Military Fiction: THE MAC WALKER COLLECTION: A special ops military fiction collection...

by D. W. Ulsterman

  Mac’s spoon paused halfway between bowl and mouth as he heard his shadow cell going off. He dropped the spoon and took the call. It was Tilley. Mac looked around to make certain no one was close enough to over-hear the phone conversation.

  “Gilani is in Chicago, Mac. I personally confirmed from an NSA source. I’m also getting pressure from higher ups to have this completed within forty-eight hours. Call me when it’s done.”

  Mac sat up in his booth and shook his head while pressing the phone against his ear.

  “What? Forty-eight hours? I can’t promise delivery on that! Who’s pressuring you on the timeline, Ray? Is it the senator?”

  Tilley paused long enough that Mac thought he might have already ended the call, but then his voice came back, betraying just a hint of the strain he was obviously under.

  “We got some serious higher ups on this one, Mac. Get it done and Project Icon will be sitting real good with people who can bring us a lot of business. Anything less---“

  “Anything less and they’ll go with someone else. I understand how this business works, Ray, though it pisses me off when these bastards who call the shots from some D.C. office likely couldn’t find their own ass in the dark. Forty-eight hours seems like just enough time to screw something up real bad. I’ll do my best, but I don’t like having something like this dropped on me the day I arrive. I know you said they wanted it done as quickly as possible, but I’d think they would want it done right more than just wanting it done fast. I feel sorry for their wives.”

  Tilley chuckled, both amused by the joke, and glad to hear Mac still had his often unique sense of humor. That meant his operative was not feeling entirely overwhelmed by the suddenly shortened operation schedule.

  “I know, Mac, I know. Good luck.”

  Mac returned the shadow cell to the inside pocket of his jacket and then refocused on finishing his still warm soup, knowing that later tonight he would be sitting outside on the top of a building looking through a pair of night vision goggles while most likely freezing his ass off.

  3.

  “In three days Allah will know us to be among the greatest warriors of his will, Ramtin. Three days until the streets of America run red with the blood of its cursed spawn.”

  Ramtin Armeen sat behind the large custom glass desk inside the confines of his top floor private study overlooking Chicago’s central business district. He regarded Hamid Gilani with a mix of gratitude and humor. The gratitude was for Hamid’s unwavering dedication to the cause, and humor over the man’s persistent religious fervor. Ramtin cared little about the fables of god and prophets. For him religion was nothing more than a convenient motivator to ensure action by those radicalized by their own hatred and insecurities.

  “You’ve confirmed every location from the list?”

  Hamid nodded.

  “We have people prepared for every single one you gave us. Thirty-three locations: nine university campuses, seventeen public schools, and seven large daycare centers including the one here in Chicago. This is going to happen, Ramtin, praise Allah.”

  Ramtin folded his perfectly manicured fingers under his smooth-shaven chin and smiled.

  “You’ve done very well, Hamid. I want you to know how grateful I am for your service to me.”

  Hamid gave Ramtin a short bow and then turned to leave before stopped by the sound of Ramtin’s voice.

  “The American authorities are likely watching us, you know.”

  Hamid turned back around, communicating his indifference with a shrug of his shoulders.

  “Let them watch. They have no idea of our plans though I will of course remain vigilant. And even if they suspect something, at this point they are out of time to stop us, and once completed, no evidence will exist that might implicate you, Allah willing of course.”

  Ramtin, resplendent in a custom tailored dark grey pinstriped business suit stood up from behind his desk and raised his arms to either side of him while looking back at Hamid with a satisfied gleam in his eyes.

  “Allah willing, my friend, Allah willing…”

  Hamid bowed again and then left Ramtin alone in the study.

  The Iranian-born billionaire turned to stare out the window of his high-rise apartment overlooking the seemingly happy twinkling lights of nighttime Chicago. Though his outward appearance suggested a man entirely relaxed in the opulent and comforting surroundings of his home, Ramtin Armeen was actually barely able to contain his excitement over what was so soon to be the culmination of many months of careful planning and hoped for execution.

  He knew the America’s reaction would prove as predictable as their inaction. They would demand more safety, and the kind of bigger government required to make that happen, just as they did after September 11th, 2001. And the larger and more costlier their own government became, the weaker they actually were, the more willing they would disarm, retreat, and ultimately, give up.

  The United States was all too ready for its own self-inflicted defeat.

  …Mac Walker could hardly believe his good luck in having his primary target looking out a window. There he was, Ramtin Armeen in all his arrogant and dangerous glory no more than three hundreds yards from Mac’s own outdoor rooftop location.

  The excellent military-grade Steiner binoculars allowed Mac to only see Armeen, but make out some of the details of his study as well. The Project Icon operative then scanned the outline of the window, trying to confirm something he already suspected.

