“And what about the hate crime bullshit? What is that about?”
Hubert Gresh ran his right palm across his forehead, wiping off a layer of sweat.
“Well, the man you shot, was uh, he was black Mr. Walker.”
Mac found himself straining against the straps holding him down without thinking of doing so.
“Yeah – he was black all right. And pointing one big ass gun in my direction which he clearly intended to shoot me with. The Henderson police pulled the guy’s record. He was a goddamn, woman beating thug! Hate crime? Since when is self defense a hate crime in this country?”
The lawyer took another step toward the door, avoiding eye contact with Mac as he did so.
“You’re upset Mr. Walker, that is understandable. Your trial will begin in five days, Tuesday of next week. The jury has already been selected and pre-trial motions were waved. I will visit you one more time prior to your trial date. Uh, that is all Mr. Walker. Please try to get some rest.”
Mac laughed out loud.
“They’ve kept me drugged for three damn days! Who the hell chose you to be my attorney? How about you just not bother with this charade? I want another attorney. This is complete bullshit. Who’s paying you?”
Hubert Gresh paused, his right hand resting on the door handle.
“The government Mr. Walker. The government…”
XI.
Dasha Al Mari looked down at her the number scrolling across her phone. It was Uncle Ali. With her mouth turned downward in a subtle frown, she took the call.
“Yes Uncle.”
Uncle Ali’s voice made clear his displeasure with her.
“What is this thing of yours Dasha? This ridiculous plan? Why are these two men who failed you in Benghazi still alive? People are not happy with this. The organization Dasha – they may move against you. I cannot protect you against this. You have been a foolish and spoiled little brat.”
Dasha’s front teeth bit down onto her lower lip hard enough she almost broke through the skin.
One day soon Uncle, I won’t have to listen to you talk this way to me anymore.
“Everything is going according to plan Uncle. The organization wanted to use race to divide the Americans against themselves, yes? Have we not been doing just that for years now? I am only capitalizing on that work with this current situation. It is going very smoothly for us Uncle. We will be victorious.”
Uncle Ali remained silent for several seconds before his voice shouted back through Dasha’s cell phone.
“A trial Dasha! Why take such a risk? We control much of the American government, but not yet all of it. You are being foolish, vain, and your work is clouded by your own interest in making this Mac Walker dance for you. He is not a man you should play with Dasha – he is dangerous. Deadly dangerous, and should be exterminated. And what of the other one from the Benghazi mistake who still lives? What do you intend for him Dasha? That he speak out against you, which in turn threatens to expose us all?”
Dasha Al Marri’s Uncle Ali was in his own right, a very powerful man, so to such panic in his voice indicated to Dasha that the organization was in fact unhappy with her current dealings in the United States, as well as the messy and all too public killings in Benghazi that in turn endangered other related plans throughout the Middle East and the world.
“The trial is in just a week Uncle. Mac Walker is secured. We can use him to further the gun control agenda, the racial agenda, immigration, all of it. The final push we need to fully assimilate the United States into the New United Nations. We are so close now Uncle! Everything the organization has been working for – we are almost there. We will have this world, all of it!”
Again Dasha’s uncle remained momentarily silent before finally responding. His voice sounded increasingly tired.
“You must not forge your own plans at the expense of the organization Dasha. It is reckless, and endangers your standing, and my own.”
Stupid old man.
“I have no intention of doing that Uncle. What I do intend is for the good of the organization, and for the good of our family – and you.”
Uncle Ali sighed into the phone.
“What is done is done my young niece. It is up to you to then determine what is to be done. Further failure will not be tolerated. Do you understand my meaning?”
“I understand perfectly Uncle. Goodbye.”
Dasha ended the call and looked over at the always present and loyal Nigel.
“He threatens me Nigel. They know nothing of the true world, and how it all must work, these men of the organization. Old and dying cowards all of them.”
Nigel stood motionless, looking back at Dasha with his always unreadable, dark eyes. His head nodded but slightly, indicating his agreement with her words.
Dasha sat in one of the few chairs placed inside the main room of her Washington D.C. apartment. She hated the city, so full of self important Americans and their long corrupted art of politics.
“Have you made certain the judge understands his role?”
Nigel nodded again, his stitched neck wrapped in gauze from the wound Mac Walker had inflicted upon him just days ago.
“Yes. I met with him personally just yesterday. He is one of ours, placed there by the adviser herself for just such a case.”
Dasha smiled slyly at the mention of the adviser. That occupant of the White House who gave Dasha near unlimited access to powers that rivaled that of the organization itself, and once Dasha’s plans were completed, would dwarf the organization. It would be a New United Nations that would rightfully rule the world. Dasha had grown to greatly admire the adviser, perhaps there were even feelings of lust.
