Stand Your Ground

by William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone

Genres: Action & Adventure; Military Thrillers; Political Thrillers

Synopsis

National bestselling authors William W. Johnstone and J.A. Johnstone know what it takes to fight for the red, white and blue. When the battleground is Texas, the outcome is sure to be explosive. . . Freedom Is Never Free After the President closes Guantanamo Bay to hold civilian trials for the terrorists, some of them are relocated to Hell's Gate Prison in West Texas. Until a group of fanatical sleeper-cell shock troops launch an all-out assault to "liberate" their jailed comrades. There's just one problem: they don't know that Army Ranger Lucas Kincaid is working at Hell's Gate. With the town's high school team held hostage and in danger of being executed one by one, Kincaid assembles a ragtag band of survivors and aging hardcore cons into a lethal fighting force to keep the unholy warriors from their deadly mission. And Kincaid and his men are on their own--everyone, from the President on down, orders Kincaid to give in to the terrorists' demands. But warrior Lucas Kincaid, out-numbered and out-gunned, won't back down. One thing's for sure: when the enemy gets to Hell, they'll know America sent them.

Release date: August 5, 2014

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 416

Sample

Fuego, Texas

The bright lights on the tall metal standards around the stadium lit up the night for hundreds of yards around. The cheers of the people in the stands filled the air. An autumn Friday night in Texas meant only one thing.

Fuego had gone to war.

And the enemy was the McElhaney Panthers.

The undefeated Panthers were ranked number six in the state in the 3-A classification and had come in here tonight expecting to crush the lowly Fuego Mules, who currently owned an unimpressive record of two wins and four losses.

Yet here it was, middle of the third quarter, and Fuego held a slender 14–10 lead on the visiting Panthers.

The people in the home grandstands were going nuts. They were on their feet with almost every play as they cheered for the local high school team. The band played the fight song at high volume.

Across the field in the smaller stands where visitors sat, Panther fans who had made the ninety-mile drive from McElhaney were fit to be tied. Their shouts were edged with disbelief as they implored their boys to hold the line. Their dreams of an undefeated season were fading. The Mules had the ball and were driving for a score that would pad their lead.

At the big concession stand on the home side, operated by the Fuego Booster Club, Lucas Kincaid leaned forward and said over the racket, “I’ll have two chili dogs and a Coke, please.”

The booster club mom who was tired and harried from the press of hungry and thirsty customers blew a strand of blond hair out of her eyes and said, “Sure, hon. You want onions and jalapeños on those dogs?”

Kincaid shook his head and said, “No thanks. Just chili and cheese.”

“You got it.”

He saw her casting glances at him as she fixed the chili dogs. Probably wondering if he had a kid playing in the game or maybe in the band. He was fairly youthful in appearance but had touches of gray in his close-cropped dark hair, which made him old enough to have a child in high school. She didn’t know him, though, and even in this day and age, everybody knew ’most everybody else in a small town like Fuego.

But not Kincaid. He didn’t have any relatives around here, didn’t have a kid who was a football player or a cheerleader or a trombonist or anything else.

That didn’t stop him from attending the games. He wanted to fit in, because the more he fit in, the lower a profile he could keep. Everybody in Fuego went to the games, so he did, too. He didn’t want to get a reputation as a reclusive loner. People remembered reclusive loners.

Kincaid didn’t want to be remembered. He didn’t want to be noticed.

That way if his enemies came looking for him, they’d be less likely to find him.

Make that when his enemies came looking for him, not if, he thought. It was only a matter of time.

The blond woman set the chili dogs in their paper boats and the canned Coke dripping from the ice chest on the counter in front of him and said, “That’ll be five dollars.”

“Thanks,” Kincaid said as he laid a bill on the counter beside the food.

“Can you handle that okay?” she asked as he started to pick up the food.

Kincaid smiled and said, “Yeah, I think so.” His hands were pretty big. He had no trouble holding the two hot dogs in one hand and the Coke in the other. He opened the can before he picked it up and took a long swallow of the cold, sweet liquid.

“Thanks,” the woman said. Kincaid could tell that she wouldn’t mind if he stayed and talked to her some more, even though more customers waited in line behind him. He had seen the appreciation in her eyes when she cast those hooded glances at him. He was a good-looking stranger, and she probably didn’t have much excitement in her life.

