might even say, âSomebody's
got
to do something about that.' But who does? Most of the time, nobody.”
She turned and pointed a finger at Stark.
“That man sitting right there,
he
does something about it. He does whatever he has to in order to put things right. Look at him.” She smiled. “Look at the way he's looking down at the table and shifting around in his chair. He's uncomfortable. He's even a little embarrassed. Because he doesn't think what he does is any big deal. He doesn't want people praising him or calling him a hero. He doesn't
believe
he's a hero. He's just a man trying to do what's right, the way everybody should. The way anybody hardly ever actually does. That's John Howard Stark for you, ladies and gentlemen. No big deal. Just a man.” Her voice caught, but she got the words out. “Just a good man.”
With tears running down her face, she walked back to the defense table and sat down. Stark lifted a hand, awkwardly, and patted her on the back.
The jury was out barely long enough to take a vote before they came back with a verdict of not guilty on all counts.
The district attorney stood up and said, “I'm going to ask the court order a new trial, your honor.”
“Motion denied, counselor.”
“But your honorâ”
“The jury accepted the contention that Mr. Stark acted in self-defense, as do I. If you want to charge him with any of the myriad lesser offenses you might bring against him, feel free to do so.”
The district attorney sighed and said, “I'll . . . take that under consideration, your honor.”
“Do that.” Judge Garza picked up his gavel. “Mr. Stark, you're free to go.”
The gavel banged on the bench, and chaos erupted in Devil's Pass again . . . mostly happy chaos this time.
It took a dozen deputies to clear a path for Stark and Hallie to leave the courthouse. Cameras and microphones were everywhere. Reuben, Ben, and the rest of Stark's friends took over for the deputies, closing ranks around him. Despite that, he was still jostled quite a bit until they got to the car Hallie had hired, waiting to take them back to Shady Hills. Once Stark and Hallie were inside, the driver pulled away slowly, forcing the crowd to give way before him.
“That was quite a speech you made in there,” Stark said. “I think you really did embarrass me.”
“I don't care. You're free, and that's all that matters.”
“Back to Shady Hills, ma'am?” the driver asked from the front seat.
“That's right, thank you.”
“Pleasure's all mine, ma'am,” the driver said as he sped north out of Devil's Pass. The rest of Stark's friends were following in their own vehicles, but they were quite some distance back. “It's not every day I get to drive a genuine hero.”