“Ok then, that makes things much simpler. I kill all of them before they kill any of us.”
The ambassador laughed as he shook his head.
“If only it were that simple, Mr. Walker.”
Mac stared back into the ambassador’s eyes and smiled, his voice a low growl.
“For me, it is that simple.”
XXIII.
Tilley attempted to reach Mardian for the third time in the last ten minutes. Finally Mardian picked up, though he remained silent on the other end.
“Mardian, are you there?”
The call had gone through, someone had picked up, but whoever it was refused to answer. Tilley ended the call and slowed his car down, not wanting to get too close to Mardian’s building at 19th and G. If someone had gotten to Mardian, they were likely waiting for Tilley to make his way back there.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!”
Tilley hoped yelling out his frustration from inside his car would make him feel better.
It didn’t.
He couldn’t go home. He couldn’t go to Mardian’s. The general was dead. Tilley’s world was closing in on him fast, and if he didn’t come up with a plan soon, there’d be no escape from whoever wanted him dead.
The car moved quickly back onto the street as Tilley repeatedly glanced into his rear view mirror.
Need to find a place with lots of people, lots of security.
Tilley moved the big BMW down G Street, past the massive IMF and World Bank buildings toward 17th, which ran parallel to the White House grounds. 17th was busy as always, slowing Tilley’s progress. Again he looked behind him, but found no indication he was being followed.
Finally 17th met up with H Street. Tilley moved the car into the far right lane and slammed down on the accelerator for several hundred yards before again turning sharply to the right, bringing him to the entrance of the very popular and much visited, Lafayette Square. Tilley could see several people moving within the meticulously manicured park that faced the front of the White House, the two areas separated by Pennsylvania Avenue.
Tilley opened the glove box and removed the small handgun he kept there. The carrying of handguns in Washington D.C. was forbidden. Even obtaining a license to own a handgun to keep at home had become increasingly prohibitive in recent years. Taking one into a public park so close to the White House was probably breaking a myriad of local and federal laws Tilley wasn’t even aware of.
Not even bothering to see if he was leaving his BMW in an approved parking space, Tilley moved swiftly into Lafayette Square, the bottoms of his heeled shoes echoing off of the red bricked walkway that led to the center of the seven acre park. The leaves of some of the trees were already turning various shades of fall colors, and the air, though still somewhat warm, whispered of the cooler temperatures soon to come as September worked its way inevitably toward October.
There’s a bench, a good place to watch anyone coming at me.
Tilley sat down on one of the multiple park benches placed throughout Lafayette Square. This particular one allowed him to put his back against a stone wall, meaning nobody could sneak up on him from behind. In front of him was a group of Japanese tourists, a young couple jogging, and an older man walking his dog. For now, he appeared to be safe.
Should have parked the car several blocks away and walked here. If anyone spots the car, they’ll know I’m in the park.
A wave of momentary panic shot through Tilley’s mind. Leaving the BMW near the park entrance was a mistake. He wasn’t thinking as clearly as he needed to, and that could cost him. His hand, resting inside the right pocket of his jacket, gripped the handgun. The hard steel outline of the weapon brought some measure of reassurance to Tilley as his eyes continued to scan the landscape in front of him.
Ray Tilley sat on that park bench for nearly an hour, his composure slowly returning with each passing minute.
Gonna be ok. Keep my shit together like Mac said. Make my way to a hotel and hunker down there for the night.
Tilley stood up, looking out in front of him again for any signs of trouble. The few people he saw nearby appeared normal. They included another person walking their dog, an older man sitting on another park bench, and a woman walking slowly along a walk path some forty yards from Tilley’s location.
Then Tilley spotted Nigel, Dasha Al Marri’s personal bodyguard, walking slowly past the man seated on the park bench. Tilley could see Nigel’s head moving slowly from right to left, looking for him in the park.
Ray Tilley moved slowly to his left, around the cement wall, making certain to not move too quickly and catch Nigel’s attention. Once on the other side, he looked down another red bricked walk path that a sign indicated led to the White House viewing area – the place where protesters were always gathering along Pennsylvania Avenue.
That’ll have more people, security, maybe even media.
Tilley glanced behind him and saw no sign of Nigel. Perhaps he had already moved on. The walk path toward the White House viewing area was oddly absent of people though, which caused Tilley to pause momentarily, wondering why the path suddenly felt so isolated. Mere coincidence perhaps - it was nearing the early evening hours after all.
“Let’s not have ourselves an unnecessary spectacle, Mr. Tilley.”
The accent was English, and all too familiar. Nigel stood directly in front of Tilley, his dark eyes glaring back at Tilley with just a hint of disdain.
“There is no need for any displays of false bravado.”
Tilley pushed back his fear and stood his ground, staring down the shorter Nigel.
“You keep away from me. Come any closer, and I shoot you dead.”