Lucky woman, he thought as he turned away.

In his experience, he’d found that excitement was way overrated.

Andy Frazier’s nerves were jumping around all over the place. He struggled to bring them under control as he leaned forward to address the other players in the huddle. He had to make them think he was calm so they would stay calm. He was their quarterback, after all. Their leader.

“Red fire right on two,” he said, relaying the play that one of the offensive tackles had brought in from the sideline. “Break!”

The team broke and went up to the line. As they took their stances, Andy looked over at the sidelines. He saw Jill Hamilton leading cheers, her long, dark brown ponytail bouncing as she jumped around and waved blue-and-white pompoms.

She must have felt his eyes on her, because she paused and turned, and the connection between them over the green turf was electric. They’d been dating for six weeks and Andy knew she’d be riding him in the front seat of his pickup before the night was over, but it would be even better if they could beat those asshats from McElhaney first.

Andy bent over center and barked, “Hut, hut!” and Charlie Lollar snapped the ball to him. Andy turned, faked to Brent Sanger charging past him from the running back spot, and slid along the line with the ball on his right hip as he waited for Spence Parker to make his cut and come open on his pass route.

But then one of the linemen—Ernie Gibbs, big but slow and stupid—lost his block and suddenly a McElhaney linebacker was right in Andy’s face. Gibby, you son of a bitch! Andy screamed mentally as he twisted away from the rush.

There was no pocket—the play was designed to look like a rush, so the linemen had fired out rather than dropping back—and as Andy curled back across the field he saw a sea of McElhaney red and silver coming at him. He dodged this way and that and looked downfield to see if anybody was open, or at least close enough to open that he could heave the ball ten yards over his head and get away with it. They were almost in field goal range for Pete Garcia, but an intentional grounding penalty, with its loss of both yardage and down, would push them back too far.

Then Andy caught a glimpse of a seam in all that red and silver and cut into it without stopping to think. Hands grabbed at him, but he shook loose. Bodies banged into him, but he bounced off and kept his feet. He pulled the ball close to his body to keep it from getting swatted loose in all the traffic.

He was just trying to reach the first-down marker, but suddenly he came free and saw nothing but open field in front of him. The line of scrimmage had been the McElhaney 35, and he was past that now so there was no point anymore in looking for a receiver. Andy put his head down and ran as frenzied shouts went up from the stands on both sides of the field.

He passed the 30, the 25, and cut to his right as he sensed more than saw one of the McElhaney safeties coming in from his left. The diving tackle fell short, but the safety had forced Andy back toward the pursuit. He angled left at the 20 and saw the flag at the front corner of the end zone.

Now it was a race, and a hope that nobody behind him held him or threw an illegal block.

By the time Andy reached the 10, he didn’t hear anything except his own pulse pounding in his ears. No, that wasn’t his pulse, he realized, it was a couple of McElhaney players closing in on him from behind. He crossed the 5, left his feet at the 3-yard line just as they hit him. Momentum carried all three of them forward, and when Andy came crashing to the ground with nearly 400 pounds of McElhaney on top of him, the ball tucked under his arm was a good eight inches beyond the goal line.

Andy saw that, realized he had scored, and felt a moment of pure elation before he started screaming from the pain of his newly broken leg.

Up in the stands, George Baldwin turned to his friend John Howard Stark and said, “That’s a sign of true greatness, being able to make something out of nothing. You know good and well that was a busted play, John Howard, and it wound up being a touchdown.”

“Yeah, but it looks like the kid paid a price for it,” Stark drawled. “He’s still down.”

Baldwin, a burly, bear-like, middle-aged man with close-cropped grizzled hair, frowned worriedly toward the group of players, coaches, and trainers clustered around the fallen player.

“Damn it, I hope he’s all right. That’s Andy Frazier. His dad Bert works for me out at the prison.”

“I hope he’s all right, too,” Stark said. He was taller than his old friend but weighed about the same. Stark had lost a little weight over the past couple of years, but to all appearances he was still a vital, healthy man despite being on the upward slope of sixty.

An apprehensive quiet settled over the stands during this break in the action. The crowd became even more hushed when a gurney was brought out from the ambulance that had pulled up on the cinder track surrounding the field. Everybody on both sides stood up and applauded when Andy Frazier was loaded onto the gurney and taken to the ambulance. His right leg was immobilized and probably broken, but he was awake and talking and holding the hand of a pretty brunette cheerleader.

