Both Finn and Ella sensed the sadness that remained in Alexander Meyer’s voice. The billionaire’s daughter Alexandria had been killed just a few years ago, her body nearly severed in half by an out of control New York Taxi. The driver fled the scene and reportedly not yet been found, though Ella had heard whispers of Alexander Meyer having located the driver and extracting the most permanent form of revenge. Alexander and his still beautiful wife Adina were now raising their young granddaughter Dublin.
Alexander Meyer turned to Ella, his eyes boring into her, managing to make even the Israeli Special Forces operative shift uncomfortably under his withering stare.
“And what of your government Ms. Lerner? Will it continue to feed the wolves of chaos with its silly pleas to the United Nations, or steel itself for what we all know to be inevitable?”
Ella Lerner’s eyes glanced outside, noting the out of place tranquility of Central Park as it sat surrounded by the high rise concrete of New York City. It was both an ugly and beautiful place.
“As you know, there are those who wish to see truth, and those who wish to play with lies. In the end, I have no idea who will prevail.”
Alexander Meyer nodded his head as he took a deep inhalation from his cigar.
“Indeed. We no longer work to save nations. What resources and influence I have left to me endeavors to save individuals – people like our Mr. Walker. For when these nations fall, it will be up to individuals like him to build from the ashes of our foolishness.”
Both of you are welcome to join me in Alaska as well you know. Your family would love it up there Mr. Neeson – a world just beyond the reach of tyranny.”
Finn Neeson shook his head.
“Thank you but no Mr. Meyer. My wife and kids wish to remain in Florida, and I wish to keep fighting for people who need my help.”
Alexander Meyer looked directly at Ella.
“And what of you Ms. Lerner?”
Ella Lerner smiled, her eyes glancing over to Finn before returning to Alexander Meyer.
“I think I will remain here, until we have secured Mr. Walker’s freedom.”
The billionaire tipped his head toward Ella and offered her a friendly, knowing grin.
“Ah yes, I do believe Mr. Walker might appreciate your waiting for him as well Ms. Lerner.”
Alexander Meyer followed the gaze of Finn Neeson, whose own eyes were fixated on something outside the office window. Flying slowly over the green mass of Central Park, was a small, metallic black drone. The billionaire turned around and stepped toward the window, intently watching the drone’s path as he quietly whispered to himself a passage from Shakespeare:
The bay-trees in our country all are withered
And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven;
The pale-faced moon looks bloody on the earth
And lean-looked prophets whisper fearful change;
Rich men look sad and ruffians dance and leap,
The one in fear to lose what they enjoy,
The other to enjoy by rage and war…
XX.
Mac noticed the prison guard watching him intently for the last fifteen minutes. From the moment Mac had entered the cafeteria of the Allenwood high security federal prison, the guard’s eyes had never left him.
Is he working for Dasha, sent here to kill me?
Mac knew Dasha Al Marri’s influence could easily extend inside the walls of the prison. For a price, there would be any number of prisoners, or guards, willing to do her bidding. Perhaps the guard watching him so closely was among them.
It was the second full day for Mac Walker at Allenwood. Assigned to C Block, a part of the massive prison facility known as “the ghetto” for its largely black and Latino prison population, Mac knew his skin color alone marked him as a target. He had already fought one significant challenge in his just assigned cell, and in doing so, earned the somewhat tepid respect of a man who went by the name Shanks.
It was Shanks who informed Mac he would soon be meeting with another prisoner called the professor. That meeting had yet to take place, but since Shanks had made the decree, the other prisoners had, minus the glares and sneers, pretty much left Mac alone.
“818 – get over here.”
818 was Mac Walker’s assigned prison number – the prison guards never called anyone by their actual names. The guard who had been watching him stood against the grey wall nearest the exit from the cafeteria. He was a tall black man of forty years or so, with sharp, intelligent eyes, a square jaw, and wide, well muscled shoulders.
Mac rose from the bench where he had been finishing his ham sandwich lunch, and walked slowly toward the guard, knowing all the other prisoners in the cafeteria would be watching and listening to anything the guard said to him.
“Yes sir.”
The prison guard looked Mac up and down and then glanced behind Mac’s shoulder. His voice lowered to a whisper.
“They got a hit out on you. Shower room. Be ready.”
Mac Walker said nothing, simply nodding his head and then turning and walking back to his table as the guard bellowed out a false reason for having called Mac over.
“You sit your ass back down 818. Don’t be wasting food.”
Mac Walker sat alone at the table inside the large, cold, grey walled cafeteria, surrounded by any number of other men who might be the ones preparing to kill him tomorrow morning in the shower.
They were coming for him.
XXI.
“You have failed me Dasha. You have failed your family. You have failed the organization. That trial…it was an abomination! You are to return to Dubai immediately.”