Nigel smiled back, holding his hands out from his sides.
“Oh, I’m certain you would Mr. Tilley, if allowed to do so. Your mistake was talking to others about this you know. We hired you in great part because of your reputation for keeping your mouth shut. You have disappointed us terribly you know. You Americans and your penchant for talk will be the death of you all some day.”
Tilley withdrew the handgun from his coat pocket and pointed it at Nigel.
“I’m walking out of this park. To hell with you and that bitch, Dasha.”
Nigel’s eyes flared angrily as he took a step toward Tilley.
“No need for such language. You know nothing of Ms. Al Marri, and are not worthy to speak of her like that. In fact, you are not worthy to speak of her at all.”
“Hey! What’s going on? You, stay right there!”
Tilley turned to see park security walking toward him. The man appeared young, no more than thirty, dressed in the blue short sleeved dress shirt and slacks common to security personnel of the area. Seeing the security officer offered Tilley a feeling of hope, as it seemed unlikely Nigel would attempt to harm in with such a witness so nearby.
Placing his gun back into his coat pocket, Ray Tilley turned to look back at the park security officer who now stood no more than ten feet from him.
“This man is threatening me, sir. I want him detained and questioned please. I believe he may be armed.”
Tilley was shocked to feel Nigel brush past him as he walked toward the security officer. That shock quickly turned to horror as Nigel aimed a gun at the officer and fired, the bullet ripping through the young man’s forehead. Tilley’s legs were already moving before he thought to do so, running through a batch of trees as the gloom of impending night cast a shadow over the park grounds.
At nearly sixty years of age, Ray Tilley was not accustomed to running so fast, but run he did, even as his heart began to pound painfully in his chest with enough force he feared he may be having a heart attack. He emerged from the trees onto another red bricked walk path, moving as fast as he could, not daring to look behind him. Nigel’s gun made almost no sound when it fired, indicating it was silenced, meaning the shot was unlikely to have drawn any attention, and thus, no chance of help.
Your gun doesn’t have a silencer though.
&nbs
p; Tilley removed his handgun from his pocket and turned to look behind him. There was no sign of Nigel, though the increasing darkness was making it increasingly difficult to see more than forty or so feet in any direction. Tilley raised the gun into the air and fired off two rounds, the sound echoing across the park grounds. Given the park’s proximity to the White House, surely the gunfire would alert more security – possibly even Secret Service.
A flash of light erupted from the darkness thirty yards from behind Tilley, followed by the pain of a bullet grazing his upper left arm. He turned to once again run, gasping for breath and waiting for another bullet to rip through his back. Up ahead he saw a well lit area, one of the large statues common to the park grounds. It was of a man atop a horse rearing up onto its hind legs – the Andrew Jackson sculpture. Tilley knew that meant he was nearing the very center of Lafayette Square.
Get to the statue, use the base of it for cover.
The Jackson sculpture was enclosed by a simple, wrought iron fence. The fence’s height was nearly as tall as Tilley, the tops of the bars ending in large metallic arrows.
Just need a few seconds to climb over the fence. Just a few seconds…
Ray Tilley glanced behind him again and seeing no sign of being followed, placed his handgun back into his coat pocket and grasped the top of the fence in each hand and began pulling himself up. It took more than a few seconds, but with shaking muscles, and sweat pouring out from him, Tilley felt the grateful thud of his body dropping to the other side of the fence. He was inside the sculpture area, the large granite base of the statue no more than twenty feet away.
Get up and run!
Even though there was no evidence Nigel was nearby, a warning sounded in Tilley’s head. It is said all people have a sense of knowing something is there, even if one’s eyes tell them otherwise. Ray Tilley’s senses were propelling his body forward toward the statue as fast as he legs would carry him.
The first bullet entered the back of his right shoulder, shattering a portion of his collar bone before exiting out from under his armpit. The sensation reminded Tilley of hot candle wax being poured over and then through, his skin.
The second bullet glanced off of his right hip, nicking a bit of bone and burning a small trench across the area. Tilley cried out in pain as he tried to turn his body around to fire back at Nigel, his own handgun now held out in front of him.
The third bullet ripped into Tilley’s lower throat, snapping his head back with enough force it propelled his entire body backward, the back of Tilley’s head smacking against the granite base of the Andrew Jackson sculpture with enough force to fracture his skull.
One of the last images Ray Tilley could comprehend before death overtook him, were the inscribed words of a plaque imbedded on the side of the sculpture:
OUR FEDERAL UNION
IT MUST BE PRESERVED
Tilley had just enough strength left in his final moments to move his head to the side to be able to view Jackson’s visage as it glared back across Lafayette Square and Pennsylvania Avenue, toward the regal and imposing main entrance of the White House. Though he had viewed this sculpture many times as he walked past it over the years, Ray Tilley had never noticed the look of horror that clearly appeared on the former president’s face, as if the statue were looking at some terrible monster inhabiting Washington D.C.