The kid would be all right, Stark thought. Even with the way things were today, he had everything in the world to live for.

As the teams lined up to kick the extra point, Baldwin said, “You never have told me why you showed up out of the blue to pay me a visit, John Howard.”

“Can’t a guy stop by to see an old army buddy?” Stark asked with a smile.

“Sure, but you’ve never been what I’d call the sentimental type. Anything you ever did, you had a good reason for it.” Baldwin frowned again. “I heard about your health problems. Hell, everybody heard about them. There was the trial, and all that crap with that drug gang—”

Stark winced and said, “I could do without all the notoriety. I’m just glad things have settled down and I can go places again without being recognized. I’ve been traveling around, seeing some of the old outfit I haven’t seen in years.”

“You’re not going around and, well, saying good-bye, are you, John Howard?”

Stark laughed and shook his head.

“No, this isn’t a farewell tour, George. Fact is, I’m in remission and feel better than I have in a year or more. But none of us are getting any younger.”

“Boy, that’s the truth,” Baldwin said. He clapped as the Fuego kicker drilled the extra point and made the score 21–10. “I’ve got a hunch I’m about to get a lot older, too.”

“The terrorists,” Stark said.

“Yeah.” Baldwin sighed. “All the places they could have put them, and instead of spreading them out they’ve sent all hundred and fifty of the bastards to Hell’s Gate.”

Stark knew exactly what his friend was talking about. The official name of the place was the Baldwin Correctional Facility—a privately run penitentiary with a contract with the United States government to house federal prisoners—but nearly everyone knew it as Hell’s Gate because of a geographical feature just west of the prison.

A long line of cliffs ran north and south there, and the red sandstone of which they were formed made them as crimson as blood when the morning sun hit them. Then, in the afternoon, the setting sun lined up perfectly with a gap in the cliff, and anyone looking through that opening at the blazing orb would think that Hell itself lay just on the other side . . . hence the name “Hell’s Gate.”

The prison had been an economic boon to this isolated county in West Texas, which was larger than many northeastern states but had more jackrabbits and rattlesnakes than people, making it a good location for a maximum security facility. Hell’s Gate was actually the largest employer in the county these days.

Because of the seemingly permanent economic downturn that had gripped the country for the past ten years, ever since the Democrats had learned how to buy national election victories by passing out benefits to low-information voters and how to steal the elections they couldn’t buy, for a time it had seemed that Fuego was going to dry up and blow away.

Hell’s Gate had changed all that, providing jobs for many of the town’s citizens. Guards, administrators, service personnel, all benefited from the prison’s being there. If the trade-off was having hundreds of violent offenders housed just a few miles west of town . . . well, so be it. Prices had to be paid.

But now, with the recent closure of Guantanamo and other off-the-books military prisons, finally fulfilling the promise of the president who had started the nation’s precipitous slide into mediocrity, the population of Hell’s Gate had swelled dramatically, and nobody wanted the newest prisoners: hard-core Islamic fundamentalists who had nothing in their hearts but hate for America and a burning desire to harm the country. Stark had run up against their kind before and knew how dangerous they were.

The Supreme Court had ruled that they had to be held in a civilian prison, though, and tried in civilian courts. It was a farce, an invitation to catastrophe, but age had picked off enough of the Justices so that the gate was wide open for anything the so-called progressives wanted to do, without any way to rein them in.

And that, John Howard Stark thought as he watched a football game on a Friday night in Texas, was the true gate to Hell for a once-great nation.

“Well . . . maybe it’ll work out all right,” he said to Baldwin, although he didn’t believe that for a second.

“Maybe,” Baldwin said, not sounding convinced, either. “Hey, you want to come out to the prison, have a look around?” He grinned. “I’ll buy you lunch in the cafeteria. The food is actually pretty good.”

Stark nodded and said, “I’ll just take you up on that, George.”

Despite losing their quarterback to an injury, Fuego hung on to eke out a 21–17 victory over the previously undefeated McElhaney Panthers. It took a great effort by Brent Sanger, who played defensive back as well as running back, to slap away a Hail Mary pass in the Fuego end zone as time ran out on the clock.

