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

by D. W. Ulsterman

  Sheriff Green crammed his phone into a front shirt pocket and slammed the wall with a closed left fist.

  “No asshole going to tell me how to do my job. I swore an oath I would uphold the Constitution and I’ll be damned if I let anyone make me break that oath, the governor included.”

  “So I take it your National Guard friend Ted wasn’t interesting in hearing your version of things?”

  The sheriff slammed both hands down on top of the small metallic framed desk inside the holding room.

  “Look you little asshole, I’m hanging way out there on this one now because of you! Might want to keep your mouth shut for a bit, ok? I’m in no mood for smart ass.”

  Mac hadn’t moved during the sheriff’s tantrum – not even a flinch. He simply looked back at Sheriff Green and nodded his head toward the door.

  “I told you to give me up Sheriff. I appreciate your sense of honor, duty, whatever it is making you not just hand me over. This has gone on far enough though – I don’t want you or anyone else getting hurt because of me. I’ve lost some good people recently. Don’t want to see anymore of that.”

  The sheriff stood back up and waved away Mac’s request.

  “I don’t need you telling me my job anymore than I need those assholes out there trying to do the same. This thing will be by the book, period! Rory, you stay here. Don’t let anyone inside this room but me. I’m gonna have a conversation with that guy with the accent out there from the Civil Rights Division because he seems to be the one pulling all the strings on this shit.”

  Officer Wilkes let out a long, slow whistle after the sheriff closed the door behind him.

  “Sheriff needs to keep himself calm. Not going to do his heart any good getting worked up like this.”

  Mac’s eyes widened slightly.

  “He has heart trouble?”

  Wilkes nodded.

  “He had what he calls an “episode” a few years ago. The rest of us call it a heart attack. Laid him up in the hospital for a few weeks. He was off work for another two months after that. We can’t mention it around him or he gets pissed. So when I see him start to yell and scream like that, yeah, it makes me a little nervous.”

  Mac grew silent as he increasingly worried over others being harmed.

  Great – all I need now is to have this sheriff go down with a heart attack because of me.

  The sound of a beginning scuffle could be heard just outside the door of the holding room. Officer Wilkes stood up and moved toward the door, a door that began opening before he was able to reach it. A short, thin, dark skinned middle aged man stepped into the holding room, his eyes instantly focusing on Mac Walker as his thin fingered left hand pushed Wilkes away from him. The man wore a black suit, matching black dress shoes, red tie, and white dress shirt. On the lapel of his jacket was a small blue and white pin with the letters N.U.N. on it.

  The abbreviation for the New United Nations.

  “Please leave the room Officer Wilkes. I wish to speak to Mr. Walker alone.”

  It was the same Saudi accent Mac had overheard earlier.

  Wilkes had drawn his weapon, though he held his gun pointing to the floor.

  “My orders are to stay in this room with Mr. Walker.”

  The Saudi man’s eyes glared at Officer Wilkes, as his body stood still.

  “Sir, please put your little gun away. I am certain you don’t entirely understand the situation here, or how much trouble you could bring to yourself and your lovely family.”

  The door opened behind the Saudi man, revealing the large form of Sheriff Green.

  “Holster your weapon Wilkes – I got this. Mr. Zebari wants to talk to Mr. Walker for a moment. I’ll stay here and keep an eye on things.”

  Mac noted a thin layer of sweat covered the sheriff’s forehead and his breathing was more labored.

  Wilkes looked from the sheriff to the Zebari, and then glanced over at Mac who sat motionless, his eyes almost closed.

  “I’ll be right outside Sheriff. You need me, I’m right there.”

  Sheriff Green clapped a large right hand onto Wilkes’ shoulder as his second in command walked past him.

  “I know you are Wilkes – thanks. Mr. Zebari assures me this won’t take long.”

  Zabari was already seated in front of Mac before the door closed behind Wilkes, the Saudi man’s eyes looking Mac over intensely.

  “Hello Mr. Walker. My name is Alahar Zabari. I am a liaison officer with the Department of Justice Civil Rights Division.”

  MacWalker’s expression remained one of disinterest, his eyes still barely open, giving him the appearance of being on the verge of falling asleep.

  “I was sent here at the personal request of Dashal Al Marri, Mr. Walker. She wanted to make certain you were properly…detained. She has use for you yet, apparently.”

  Mac’s eyes opened more fully.

  “Ah – there you are! I thought perhaps mention of Dasha’s name would get your attention! She’s quite a beautiful woman, is she not? Good breeding I suppose - her family is highly regarded by many. So tell me Mr. Walker, are you prepared to play your part for us? To compensate for your failure to perform as requested in Benghazi?”

  Mac’s eyes widened even further, causing Zabari to chuckle.

  “Yes – you fear for this sheriff’s life don’t you? Every word of this he hears makes him that much more of a liability to the people I represent. How many more must die because of your actions, or inactions Mr. Walker? Such deaths must weigh heavily on you - heavy indeed.”