Dasha Al Marri was sickened by the sight of her uncle as he loomed over her, his fleshy, oily face and accusing eyes oozing disrespect. She knew too though, that much of what he said was true. The attempted trial of Mac Walker had been a disaster, both the judge and plea of guilty had made certain of that.
“I understand your concern Uncle, and I share much of it. Having said that, I have no intention of returning to Dubai. I will continue my work here. I intend to clean up one of the loose ends soon - very soon. As for Mr. Walker, we will be done with him as well. He will find no safety behind those prison walls.”
The back of Uncle Ali’s hand shot out with surprising speed and force, impacting Dasha’s upper right cheek. The blow sent her spinning sideways against one of the walls of her D.C. apartment, as her eyes filled with tears of pain and rage.
Dasha’s always present Nigel moved to intervene, placing himself between Dasha’s uncle and herself.
“Out of my way errand boy! She deserves more than a mere slap to her arrogant face!”
Uncle Ali’s own security personnel, two armed former Saudi Special Forces operatives, had already drawn their weapons and were pointing them at Nigel.
Dasha had already regained her composure, the normal haughty coldness having returned to her face, even as the area around her cheek flared a mottled red where her Uncle had just struck her.
“I will not be returning to Dubai Uncle. This conversation is ended. You are to leave.”
Uncle Ali’s eyes widened in rage, his right hand again rising to strike Dasha.
“Impudent, wretched little whore!”
Nigel’s own gun was now drawn as well, its barrel pointed directly at Uncle Ali’s face.
“Please forgive me sir, but I am charged with protecting Dasha, and even you cannot be allowed to harm her in my presence.”
Dasha’s uncle was a man unaccustomed to not getting his way, but he was also no fool, having spent decades navigating the often difficult and sinister political waters that surrounded the House of Saud. He knew when to push a conflict, and when to diffuse one. Or in this case, turn it to his own advantage.
“Tell me Nigel, is Dasha aware of your own private communications with the White House adviser? You have been a rather busy little errand boy of late, that one must wonder whose errands you are truly responsible for?”
Nigel could feel Dasha’s eyes boring into him from behind.
“What does he mean by that Nigel? You have been working with her without my knowledge? Is this true?”
Uncle Ali stepped back slowly as Nigel turned to face Dasha. She could read the truth of her uncle’s words in Nigel’s eyes.
“Dasha, it is nothing. You have been so busy and I…it was nothing. I was simply protecting your own interests.”
It was Dasha’s turn to strike out, her own hand ripping across Nigel’s face. Nigel barely moved though, his eyes looking back at Dasha without emotion, seemingly unaffected by the blow.
Uncle Ali laughed from behind Nigel.
‘Oh, she is far too westernized for her own good! Tsk-tsk Dasha. You again bring dishonor to our family. A woman acting in such a way, and allowing your lessers to go about scheming and planning behind your back. And what of you Nigel? How is it I know so much of your dealings with this American White House?”
Nigel had already determined that very answer. The adviser had told Dasha’s uncle, which in turn was the adviser’s way of telling him Dasha had become expendable to them.
But what of the uncle? Is the adviser letting me know he is to be eliminated as well?
Nigel looked back at Dasha’s uncle, while also noting the exact distance the uncle’s two security detail stood on either side of him. They were far too confident, having grown lazy under the opulent charge of watching over Uncle Ali. Both men had lowered their weapons to their sides – a mistake Nigel intended to make their last.
“You know of that only because the adviser wanted you to know. That doesn’t concern me.”
Uncle Ali nodded his large, multiple chinned head toward his niece.
“And what of her, Nigel? Does she concern you any longer?”
Nigel sensed Dasha’s uncle tensing as he spoke – trying to signal to his security detail his intention of having both Dasha and Nigel killed in the apartment.
That intention had no chance of being made reality.
Nigel’s gun was firing before either of Uncle Ali’s security realized the very imminent danger they were in. Both men received a single bullet to their forehead, their bodies collapsing to the floor where they remained unmoving.
“Kill him Nigel! Do it now!”
Dasha’s voice hissed the command, her desire to see her uncle dead overtaking her normal reserve.
‘Wait! Wait! I am a friend to the adviser! She would not approve of this action! Nigel! You are not allowed to do any harm to me! It is Dasha the adviser wants dead! Dasha!”
Nigel kept his weapon pointed back at Dasha’s uncle.
“The adviser knew you would tell me of your meetings with her. Just as she knew you would act against Dasha today. That means she wants YOU silenced as well.”
Uncle Ali’s eyes rolled in panic, his hands flying up in front of him as he took several steps backward. His face registered an awareness though, that Nigel’s words were likely correct – the adviser wanted him dead. She had been the one to demand he go see Dasha today, knowing Nigel would also be there.