  Ah, there it is.

  The “it” was an Amidan company logo in the upper right frame of the window. Mac knew Amidan specialized in bullet resistant glass. Attempting to snipe Ramtin from a rooftop location from three hundred yards was not going to be an option. What was required then was an up-close approach, which meant Mac was likely going to have to find access into and then out of Ramtin’s apartment building.

  Mac scanned the building entrance and quickly located a tall, heavily built doorman who was most likely armed. Just inside the door was a black-suited, middle-aged man who was providing security. A surveillance camera was located just above the entrance door to record everyone entering and leaving the building. Mac knew that trying to enter via the front door without an invitation was unlikely, at least not without creating a confrontation between him and the building’s security staff which in turn would alert Ramtin to his presence.

  Have to find a way to sneak in…

  Mac’s eyes suddenly narrowed behind the lenses of the Steiner binoculars as he panned back to the apartment building rooftop.

  He was certain he had seen a blur of movement as something moved quickly behind a large metallic heating duct. Mac remained looking at the rooftop for several more minutes in an attempt to confirm someone was in fact there, but he saw nothing.

  A bird or trick of the light?

  Even as he made the thought, Mac knew better. Someone had been on that roof. The question left to him was why.

  …Hamid smiled in the darkness, a mere shadow of a shadow as he continued to stare across the night chasm separating him from the other man who was also on a rooftop across the street. Whoever the man was, Hamid knew he had been looking into Ramtin’s window, confirming what they already suspected – they were being watched.

  Who might you be? FBI? CIA? Perhaps Homeland Security? Ah, it doesn’t matter, I will kill you regardless. Perhaps feed you to the pigs as I did the last one they sent.

  As Mac Walker made his way from the rooftop back to the street, so too did Hamid Gilani, the confident smile still affixed to the Islamic militant’s smoothly shaved face.

  By the time Mac was in his rental car returning to the Chinatown safe house, Hamid was following two cars back in a late model black Range Rover. Mac glanced several times into his rearview mirror to make certain he wasn’t being followed while making several random turns onto side streets. Soon he confirmed the Range Rover remained behind him.

  The rented four door sedan shot forward as Mac pushed down on the accel
erator. He glanced back once again to see how the unknown to him driver of the Range Rover would respond.

  “Dammit.”

  Mac spoke the words as his rearview mirror filled up with the flashing lights of a Chicago police cruiser. The Range Rover had disappeared.

  Maybe I wasn’t being followed.

  Soon a middle-aged African American Chicago cop was standing alongside Mac’s vehicle asking for his license. Mac gave the officer his identification and then waited patiently behind the wheel, curious to see if the manufactured identification Tilley had given him would prove acceptable to a basic law enforcement check.

  “You know why I stopped you, sir?”

  Mac nodded.

  “Yeah, I was speeding, changed lanes several times without signaling, probably swerved pretty good once or twice back there as well. Take your pick.”

  The mustached police officer scowled down at Mac.

  “You trying to be a smart-ass, sir?”

  It was then Mac remembered his sidearm holstered inside his jacket. Chicago was a city with quite possibly the most prohibitive gun laws in the country, and if the officer decided to have him step out of the car and frisk him, the situation could turn into something far more serious.

  I sure as hell can’t get allow myself to be thrown into a holding cell.

  “No, officer, I was just being honest. I’m here on business and don’t know the streets too well.”

  The officer stared at Mac intensely for several seconds and then glanced to the rental car’s back seat. Mac knew the officer was trying to determine if he was under the influence of alcohol or drugs.

  “What kind of business are you doing at this hour of the night, sir?”

  Mac scrambled to come up with a plausible example that he hoped would alleviate further suspicion.

  “Well, I guess you could call it the kind of business I wouldn’t want my girlfriend to know about.”

  The police officer’s bemused expression indicated he understood the implications of Mac’s answer.

  “I’ll be right back, sir. Just sit tight.”

  Mac knew his assignment identification was about to be tested.

  The officer returned soon after and handed Mac his drivers license.

  “I am going to let you off with a warning, Mr. Wallace. I think it best you get back to wherever you need to go, but do it a little slower and a lot less erratically, ok?”

  Mac looked up and nodded, trying to appear as grateful as possible.

  “Thank you, officer. I’ll sure do that.”

  Soon Mac made his way back to the Chinatown safe-house location, where he parked his vehicle in the alleyway adjacent to the apartment’s entrance steps. A heavy layer of low clouds blocked out any moonlight, making the alley that much darker. As Mac locked the car he glanced behind him, feeling as if he was being watched. His right hand instinctively withdrew his sidearm from its holster. The other end of the alley, what little he could see of it, appeared empty. He then walked out onto the street and glanced to his left and right, making certain there was no sign of the Range Rover he thought to be following him earlier.

