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

by D. W. Ulsterman

  “Now-now, Dasha you may be a conniving, hateful, power hungry little bitch, but a fighter you’re not. I will tell you one last time to leave.”

  Ella Lerner tightened her grip on Dasha’s wrist, causing her to hiss in pain. The Israeli operative then let go and stepped back as her left hand moved outward to her side and then remained extended toward the stairs upward.

  Dasha moved past Ella without speaking, her eyes a volcanic fire of rage. Mac sensed the two women were far from done with one another.

  As soon as Dasha’s footsteps were lost behind the exit door, Ella turned to Mac and smiled warmly and then glanced at the man standing next to her.

  “Mac Walker, I would like to introduce you to Mr. Finn Neeson. He has been assisting military related individuals like you who find themselves up against false accusations and charges leveled against them by the current American government.”

  Finn Neeson extended his right hand through the bars of Mac’s holding cell. Mac found the man’s grip both strong and confident.

  “Are you a lawyer?”

  Finn Neeson glanced over to Ella and then nodded.

  “Of a sorts, Mr. Walker. I like to consider myself more of an advocate for people like you. I’ve reviewed your case, I know something of what happened in Benghazi, and who you are really up against. You’re not alone in this experience, Mr. Walker. The last few years, there have been a number of American military, CIA, FBI, Secret Service, Homeland Security…there have been so many who have found their lives destroyed by this administration.”

  Mac folded his arms across his chest and gave Ella a long look. He wasn’t entirely comfortable having a total stranger inform him of how much they already knew of what Mac had been doing in Benghazi.

  “The information you know about me – that come from Ella?”

  Finn Neeson nodded.

  “Some of it, yes. We work closely with the Israelis, and some in other governments who oppose the takeover.”

  Mac found that the more Neeson spoke, the more questions he was left with.

  “Who do you mean by “we”?

  Finn Neeson looked behind him, knowing the conversation was likely being monitored.

  “I will be happy to share with you what I know later, Mr. Walker. For now, you need to get yourself prepared. By the end of the day you will transported to the Allenwood Federal Prison facility in Pennsylvania. It’s not going to be an easy place for you. I’m sure you know that already. And that woman who just left here, Dasha Al Marri will do everything in her power to see you die in that prison. I need you to not let that happen. I need you to stay alive, Mr. Walker, and give me time to get you out of there.

  “After you leave here today, and are then processed at Allenwood, expect a visit from me within forty-eight hours. I am already working to secure that visit. Then I can answer more questions for you, but until then, you must stay alive.”

  Mac chuckled.

  “I kinda figured on doing that already, Mr. Neeson. Really no need for you to keep reminding me of it.”

  XVIII.

  24 hours later.

  Mac sat in yet another holding cell. Upon his arrival to the Allenwood federal prison late yesterday, he was taken to administration where he had to endure nearly two hours of paperwork, file reviews, and a medical health briefing from one of the facility physicians, as well as get his prison number assignment and prison jumpsuit with that same number scrolled across the back. Mac was prisoner 818. This was followed by a quite thorough strip search by a tall, thin, mustached prison guard who appeared to dislike the procedure nearly as much as Mac Walker did.

  From there, Mac was given a pillow and blanket and escorted into the primary prison facility of USP Allenwood – a high security complex. Once inside, he was assigned bunk 201 in the C Block of the prison – a place one of the two prison guards who escorted him to his new cell home called “the ghetto” due to its being the primary housing unit for the black and Latino populations. The guard was a younger man, no older than thirty, of similar height and build to Mac.

  “You served in the military 818?”

  Mac hesitated for a moment, still unfamiliar with his name having been replaced by a number.

  “Yeah.”

  The guard nodded as he placed his hand on Mac’s shoulder for him to stop, his words coming to Mac in a low whisper.

  “You’re gonna need to be tough in this place 818. Administration assigned you to C Block. Not many white boys in there, and the ones that are…I wouldn’t call them men anymore. Not in here.”

  Mac offered a thin smile.

  “So you’re telling me this is the place some might want to see me get in touch with my feminine side?”

  The guard shook his head.

  “This is no joke. Eventually, they are gonna rip you up every which way. It’s just gonna be a matter of how much, and how often.”

  Mac didn’t respond, his eyes focused in front of him as he sensed many more eyes following his way toward Cell 201.

  “That’s good – keep your mouth shut. The less you say, the less trouble you’ll make.”

  Again Mac ignored the prison guard.

  The door to Cell 201 was already open. Inside was just one bunk, a small white porcelain sink, and matching toilet. The walls were painted a dull grey, as was the floor. The entire room was no more than seven by seven.