“I can give you money Nigel! So much of it you will never have the days to spend it all!”
Nigel squeezed the trigger, watching the impact of the bullet as it tore through the large man’s throat, blood from the wound already gurgling a red and white froth that oozed from Uncle Ali’s gaping mouth.
With his right hand clamped over the bullet gash in his neck, Dasha’s uncle pointed his right hand toward her, his eyes communicating no fear of his impending death, but rather a proud and unrelenting authority.
Nigel paused, impressed by this last bit of courage from Uncle Ali – courage Nigel did not think the man possessed.
“You have always been a disappointment Dasha. A horrible, disgusting stain on your family’s name. You will be erased from the histories. Your name will not…”
Uncle Ali struggled for breath as his mouth and throat filled with his own blood. His final words were a barely understood series of rasping choking sounds.
“He kills you too Dasha. He kills you too…”
Dasha’s uncle collapsed onto the floor of her Washington D.C. apartment, his large, soft body convulsing for several seconds before finally going still.
That left Dasha.
Nigel turned to see her running toward her bedroom. He had already removed the small handgun she kept hidden next to her bed. He could hear Dasha as she scrambled to locate the missing weapon in her nightstand drawer. Then the sounds went silent.
Nigel found Dasha Al Marri standing in front of her bed, her chin jutting upward as her proud, dark eyes glared back at him in defiance.
“Do what you must Nigel. I will not give you the pleasure of my fear. I will not beg you for mercy.”
Nigel walked calmly toward Dasha, placing his handgun back into its shoulder holster as he did so. Her courage proved more than equal to that of her uncle. Even as Nigel placed his hands firmly around her neck and threw her back onto the bed, where he then sat atop her chest as he gripped her throat tighter and tighter, Dasha only stared silently back at him. Her eyes never left Nigel’s, remaining defiant even as the life slowly crept out of them.
Soon, Dasha Al Marri lay dead, her throat crushed, her lungs devoid of oxygen.
Nigel’s phone rang, its sound startling him as he continued to stare back at Dasha’s face with a mixture of sadness and respect. She had died as she had lived, with an uncompromising and terrifying dignity.
“Hello Nigel. You have done well.”
It was the voice of the adviser.
XXII.
Mac sat inside his prison cell contemplating his options. Shower time was mandated, and Mac was scheduled to take his shower in just a few more hours. One guard was to be posted inside the shower room, while another just outside. There was no counting on protection from the guards though. In fact, it was quite possible they would be the ones coming for Mac.
Shanks, the older black man who had one of his men challenge Mac yesterday, stood just outside Mac’s cell.
“Word is you been marked white boy. Got enemies outside of these here walls who want you dead.”
Mac glanced up at Shanks and nodded.
“Yeah.”
Shanks took a step inside of Mac’s cell, his head tilted to the side.
“Uh-huh. You go on acting all casual like, but I know better. You afraid like any man be.”
Mac grew impatient with the conversation, his response a low growl.
“What do you want Shanks?”
Shanks took another step inside Cell 201.
“I’m here to bring you to the professor. He wants to see who this guy is causing all the fuss inside of here. Wants to know if you’re worth the bother.”
Mac waved Shanks away. He was in no mood to play prison politics.
“I don’t have time to be meeting some guy who calls himself the professor, Shanks. Maybe next time.”
Shanks shook his head from side to side several times.
“Boy, you make time! As in, right now time! Show some goddamn respect! Professor, he might decide to help you out, and everything I’m hearing says you are someone who needs some helping out!”
Mac sat silent, his mind returning to how best to prepare for the shower room attack the guard had warned him of at lunch.
“Boy! You can’t be playing the fool soldier in here! This is a whole different world from what you’ve seen out there! Now get off your ass and follow me. I ain’t asking you – I’m telling you!”
Mac’s eyes focused fully on Shanks, a brief suggestion of violence flaring up within them.
“I don’t much care for being told what to do by people I don’t trust Shanks. Don’t make me show you how much.”
Shanks’ voice lowered to a whisper as his face took on a more desperate appearance.
“Man, if I don’t come back with you, then that mess comes down on me too. Just give me twenty minutes ok? Twenty minutes to sit down and introduce yours
elf and then you can be back here in your cell if you like. C’mon man, don’t make this shit go bad on me too.”
Mac stood up and held his hands up in front of him.
“Ok then – if my going gets you to shut the hell up, lead the way.”
Mac followed Shanks down the large C-Block corridor that housed the long two sided rows of prison cells. Two armed prison guards stationed above them watched as both prisoners made their way to the end of the row and then turned right where another identical corridor was located.
Military Fiction: THE MAC WALKER COLLECTION: A special ops military fiction collection... Page 56