Jubilation filled the town as people in the stands used their phones to post the final score on social networks. Car horns began to honk, not only at the stadium but all along Main Street to the Dairy Queen and McDonald’s at the other end of town. Soon there was such a cacophony it seemed more like the team had just won a state championship, instead of improving its record to one game under .500.

So yeah, maybe folks were overreacting to the win, Lucas Kincaid thought as he made his way through the parking lot toward his Jeep, but he was happy for them anyway. With the world the way it was, people needed a little something to celebrate every now and then.

A long line of red taillights stretched from the parking lot along the road in front of the high school to the state highway that ran past the school and the football stadium. Kincaid figured he would sit in his Jeep for a while and let the traffic thin out before he left. He hated inching along in traffic.

Loud voices from his left drew his attention as he walked across the asphalt with his hands in the pockets of his denim jacket. He looked in that direction and saw three men confronting a man and woman who had a couple of small children with them.

The three men were angry, and their comments were pretty profane. One of them said, “You people don’t even realize what you’ve done. We were undefeated! You’ve ruined the whole season!”

The other two shouted obscene agreement.

So, disappointed McElhaney boosters, thought Kincaid. And from the sound of them, drunken ones at that.

The man and woman tried to lead their kids around the angry visitors. The trio cut them off.

“Whassamatter? You too good to talk to us? You think one lucky win makes you better than us?”

“Mister, my wife and I just want to take our kids home,” the man said. He was in his thirties, a little heavyset, wore glasses. Kincaid thought he looked like a teacher.

As if three-against-one odds weren’t bad enough already, the three men from McElhaney were all bigger and rougher-looking, the sort of men who worked outdoors in construction or oil and gas. Kincaid’s eyes narrowed as he studied them. He had never liked drunks, especially mean drunks . . . like his old man.

One of the men shoved the guy in glasses and sent him stumbling back a step. The guy’s wife made a sound that was angry and frightened at the same time. She maneuvered the kids, a boy and a girl, behind her.

Kincaid had slowed, but he hadn’t stopped walking. He could just go on to his Jeep and forget about what was happening in this corner of the parking lot. He knew that was exactly what he should do.

No, he thought. He couldn’t. Who was he trying to fool by pretending that he could?

“Stop that!” the guy in glasses said. “Leave us alone!”

“You gonna make us?

“No,” Kincaid said as he came up behind the three men. “I am.”

They turned toward him, startled, and he hit the one in the middle in the belly hard enough to double him over. Then in a continuation of the same movement he slashed right and left and caught the two flankers on the sides of their necks with the hard edges of his hands.

The one on the left went down like a puppet with his strings cut, but the one on the right stayed on his feet. He was a little tougher than the other two, Kincaid supposed, and probably not as drunk, either, because he reacted fairly quickly. He bulled forward and caught Kincaid around the waist, slammed him back into the passenger door of a parked pickup.

If he could have just gone ahead and killed them, it would have been easier, but Kincaid knew he couldn’t do that. Even getting in a fight was more notoriety than he ought to risk. Since he had to hold back, it threw him off a little, slowed him down, allowed the guy to ram him into the pickup. Kincaid’s head bounced off the glass in the window.

Yeah, and maybe he was a little rusty, to boot, he thought. He had been lying low for a while. Skills deteriorated with disuse.

But muscle memory never went away completely. Kincaid jerked his head out of the way as the man tried to punch him in the face. Another second and he would have the man on the ground, puking his guts out like the one Kincaid had hit in the belly.

Kincaid didn’t get the chance. The guy in the glasses tackled the third man from the side. Both of them spilled onto the pavement. Glasses swung a punch into the man’s face. The blow was slow and awkward and probably didn’t have a lot of power behind it, but it landed squarely on the man’s nose and broke it.

That ended the fight. The third man rolled onto his side, cupped his hands over his nose, and squealed in pain. Glasses climbed to his feet, where his wife grabbed his arm and asked, “Honey, are you all right?”

He pushed the glasses up on his nose and said, “Yeah, I think so. Thanks to—”

He stopped as he looked around for Kincaid.

It was too late. Kincaid was gone. He’d faded into the shadows because a crowd was gathering and somebody was bound to call the cops and Kincaid didn’t need that.

As it was, nobody involved in the incident knew his name. Nobody would be able to describe him except in vague terms: medium height, medium build, dark hair, blue jeans and denim jacket. That description would fit dozens of guys who’d been at the game tonight.