Ray Tilley may have not understood that look before, but as the last remnants of his life left his body, he finally did.
XXIV.
Mac Walker sat alongside Ella Lerner inside the confines of the ambassador’s black SUV as it made its way swiftly toward the Benina airport. The ambassador intended to return to Tripoli, while Mac and Ella were to meet with the Frenchman Louis Danton, head of the United Nations humanitarian efforts in and around Benghazi, and, if the ambassador’s assessment was correct, something of a double agent working to thwart the efforts of the Saudi-funded globalists.
Jack had remained behind with Ella’s security team at her office, with instructions to check in with Minnick and Benny back at the safe house on the hour.
Ella sat next to Mac, her face its customary and unreadable portrait. Mac found himself fascinated by what her background story might be. Clearly she was a highly trained agent of the Israelis, and the two men assisting with her security openly showed great respect toward her authority. She knew Tilley somehow, but both she and him were unwilling to provide Mac any details of that knowing.
“No need to stare, Mr. Walker.”
Mac caught himself doing exactly what Ella accused him of – staring at her face.
“Sorry, I just find you one hell of an interesting woman. Know any quiet bars in Libya where a guy like me and an Israeli woman like you can sit down for a drink and some nice conversation?”
Ella’s lips pursed slightly as she struggled to suppress a smile.
Mac eyes wandered to the quickly passing desert landscape outside. He found it odd that an American ambassador would be travelling with so little security to protect him. He only had his driver, a man who appeared no older than thirty and still quite wet behind the ears. Surely the man was a target in a place like Libya, so why the lack of any real security?
The entrance to the Benina Airport, the same one Mac and his men had driven out from just a few days earlier, was less than a half mile ahead. The ambassador turned in his seat to look back at Mac and Ella.
“Mr. Danton is expecting you of course. I’ve filled him with only the information I believe he needs to know, namely that your team needs access to a flight out of Libya Mac. He has assured me he can provide that within the next twenty four hours, but you’ll have to confirm that with him yourself when you meet him.”
“And you are certain he can be trusted, Mr. Ambassador?”
The ambassador’s eyes held Mac’s for a moment before he nodded.
“Yes, I give you my word. You have to leave your weapons in the vehicle of course, they’ll be there for you when you get back. You can use it to drive yourself back to Ella’s office when you’re finished with the meeting.”
The SUV drove past a checkpoint without stopping, indicating airport security had already been informed of the ambassador’s arrival. The vehicle pulled into a parking space near a large two story metallic building where two men holding AK-47s stood outside a single white door. Mac’s eyes looked up and saw two more armed men looking out from the building’s roof top.
After exiting the vehicle, Mac and Ella stood across from the ambassador and his driver. The ambassador pointed a thumb toward the white door entrance to the building.
“Mr. Danton is inside there. I won’t be joining you for the meeting – have to catch my flight out of here. Good luck Mr. Walker, and thank you as always Ms. Lerner for you and your government’s assistance. Oh – and Mr. Walker…if you find yourself in need of help once you get back to the United States, please call this gentleman. He’s an attorney who assists people like yourself. He may be able to help.
Mac looked down at the business card the ambassador has given him, reading the name and phone number.
Neeson Legal Services
303-237-7788
The ambassador and his driver were already walking away before Mac could respond. Mac placed the business card in one of his jacket pockets and glanced down at Ella, whose face betrayed a touch of apprehension as she followed the ambassador’s departure.
“I hope he is taking adequate precautions. He’s been much too confident of late.”
Mac, remembering his recent thoughts on the ambassador’s lack of security, nodded in agreement at Ella’s concerns before the two of them made their way toward the building’s entrance. The older of the two armed guards, a tall, thin man in his forties, opened the white door for Mac and Ella, nodding once as they walked past him.
The door opened up to a small, low-ceilinged square room with a set of metallic stairs leading upward. Mac paused at the bottom of the stairs as he looked down at Ella.
“You
met this Danton before?”
Ella’s eyes were staring upward, trying to determine if anyone could hear them.
“Yes, just once. The ambassador has dealt with him a great deal.”
Mac found himself following Ella’s gaze upward as well.
“And what was your impression? Is he someone you think we can trust?”
Ella’s eyes narrowed slightly as she continued to look upward.
“I trust no-one, Mr. Walker.”
Ella began moving up the stairs, taking them two at a time as Mac followed close behind, failing to prevent himself from looking in appreciation at Ella’s well formed and toned backside.
Seconds later and both of them stood outside another white door. A security camera placed in the upper right hand corner stared back at them as they waited. After nearly a minute passed, a voice called out to them from a speaker placed inside the ceiling just above their heads.
Military Fiction: THE MAC WALKER COLLECTION: A special ops military fiction collection... Page 41