  “This will be temporary until they complete your processing paperwork. That’ll be a few more days, and then you’ll get a cell with another inmate. Your bathroom and shower time is 6:00 a.m. sharp. You have fifteen minutes. There are two guards in the shower area at all times, but that doesn’t mean you’re safe. Then you return to this cell and wait for the breakfast service. That’s at 7:45 a.m. From there you can either return here to your cell, or hang out in the commons area. I wouldn’t recommend the commons area. Get your ass back here and wait it out until lunch and then do the same until dinner.”

  Mac Walker strode into the cell and placed his pillow and blanket atop the narrow bed and sat down calmly, his arms folded across his chest. The guard looked back at Mac with clear concern, believing this new prisoner to be acting far too confident in his new and potentially deadly environment.

  “Alright 818 – you’re on your own. Good luck.”

  It took no more than ten minutes after the guard had left that Mac Walker received his first visitor. The man was well over six feet, heavily muscled, with a clean shaven head and a massive, unruly, dark beard that looked like an out of control afro had implanted itself onto his face. His eyes glowered back at Mac, who in turn remained seated calmly atop the cell bed.

  “You the black man killer?”

  Mac looked over at the man and shrugged, though said nothing.

  “You gonna talk white boy? I ask you a question. You the black man killer? I saw you on the news. Killed that man - shot him dead in the street. That was you.”

  Mac leaned back against the cell wall, his arms still folded across his chest as he began singing an old Southern anthem.

  Oh I wish I was in the land of cotton,

  Old times they are not forgotten;

  Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land.

  In Dixie Land where I was born in,

  Early on one frosty mornin,

  Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land.

  The large black man looming in front of the entrance to Mac’s cell looked back at the former Navy SEAL in shock and quickly increasing rage.

  “What the hell you on about white boy? Dixie Land? Hey now – you all got to see this crazy ass fish right up in here!”

  Mac ignored the black prisoner’s ranting and simply repeated the same verse, though this time singing it much louder and with a touch of theatrics, his mouth opening wide every time he sang out the phrase Dixie Land.

  Oh I wish I was in the land of cotton,

  Old times they are not forgotten;

  Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land.

  In D
ixie Land where I was born in,

  Early on one frosty mornin,

  Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land.

  By the time he was done singing for a second time, a small crowd of ten prisoners had gathered just outside Mac Walker’s cell. One of them was an older, short black man with a graying afro and thick, black framed glasses. The man looked Mac over carefully, his face calm and assured, his body communicating a belief that he was a figure of authority inside of Block C.

  “You’re Walker, right?”

  Mac stood up from his bed.

  “Yeah.”

  The older black man walked into Mac’s cell, his eyes looking Mac up and down from behind his glasses.

  “Why do you sing that song? You trying to get yourself hurt, or are you just stupid?”

  Mac nodded.

  “Yeah.”

  The black man looked back to the nine men who remained standing outside of Mac’s cell and shook his head at them.

  “This white boy playing crazy ‘cause he’s scared. Maybe he’s smart, maybe not. Either way don’t mean he’s all that tough. How about it little white man – you tough? You musta pissed someone off bad to be put in here with all of us. Somebody wants you dead.”

  Mac’s eyes narrowed slightly as he stared back at the black man who stood inside his cell and the other nine who stood just outside of it.

  “We’ll see about that.”

  The older black man shook his head and laughed.

  “So you playing tough now too, huh? Tough and crazy, that it? Ok white boy…we see how tough and crazy you really are. Manny come over here.”

  Manny was the man who had originally visited Mac’s cell - the one who had called Mac the black man killer. He still glared back at Mac, his eyes indicating a sincere hunger for the violence he hoped to inflict.

  The older man nodded toward Mac as he stepped aside to let Manny into Mac’s cell.

  “Ok, white boy Manny here is gonna introduce himself to you. Now Manny, don’t kill him. Just say hello.”

  Manny nodded to the shorter man as a wide smile formed across his face.

  “Sure thing, Shanks.”

  Mac estimated Manny to outweigh him by nearly thirty pounds and was likely nearly twenty years younger. The bigger man’s movements indicated a familiarity with fighting, but it was a familiarity common to the street, and not one honed under the extreme intensity of battle.

  Mac Walker decided then to make an example of Manny to the others, hoping it would prevent him from having to put up with more challenges – at least in the short term.

  Manny on the other hand, believed Mac to be easy pickings. An older white man, of average height and build, just delivered into the grey interior of Allenwood prison and likely shitting himself on the inside while trying to play tough on the outside. Plus, this white man had shot and killed an unarmed black man. So in a way, for Manny this was personal.

  He was going to enjoy beating the shit out of this white boy.

  Mac waited for Manny to move first, having long ago learned that hand to hand combat, at its best, and most deadly, was a matter of reaction. An opponent’s movements revealed weakness, and it was your reaction to that weakness that greatly increased one’s chances of victory.