  Mac grunted to himself as he turned to make his way quickly up the apartment stairs.

  Get a grip, Mac. You’re acting like some kid who’s afraid of the dark.

  As Mac closed and locked the heavy-framed safe-house door, Ramtin Armeen stepped out from the alleyway darkness that had hidden him so well.

  It appeared the pigs would soon be enjoying another meal.

  4.

  Tilley sounded like he was about ready to lose his shit, and that made Mac that much more nervous for what could be coming.

  “Some of us think the list of schools overheard during our surveillance was misdirection, or that they’ve picked new targets since going silent. Fact is, Mac we’re flying blind here. All we got are Armeen and Gilani there in Chicago. We need them gone. If we just bring them in, the operation will likely continue as planned. Hell, if anything, we give them both an alibi. We’d have them in custody and the terror cells would proceed as planned. Their lawyers would kick our ass.”

  “I’m doing my best on this end, Ray. Give me another twenty-four hours and I should have this thing taken care of. I’ll let you know more tonight.”

  Mac ended the call and put his jacket on, then double checked to make certain his weapon was properly secured in its shoulder holster.

  It was going to be one hell of a busy day.

  The early morning Chicago air helped to wake him up which was good, because he had slept just a few hours on the uncomfortable studio apartment’s pull out bed, finally waking both groggy and sore.

  Need a good strong cup of coffee to start this day off right.

  Mac bounded down the narrow apartment steps and made his way to his parked car. Already the city was alive with the sounds of a new day as a multitude of vehicles drove past the alley’s entrance.

  Overhead the clouds parted, allowing the alleyway to be momentarily filled with sunlight.

  Someone’s behind me!

  Mac began to turn so he could face the source of the soft shuffling noise as his right hand reached into his jacket to withdraw his weapon. If he had reacted a half second sooner, he might have succeeded in defending himself.

  That half-second hesitation cost him dearly though.

  The half inch thick iron pipe smashed into the left side of Mac’s skull sending him crashing into the side of the rental car. Even though his vision went momentarily dark, Mac instinctively pushed himself away from the vehicle with his hands up in front of his head trying desperately to avoid being hit again, knowing he might not survive a another blow as brutal as the first.

  The second strike arrived with a dull clanging thud against the top of Mac’s right kneecap. Mac couldn’t stop himself from falling forward onto the pavement below as he willed his vision to clear enough to allow him to see his assailant.

  It was Hamid Gilani’s confident and smiling face that loomed over the former Navy SEAL.

  “I don’t know who you are, but I will soon enough.”

  Mac saw death in Gilani’s eyes, and the thought of being taken out by scum such as him infuriated the military operative. His right hand found the inside of his jacket and closed around the space where his sidearm was located.

  Unfortunately, Mac’s weapon was no longer there. He looked up to see Hamid Gilani holding it in his left hand as he shook his head at Mac.

  “Is this what you were looking for?”

  Gilani’s right hand rose up over his head and then sent the end of the iron pipe into the side of Mac’s left jaw. His vision detonated into varying shades of brilliant white before suddenly going dark.

  Don’t lose consciousness…

  Gilani used the heavy pipe to strike down upon Mac’s head, neck, shoulders and chest, each blow pushing Mac closer and closer toward oblivion until finally even his seemingly unending resilience and determination gave way to darkness.

  Two hours later.

  “You see, I told you he was still alive! This one is much stronger than the CIA bitch you brought here.”

  Mac’s eyes felt too heavy to open, but he could hear the conversation taking place around him. There was also the terrible smell, and the constant squealing of pigs.

  Lots and lots of pigs.

  Mac took several deep measured breaths in an attempt to push back the debilitating pain that seemed to cover the entirety of his body.

  “Look at me.”

  Mac tried to pull his head upward toward the voice but found the effort too great.

  “I said look at me.”

  The voice was deep, calm, almost soothing. It was the same voice Mac had head in the alley just before the attack.

  Gilani.

  The name reverberated inside Mac’s skull. He slowly opened his mouth and then closed it, trying to determine if his jaw was broken.

  “Who sent you?”

  Mac’s eyes partially opened though his vision pr
ovided nothing more than a cloudy mix of off-white colors and darker shadows. Mac realized then he was suffering from the symptoms of a likely concussion.

  “Good, now tell me who sent you?”

  Mac cleared his throat and willed his vision to clear until finally, Hamid Gilani’s face came more fully into focus directly in front of him.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  Mac nodded and then smiled as his eyes closed while he mumbled a reply.