Dasha had long admitted that while she invited men to her bed, she loved powerful women - women who like herself, had to fight to survive and prosper in a world unwilling to give over power to the superior sex.
“And what of the jury Nigel? All aspects of this trial must be secured.”
Again Nigel nodded back at Dasha.
“Yes. Everything is at the ready. The trial is but a formality, a bit of publicity per your request.”
“What about the media? We need to control the messaging to the letter Nigel.”
Nigel’s eyes betrayed just a hint of exasperation.
“That too has been coordinated, though at some expense. These American journalists are always greedy, wanting more. Perhaps some of them should be eliminated after the trial concludes as examples to the others?”
Dasha’s mind was already wandering back to her feelings for the White House adviser, leaving Nigel’s suggestion unanswered. Nigel in turn didn’t repeat the question, having long ago become familiar with Dasha’s habit of losing herself in thought.
The wound on his neck itched terribly, reminding him of his own continued but unspoken uncertainty at Dasha’s insistence that Mac Walker be allowed to live so that she could carry out her plan of a very public trial that would further the racial divisions in America. Leaving a man like Mac Walker alive, no matter how well you believed him under your control, was an ever present risk.
The White House adviser told that to Nigel herself during a private meeting between them that Dasha knew nothing about.
Dasha wasn’t the only one with secrets, and Nigel had plans of his own.
XII.
Nearly five hours since regaining consciousness, and Mac Walker found himself still strapped down onto the hospital bed in the small, windowless room that had been described to him simply as a medical facility at a military detention center.
A male nurse had entered the room two hours ago to give him food and drink – a small bowl of oatmeal and a bottle of water, both of which Mac had to have fed to him. The food, however bland, helped to marginally lessen the hunger pains that still gripped Mac’s stomach.
The door to the room opened and a middle aged black man of average height and build walked through. He was dressed in a well tailored navy blue suit, white dress shirt, and matching n
avy blue tie. His face was smooth skinned, with just a hint of age wrinkles at each corner of his eyes, and a touch of grey scattered indiscriminately among his otherwise dark, short cut afro hair.
When the man addressed Mac, his voice was deeply accented – possibly Cuban.
“So you are the infamous Mr. Mackenzie Walker? Looking at you like this, I will admit something of a disappointment. Not living up to the build up at all Mr. Walker. You paint a rather weak and…vulnerable portrait right now. Nothing like your reputation.”
Mac moved his head from side to side, a knot pinching the middle area of his upper back and shoulders.
“Sorry to disappoint. Kinda hard to look bad ass when you’re strapped down in a bed. How about you let me stand up and then I can try to live up to that image of me you’re going on about?”
The man laughed and shook his head at Mac as he walked to the left side of the bed.
“Oh no Mr. Walker! That wouldn’t do at all! I am here to explain to you the circumstances surrounding the impending trial, and how important it is for others that you agree to play your part.”
Mac Walker closed his eyes, appearing to be drifting off to sleep.
“Did you hear what I said Mr. Walker?”
“Yeah – I heard you. I ain’t interested in playing no part, so tell whoever it is…tell Dasha, you tell her she can go straight to hell. Or better yet, bring her here, and I’ll send her there myself. By the way, you got a name, or should I just call you, hell no?”
The man’s face moved from serene calm to confusion.
“I’m sorry – what do you mean?”
Mac’s eyes opened again and he grinned back at the man.
“You keep trying to tell me what I’m supposed to do, and I keep telling you hell no. Might as well just call you by that name while we’re at it. That sound ok with you…hell no?”
The confusion left, replaced by agitation.
“You can call me, Mr. X. I am with the New United Nations.”
Mac closed his eyes again and sighed.
“Mr. X, huh? You been watching too much James Bond buddy. And there ain’t no New United Nations.”
Mr. X’s eyes grew wider as his brilliant white teeth revealed themselves in full.
“Oh but there is, Mr. Walker and it is growing in power every day now! You are to play your part, as I told you, to ensure it continues to do so.”
Mac Walker grinned again.
“Hell no.”
Mr. X’s right pointer finger jabbed upward toward the ceiling.
“You will, Mr. Walker if you care to see your comrade remain alive.”
Mac knew the comrade reference had to be Benny, though outwardly, continued to play confused.
“Comrade? Nope – no idea there. Try again.”
Mr. X removed a wallet sized photo from the inside of his suit jacket and held it in front of Mac’s face.
“I believe this is a picture of a certain Mr. Benjamin Williams, yes? His friends call him Benny. He thinks himself safe from our operatives Mr. Walker, but you would do well to believe me when I say that no-one is safe from us. If you fail to comply with our plans for your upcoming trial, Mr. Williams here will be dead the following day. This is not a negotiation Mr. Walker – this is you doing what you are told, period.”