  Mac looked up to see the Sheriff’s face exhibiting confusion, uncertain if the Saudi had just threatened him, or was spouting conspiratorial nonsense.

  “You got two more minutes Mr. Zabari and then I’m throwing you the hell out of my holding room.”

  Zabari’s head tilted downward, as his eyes looked back up at Mac with a sly knowing.

  “Do you know what I did prior to my work at your American Department of Justice Mr. Walker? For many-many years.”

  Mac Walker remained silent.

  “I was a bit like you I suppose. A hired assassin for the Saudi Royal Family themselves! And I was among the very best if you allow me that brief moment of pride. Some believe me to still possess those same skills. Dasha Al Marri does. Why, it was no more than a few weeks ago she had a request for me. A simple task really. I was to kill a member of your team. A Mr. Minnick was his name - a most unfortunate and unforeseen heart attack. So many people are dying such odd and untimely deaths these days! A shame you didn’t complete your assignment in Benghazi. Such negligence on your part Mr. Walker has caused terrible and permanent tragedy to others.”

  Sheriff Green’s right hand clamped down hard onto Zabari’s right shoulder. The smaller man merely smiled as he locked eyes with Mac while his left hand, holding a thin, pen like device, struck out with cobra-like speed, the device’s tiny, barely felt needle piercing the skin on the fleshy side of the sheriff’s hand.

  The sheriff took a step back, bringing his hand up to his face to see what had been done to it. Only a very faint mark was left where the needle had entered.

  “What the hell was that you little asshole? You just assaulted a law enforcement officer!”

  Sheriff Green’s hand, the same hand that had been injected, moved to his belt where his handcuffs hung from.

  “Gonna arrest you, you prick! Throw your ass in jail until I figure out what the hell all this is about.”

  Even as the sheriff took a step toward Zabari to handcuff him, Mac knew it was too late. Just as he knew that if a further disturbance was created inside the holding room, more members of the Henderson Police Department would be at risk. It was one of the very few times in his adult life Mac Walker found himself frozen with indecision.

  Alahar Zabari nodded his head at Mac, his face communicating approval.

  “Very good Mr. Walker – you have decided to sit there quietly. No need for further loss of human life. Very good of you.”


  Sheriff Baxter Green’s eyes flew wide, his right hand grabbing his large chest as his mouth struggled to say something. No words came though. He was already dying, his heart beating rapidly and then stopping, only to start up again and then stop again before finally ceasing to pump blood altogether.

  The sheriff’s body crumpled to the floor where it lay unmoving.

  Mac Walker’s indecision left him at that moment as he decided that while he would give himself up to whatever plan Dasha had for him, this man Zabari would not leave the holding room alive. On this day, justice would be served.

  Mac shot up from the chair, his handcuffed hands moving as far down behind him as possible while his feet and knees tucked upward tightly against his body. This allowed his hands just enough room to move below his feet and emerge in front of his body, a move he had practiced years ago for hundreds of hours to perfect. He was still handcuffed, but now had far more used of his hands and arms.

  The speed and flexibility at which Mac had performed the maneuver stunned Zabari as the smaller man fell backward. The Saudi recovered quickly though, rolling onto his stomach, his body already preparing to launch itself toward the door.

  His intended launch to safety was aborted though as Mac came crashing down onto Zabari’s back, his knees pushing the Saudi’s chest hard against the room’s floor as Mac’s arms flew over the back of Zabari’s head and then yanked violently backward, the short chain of the handcuffs burying itself deep into the flesh and underlying windpipe of the Saudi’s neck.

  It took no more than a second for Mac to hear the unmistakable crunch of severed cartilage as Zabari’s windpipe was severed, causing the man’s mouth and nose to fill with his own blood, thus preventing him from being able to scream for help. A few seconds more, and death was overtaking him.

  Mac stood up from Zabari’s body and then sat back down in his seat on the other side of the table. He had no intention of trying to fight his way out of the police department, for such an attempt would only cause more loss of innocent life.

  And if I let these people take me, perhaps that gets me close enough to Dasha – close enough to kill her too.

  Officer Wilkes was the first to open the door of the holding room and look over at Mac and then down to the bodies of Sheriff Green and Alahar Zabari. Mac noted with respect that though Wilkes was clearly shocked and saddened by what he saw, he kept his head and didn’t panic. Instead, he simply closed the door behind him and stared back at Mac and the bloodied handcuffs enclosed wrists of the hands folded in front of him on the desk.

  “Mr. Walker – what the hell happened?”

  Mac shook his head.

  “You don’t want to know that Officer Wilkes. Just open that door and let them come in here and take me. I’ll just say this – your sheriff was a good man, and I did right by him. And what I told you earlier, about going somewhere safe? I hope you listen to that advice. For your family’s sake.”