“Stupid,” Kincaid muttered to himself as he circled through the parking lot. Getting mixed up in a brawl in a high school parking lot wasn’t keeping a low profile. Not low enough.

Not when a lot of dangerous people would have liked nothing better than to kill him.

Andy Frazier floated on a cloud of painkillers. He didn’t even feel his broken leg anymore. He was just coherent enough to realize he had a silly grin on his face as he looked up at Jill, who stood beside the hospital bed holding his hand.

“Did we win the game?” he asked her.

“We did,” she told him. “Twenty-one to seventeen. Ashleigh texted me and let me know.”

From the other side of the bed, Lois Frazier, Andy’s mother, said, “He’s asked you that four times already, Jill. I think there’s something wrong with his brain. Did they check him for a concussion?”

“For God’s sake, Lois, he’s just doped up,” Bert Frazier said. Andy’s dad stood at the foot of the bed. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

He was tall and had the same shade of brown hair as Andy, but his was straight and thinning, instead of thick and rumpled. His face was broad and beefy, and his shoulders were heavy. He was a supervisor out at the prison, in charge of the correctional officers when he was on duty, which he wasn’t tonight because he always arranged to have Friday nights off during football season.

Andy was glad his dad and mom were here. That made him feel better. So did having Jill hold his hand. But as he looked up at her, he felt a pang of disappointment.

“My leg’s broke,” he said.

She smiled and nodded and said, “Yes, I know.”

“That means we can’t—”

Her hand tightened on his and made him stop.

“I know,” she said. “That means we can’t hang out at the Dairy Queen with everybody else and celebrate the victory. But it wouldn’t have been possible without you, Andy, and everybody knows that. We’ll just have to celebrate later, when you’re feeling better.”

“Okay,” he said. That wasn’t what he’d meant at all—he had been thinking about what they would have done out at the dry lake bed, just the two of them, alone—but if she wanted to act like that’s what he was talking about, that was fine, because . . .

Oh, yeah, his folks were right here. So it was probably better not to say anything about the lake bed. Jill was smart that way, really smart. Probably gonna be valedictorian. Vale . . . dic . . . torian.

Andy started to giggle.

“Ah, he’s stoned out of his mind,” Bert said. “Come on, Lois. Let’s go home and let him sleep it off.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Andy’s mom said. “I’m going to stay right here at the hospital. I can sleep in one of those chairs out in the waiting room.”

Bert rolled his eyes. That just made Andy giggle more.

Then he stopped and asked Jill, “Did we win the game?”

There was only one motel in Fuego, down on the same end of town as the fast-food joints. It had been built in the fifties, with a one-story office building that also held the owner’s living quarters in front of a two-story L-shaped cinderblock building with thirty rooms, fifteen on each floor. A swimming pool sat inside the L. Guest parking was on the outside of it. It was a fairly nice place, well kept up despite its age.

Stark had checked in earlier that day and told the clerk, who was also the owner, that he would probably be staying for a few days but didn’t know exactly how long. That wasn’t a problem, the man assured him. The motel did a steady business, since it was on an east–west U.S. highway, but it was seldom full.

When Stark got out of his pickup after the football game and started through the open breezeway leading to the stairs, he saw the motel’s owner doing something to the ice machine that sat in the breezeway next to a soft drink machine. The man looked up and nodded to him.

“Hello, Mr. Stark.”

“Mr. Patel,” Stark said.

“Did you enjoy the game?” Patel grinned. “I could tell from the racket that we won.”

“Yes, it was very exciting.” Stark gestured at the ice machine. Patel had taken a panel off the side of it, exposing some of its works. “Problem with the machine?”

Patel shook his head and said, “Not really. Just doing a little fine-tuning on it.” He chuckled. “You know, when things get older, they don’t work as well. You always have to be messing with them.”

“That’s the truth,” Stark said with a smile of his own. “Well, good night, Mr. Patel.”

“Good night, Mr. Stark.”

Stark didn’t think any more about the encounter as he climbed the stairs to the second floor and went to his room.

What he had told his old friend George Baldwin about being in remission was true. The last time he’d seen his doctor, he had gotten an excellent report, which came as a surprise to both of them. A couple of years earlier, the doctor had told Stark he had maybe a year left.