Mr. X held up a second photo, this time of Benny’s wife and children.
“Such a beautiful family, Mr. Walker. It would be a shame for you to be responsible for yet more deaths.”
Mac’s rage grew exponentially within him in the few seconds it took for Mr. X to show him the second photo. His world had long been filled with bad people – but threatening the lives of women and children was something he could never understand. The thought was inconceivable, and awoke a deeply rooted sense of personal values and moral code that had been placed within him by his mother and father years ago during his formative upbringing in Carville, Louisiana.
It was why Mac Walker hated terrorists, and had since September 11th, 2001, felt it to be his duty and obligation to kill as many of those sick bastards as time and circumstance would allow. That same deadly obligation now focused itself onto this Mr. X, who was engaging in a different form of blackmail terrorism – but terrorism all the same.
“You leave that family out of this. Whatever it is you and your people are up to, leave them out of it.”
Mr. X’s broad, white smile flashed across his face once again, his confidence now fully restored, knowing he had Mac Walker’s full attention.
“That, Mr. Walker, will be entirely up to you. Proceed willingly to this trial, and act accordingly, and they will, as you request, be left out of it. Otherwise…”
It took all of Mac’s inner strength to keep his rage at a controlled simmer.
“What do you want from me?”
Mr. X nodded approvingly down at Mac.
“Ah, that is better Mr. Walker. Much better! What we want is simple, a very public trial involving a very bad man – YOU. That killing of a poor, unarmed black innocent several days ago, well, it has already been given ample media attention Mr. Walker. A highly trained military gun for hire white man, killing a poor, defenseless black man
while screaming out racial profanities? Horrible Mr. Walker - just horrible!”
Mac’s eyes closed again as he responded.
“It was self defense. End of story.”
Mr. X waved a dismissive hand at Mac.
“You are well versed enough in this kind of thing to know that the story is whatever those in power wish it to say Mr. Walker. We are writing this script, and the media will play its part, as will you. That is, unless you wish to have the deaths of your good friend and partner Mr. Williams and his family on your hands.”
Soon after waking from his drug induced slumber, Mac had noted that while his hands and arms were unable to move, his legs had been left unsecured. Mr. X, while speaking down to him, had drifted just a foot away from Mac’s left side.
The former Navy SEAL’s eyes suddenly re-opened, staring back at Mr. X with an intensity that left no doubt in the black man’s mind he was in serious danger.
Mac Walker’s entire lower body bounced upward off of the bed, his left leg striking out behind the neck of Mr. X and pulling him down while Mac’s right leg just as quickly lifted and then dropped onto the man’s left shoulder. Both of Mac’s feet crossed together as his lower legs clamped down onto Mr. X’s throat with considerable strength.
The room’s door opened again as two security personnel ran in. One attempted to pull Mac’s legs from around Mr. X’s throat while the other punched a fist into Mac’s stomach.
Mac ignored the blow and focused on tightening the vice around the New United Nations operative’s throat, pleased to hear the man’s panicked wheezing as his airway was quickly being closed off.
Another blow landed onto Mac’s stomach, followed by yet another and another. Finally the fourth blow caused Mac to cry out in pain, the air in his own lungs running out of him. This was enough for the other security member to pull Mr. X’s head out from Mac’s leg hold and drag the man to safety on the opposite side of the room.
A third security team member entered the room, a short, thick military grade baton in his hand. He looked down at the gasping for breath form of Mr. X and then stared back at Mac, the baton raising up from his side as he strode toward Mac’s bed.
“Stop!”
The voice was both female and very familiar to Mac Walker.
From behind the third security guard emerged the beautifully outlined figure of Dasha Al Marri. She looked as Mac remembered her – beautiful, perfectly manicured, tastefully dressed, and absolutely deadly. Dasha looked at Mac, her face showing just a subtle hint of a soft smile.
“Hello Mac.”
Mac’s gut felt like it had been stepped on by a herd of cattle, but he had no intention of letting Dasha know how badly he felt. He simply returned her gaze and said nothing, though his eyes communicated clearly his desire to see her
dead.
“Get him out of that bed and move him to the holding cell down the hall.”
The three members of the security team looked at one another and then back to Dasha Al Marri. The tallest of the three guards pointed at Mac as he replied to Dasha.
“We need to get the doctor. Prisoner’s got a catheter in him that needs to be removed first.”
Dasha’s eyes flashed with momentary glee as she continued to stare at Mac.
“Hold his legs down.”
The three guards took positions around Mac, each of them pushing down on his legs to secure them while Dasha slowly walked toward the bed, her eyes never leaving Mac’s.
Military Fiction: THE MAC WALKER COLLECTION: A special ops military fiction collection... Page 51