  Wilkes said nothing back to Mac Walker, but simply opened the door and walked slowly out of the holding room, telling the Marshalls Office supervisor Mr. Walker was in the room and ready to go. Two weeks later, Rory Wilkes resigned from the Henderson Police Department. He would never quite be able to put into words why he chose to leave. Perhaps it was instinct shared between former military men, an unspoken kinship that spoke to simple truth. Whatever it might have been, the day after resigning, Rory Wilkes and his family drove across the Ohio River, and then deep into the Shawnee National Forest where his grandfather, a World War Two veteran, had built a cabin along the banks of a small creek almost fifty years ago.

  That cabin, though in need of significant repair, was the home of the Wilkes family for the next twenty seven years. The former Henderson police officer took Mac Walker’s advice, and every day his family lived in freedom away from the domination and never ending mandates that accompanied the era of the New United Nations, Rory Wilkes remembered to say a quiet prayer that Mac Walker remained somewhere, alive and well.

  VIII.

  Four hours after Mac Walker allowed several Kentucky National Guardsmen to enter the Henderson Police Department holding room and take him into custody, he awoke to find himself bound without clothing to a chair inside of a room so dark it offered no clues as to where he was. He recalled feeling the brief sting of an injection, and then, nothing.

  Mac gritted his teeth under the pain of a terrible headache that alternated between pounding pressure and a screeching wail inside his head. The headache indicated to Mac he had been given a repeated dose of Sodium Pentothal. It was an outdated, shit product, he had experienced twice before. The first time was by choice, so he could better understand its effects. The second time was by a Moroccan gunrunner who could have killed him, but for reasons unknown to Mac, she allowed him to live. Each time, Mac experienced the very headache he now suffered from.

  “Hello again Mr. Walker. I am sorry to have to see you again under these circumstances, but as they say, here we are.”

  Mac’s eyes strained in the darkness to see in front of him – to see the form of Dasha Al Marri.

  “I apologize for the use of drugs to accommodate your transfer here, but you have proven yourself a capably dangerous man Mr. Walker. If you had simply followed orders in Benghazi, it never would have had to come to this you know.”

  Mac attempted to respond with an insult, but found his mouth unwilling to cooperate. The Sodium Pentothal was still inhibiting his ability to speak or move. Dasha’s laughter echoed in the room’s darkness, causing further flashes of pain to go off in Mac’s pounding head.

  “Don’t struggle like that Mr. Walker – it makes your face look so grotesque!”

  In the darkness, Mac could hear Dasha moving closer to him. He attempted to feel how secure his hands were, but the muscles in his arms were like lead – heavy and barely capable of movement. Mac focused on his breathing, knowing that more oxygen was the key to both clearing his head, and recovering more quickly from the effects of the Sodium Pentothal.

  Dasha stood over Mac close enough that he could feel her warm breath caress his face, and detect the slightly soapy clean scent of her dark skin.

  “We could have been such good friends you and I. There are some of my people who simply want you dead Mr. Walker. That could be done easily enough. No, I have other plans for you though. You are to serve a purpose for our cause, as a means of making up for your refusal to do what you were sent to do in Benghazi.”

  “Fugh yuh.”

  Mac’s mouth still refused full cooperation, but the words were spoken clear enough that Dasha understood.

  “Really, Mr. Walker? Such a typical man, all bluff and bluster, and so little understanding of the reality all around them. Prancing about with those ridiculous things between your legs, thinking yourselves superior to others because of it. You have absolutely no say in the matter. What is to be done to you is already underway. All the necessary agreements are being made right now. You are mine, Mr. Walker. From the first we met, I owned you, just as my organization will own this pathetic country of yours, just as we intend to own the world.”

  “Go to hell.”

  Mac sensed Dasha stand up in the darkness, and then felt her hand smack him across the face with surprising force.

  “Enough of your insults Mr. Walker.”

  “Go to hell – bitch.”

  Another blow from Dasha’s hand ripped across Mac’s left cheek.

  “You hit…like a little bitch.”

  Mac tensed in preparation for another blow, though none came. Instead, his eyes cried out as he found himself blinded by the room’s lights. It took several minutes before Mac was able to open his eyes fully, and see Dasha standing just a few feet away, staring back down at him, a pair of night vision goggles in her hand.

  The small room’s walls were covered in silver, sound insulation foam. There was no furniture except for the small and uncomfortable metal chair Mac found himself secured to. The floor was simple, grey concrete. A powerful o
verhead light was installed inside the low hanging, concrete ceiling.

  Mac knew immediately the room’s purpose – torture.

  Dasha looked as icily beautiful as Mac remembered her. She wore a tight fitting, black silk dress shirt tucked into equally form fitting black dress slacks with her dark hair pulled back in the same tight bun she wore when they first met. Her feet were again housed inside very expensive designer pumps.