  For a big man, Manny moved quickly – though very predictably. He had grown far too accustomed to using his size as an advantage, which for a fighter as skilled as Mac Walker, size and speed could just as easily be used against an opponent.

  Manny lunged toward Mac, his fingers curled into claws in order to grasp onto Mac’s jumpsuit and then use his superior weight and strength to overpower. Mac moved just a few inches to his left as his right palm snapped forward, catching Manny’s chin and causing the bigger man to bite down painfully on his tongue with enough force he almost severed a third of it completely.

  At the same time as he was striking out at Manny’s chin, the bottom of Mac’s right foot slammed onto the top of Manny’s right foot while Mac’s left forearm swung behind the bigger man, bashing into the back of Manny’s neck, sending the prisoner’s head into the porcelain toilet while his body crumpled onto the cold, hard grey cell floor where Manny remained unmoving.

  The entire altercation lasted no more than a few seconds.

  Mac nonchalantly stepped toward Manny’s body and then slowly sat down on top of the big man’s upper back and shoulders, folding his arms and once again singing the same words that had so enraged Manny in the first place.

  Oh I wish I was in the land of cotton,

  Old times they are not forgotten;

  Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land.

  In Dixie Land where I was born in,

  Early on one frosty mornin,

  Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land.

  The older black man Manny had called Shank stepped back into Mac’s cell, his eyebrows raised slightly out of respect for Mac’s display of fighting skill.

  “Ok then, you can handle yourself against another man well enough. Don’t need to go disrespecting him like that though. Get your white ass off him and let the boy back up.”

  Mac growled back his response.

  “You ordering me…or asking?”

  Shanks shook his head slowly.

  “Shit, if I was ordering you, you’d a done it already. So yeah, I’m askin’ yah. Now get up off him before you get me real pissed off.”

  Mac Walker stood up slowly as Manny began to indicate he was regaining consciousness.

  Mac sat back down on his bed while two men entered the cell and helped Manny back onto his feet. The big man shook his head several times before attempting to once again lunge at Mac, who in turn, calmly brought his right foot up quickly to plant itself squarely into Manny’s chest and then with all the strength of his right leg, pushed back with considerable force, sending the still shaken Manny crashing back into the opposite wall, causing the big man to bounce off it with bone rattling force before once again falling to the floor.

  “For God sake, get his dumb ass out of here.”

  Manny was dragged from Mac’s cell, leaving the former Navy SEAL to look back calmly at the man who went by the name Shanks.

  “You got a name, boy?”

  Mac stood up slowly, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, letting Shanks know he meant him no harm.

  “Friends call me Mac. You can call me Walker.”

  Shanks laughed.

  “I like you, boy. Might still kill you, but I like you. Professor gonna want to see you before too long. White boy like you dropped in here, he’s gonna want to know what your deal is.”

  “Who’s the professor? He hanging out with Gilligan and the Skipper?”

  Shanks looked back at Mac in confusion, clearly not understanding the Gilligan’s Island reference.

  “You’ll find out soon enough. Until then, you best keep out of trouble. Pretty little white boy like you bound to stir up some competition in here.”

  Mac smiled.

  “Well, it’s always good to feel wanted.”

  XIX.

  Finn Neeson and Ella Lerner both sat across the desk from Alexander David Meyer inside the billionaire’s top floor New York office. Alexander Meyer sat quietly, dressed in one of his many immaculate, custom tailored suits, reviewing the summary update just delivered to him by Finn Neeson regarding the status of Mackenzie Walker and Mac’s former team member, Benjamin Williams.

  After several minutes reading, as cigar smoke drifted around him, Alexander Meyer removed his reading glasses and looked back at Finn Neeson and Ella Lerner, his face of seventy five years somehow managing to look both kind, yet unyielding. Alexander Meyer, though short and slight in stature, was among the world’s most powerful and influential men, and now well into his seventies, he continued to exude that power without pretense or thought – it was simply part of him.

  “So, the judge has secured Mr. Walker in the Allenwood facility. And you are certain that facility’s supervisor is open to some…sup
plemental income?”

  Finn Neeson nodded.

  “Yes sir. We have already established communications to that effect. It will buy us some more time – time to get Mr. Walker out of there. Are you still planning on leaving New York?”

  Alexander Meyer rose from his seat and stared out the massive floor to ceiling window of his office overlooking Central Park.

  “Yes. I have already sent Adina and Dublin ahead of me. This time I will be remaining there permanently Mr. Neeson. You will be left with all the resources needed to continue this work. If and when you secure Mr. Walker’s release, let him know he is welcome to join me in Alaska. The same offer applies to Mr. Williams, should he choose to move as well.”