So every extra day was a blessing, Stark told himself, but at the same time the days carried with them a curse. The longer he hung around this world, the longer it would be before he was reunited with his late wife, taken from him by violence several years earlier.

But Elaine would have wanted him to live as long as he could and enjoy every day of it, Stark knew. His friend Hallie Duncan, waiting for him back home, was the same way. She had encouraged him to go see his old friends, so that was what Stark was doing.

Despite what he’d told George, in a very real way this was a farewell tour, because Stark didn’t know from one day to the next what was going to happen. It was all too possible that he would never see any of them again.

But then, every day on this earth was a farewell tour of sorts, because the past was gone and nothing else was promised to anybody but the present.

Tomorrow might not ever come . . . and the day after that was even more iffy.

As Patel was tightening the screws on the service panel after putting it back in place, a figure drifted out of the shadows to the side of the breezeway.

“That was him,” the newcomer said in the foreign tongue that he and Patel shared. “The big American who has caused so much trouble for our friends in the cartel.”

Patel nodded. His mouth was dry with fear—this man caused that reaction in him—so he had to swallow a couple of times before he could speak.

“Yes, that was John Howard Stark. I . . . I have no idea what he is doing here. He said he came to Fuego to visit an old friend, and it must be true. He could not have any idea what we plan to do.”

“Well, it doesn’t really matter,” the other man said with a shrug. “If he chooses to stay here, in a few more days he will be dead, too, along with thousands of these other decadent Americans.”

Patel looked down at the ice machine and tried not to shudder.

He had been born in Alaska, of all places.

Unlike the American president a decade earlier who finally had been proven, beyond a shadow of a doubt, to have been born overseas, Phillip Hamil really was a native-born American. To add to his credibility, his parents were both naturalized Americans who had immigrated from Pakistan and gotten their citizenship before Phillip was even born.

His father worked for an oil company—that was what the family was doing in Alaska—and his mother was a housewife. Nothing in that background to make anybody suspicious.

But from the time he was old enough to understand the teachings of the Prophet, Phillip Hamil had been raised to hate America.

To destroy America.

As good looks did in every aspect of life, it helped that he was movie-star handsome. With his dark hair and skin, he could pass for Hispanic if he needed to. He spoke Spanish as if he had been born and raised in Guadalajara. But he was also as fluent in Russian as if he had grown up in Minsk. He spoke every dialect of every Middle Eastern language. And his English was perfect.

Why wouldn’t it be? He was an American, after all.

His facility for languages was just one area in which he shone. He was a brilliant mathematician and scientist, and his grasp of world history was enough to have earned him several doctorates. He was one of those rare individuals who mastered everything he turned his hand to. Degrees from Harvard and Yale, president of a smaller but still major university, best-selling author of several volumes about political relations between the U.S. and the Arab world, advisor to presidents . . .

And at the moment, lover to a United States senator.

She gasped and clutched at him and then her head fell back on the pillow as she tried to catch her breath. Hamil rolled off her, left her splayed on the hotel bed, and padded over to the window to part the curtains slightly and look out at the night. They were in suburban Virginia, and he could see the lights of Washington, D.C., glowing in the distance.

For a moment he allowed himself the fantasy of seeing a mushroom cloud rising over that cesspool of American evil. Such a sight would be so satisfying.

But even better was the knowledge that ninety-nine percent of what came out of Washington these days harmed and weakened the Americans without an electoral majority even knowing it. The place was a necessary evil that in the long run did the work of Islam.

The Americans, in their damnable arrogance, should have listened to that old man when he said, “Government is not the solution. Government is the problem.”

If only they had known then that it would be all downhill from there for them, to use one of their own sayings.

“Phillip, that . . . that was incredible,” the woman said in a throaty voice, still slightly breathless from their exertions.

Hamil let the curtain fall closed and put a smile on his face before he turned back to her. She was a powerful woman, rumored to be a strong contender for a vice-presidential slot on the next Democratic ticket, that is, if she didn’t make a run for the top spot herself.

It was a shame she was ugly as a camel. With rare exceptions, the hated Republicans had much better-looking women, from the politicians and the pundits down to the ones who attended rallies and waved signs demanding that no more rights be taken away from them.

Those rallies were futile, of course. The Democrats and their lapdog media