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

by D. W. Ulsterman

  Nigel, enriched once again with oxygen, was able to focus fully on the task directly in front of him - the suicide death of Benjamin Williams.

  “Mr. Williams, I know you can hear me. The drug you were given is commonly administered to patients just prior to surgery. While it basically freezes your muscles in place, you can still see, hear, and feel. This means your heart is still pumping of course, which will make the effects of the gunshot far more conclusive to the task at hand. Your friend Mr. Minnick died of a heart attack of course, so to have two relatively young men in seemingly strong physical condition, both die of sudden heart attacks might bring about undo attention. Your death will be something else entirely. You will be killing yourself.”

  Nigel lifted Benny into one of the kitchen chairs and placed the gun with the silencer into Benny’s right hand. Nigel could see the panic in Benny’s eyes as the pupils dilated.

  “Don’t worry Mr. Williams, there won’t be any pain for you. Just a flash, and then…nothing. Your family will find your body and I imagine that will upset them a good deal, but that cannot be avoided. I don’t wish to have to kill them too. I hope you appreciate that – I could easily have done so. It’s a shame your Mac Walker didn’t simply follow orders in Benghazi and kill that traitorous ambassador as he was hired to do. Such a shame…so much death.”

  Nigel was right, Benny Williams saw, heard, and felt everything as the gun was placed into his own hand, and then lifted toward his right temple. He could even feel the smooth cold steel as it pressed against his skin. While his mind screamed inside of his head to point the weapon at Nigel, his body would not listen.

  It was not his own death that concerned the former military operative at that point, but rather the thought of his wife and kids seeing him dead in the kitchen, and believing he would do this to himself – and to them. It was that thought, and the resulting determination that brought a flinch in Benny’s right thumb, a half second of hope that he could overcome the effects of the paralytic drug.

  That hope was silenced though, as the bullet tore through Benjamin William’s skull, sending fragments of his brain onto the exterior of the stainless refrigerator, where it stuck and then remained. Nigel had not lied to him – there was no real pain, only the briefest sense of pressure in his head, and then darkness.

  Benny Williams was dead.

  His youngest daughter was the first to find him. His body was slumped forward onto the kitchen table, his eyes and mouth still open, a pool of already congealed blood sitting below his face and collecting onto the kitchen floor. The young girl’s eyes looked from the face of her father to the remnants of his brain on the stainless appliance, and then back again, her mind trying to comprehend what her eyes were telling her she was seeing.

  The girl’s mother, the woman who Benny had always called the love of his life for the last two decades, was the second to see the body. Her mind was far more quick to understand the grim reality of her husband’s death.

  She screamed. Loudly.

  Loud enough in fact that Nigel easily heard her as he watched the house from behind a large weeping willow tree nearly half a block away. As the screams continued, he couldn’t help but smile.

  Today was a job well done.

  The adviser would be pleased.

  XXVI.

  Mac Walker had been a resident of Allenwood Federal Prison for nearly eight weeks when he received notice he was to be transferred from C Block to A Block – the largest of the self contained complexes within the massive prison facility. Where C Block had been dubbed “the ghetto” for its high ratio of Black and Latino inmates, A Block was simply called “the hole”. With cells housing up to four inmates at a time, crowded corridors, cafeteria, and bathroom facilities, it was a place noted for near constant violence and brutality.

  “Sending the white boy over to the hole huh? Shit, man – that ain’t good Walker. They gonna test you hard over there. No professor to protect your ass anymore, man.”

  Shanks knew A Block’s challenges intimately, having spent his first three years at Allenwood there. It was there in fact, he had earned his name “Shanks”. In recent weeks, he had grown almost friendly toward Mac Walker, and though his gruff exterior remained, Mac sensed the man’s genuine concern for his well being.

  “I’ll be all right. Spent a week in a Tijuana jail cell once. Can’t be much worse than that.”

  Both men looked up to see the still bone thin figure of the professor standing at the entrance to Mac’s cell. Some of his hair had grown back in white patches atop his head, and Shanks claimed he had put on a few pounds since completing his last round of treatments, but Mac knew better. The professor was a dead man walking, the cancer eating him up from the inside.

  “So I hear you will be leaving us Mr. Walker. I am sorry for that. I hope our agreement still stands?”

  Mac nodded back at the professor while motioning with his right hand for him to take a seat inside the cell.

  “Yeah – if you get a letter to me, and I happen to somehow find myself outside of these walls, I’ll see it delivered. You have my word on that.”

  A thin smile ran across the professor’s gaunt face.

  “Good. Then let us discuss your going away party Mr. Walker. Will you be available to stop by my place later tonight? Say…7:00 p.m.?”

  Shanks clapped his large hands together.

  “Yeah, he’ll be there! It’s tradition Walker! Guy gets transferred, we send him off proper! Some music, some rotgut, it’s what we do, man!”

  Mac glanced at the professor, his face communicating a touch of uncertainty.

  “Rotgut? What would that be?”

  The professor nodded toward Shanks.

  “Shanks is well known inside here for his fermenting skills. Each week he skims some potatoes from the pantry and over time, makes a particularly, uh, interesting brand of vodka that he likes to call rotgut.”

  Shanks’ right hand slapped down onto his right knee as his left hand pointed back at Mac.

  “Rotgut! Yeah! Gonna send you off right!”

  Four hours later Mac found himself seated as the guest of honor inside the professor’s prison cell, surrounded by faces he had come to know throughout C Block, as men of varying and troubled backgrounds who followed a simple and consistent code inside the walls of Allenwood Prison. And while these men were far from perfect, and at one time in their lives, some of them had been downright dangerous, none compared to the sinister machinations Mac Walker knew now confronted the United States and the world.

  Compared to the people seeking control of the great global machine, these men were angels.

  “Let us raise our glasses and wish Mr. Walker a safe transfer to his new home in A Block.”

  The professor’s hand trembled slightly as he held his half full paper cup in front of him. Mac took his own cup into his right hand and nodded back at the other men and then consumed the self-brewed concoction known as rotgut. As the liquid passed his lips and entered his throat, Mac realized almost instantly that name was well deserved.

  The bitter fluid arced across his tongue like a flame, a flame that then travelled into his belly like some marauding interloper on a seek and destroy mission. He found himself coughing soon after, tears welling up in his eyes.

  “Holy shit! What is that – battery acid?”

  The cell and corridor outside filled with the laughter of men who had learned to take pleasure in the smallest of moments.

  Shanks was already refilling Mac’s cup.

  “It gets easier Walker! Drink it down!”

  Mac felt his stomach gurgle a protest as yet more of the rotgut flew down his throat as Shanks moved to fill his cup yet again.

  “Where do you mix that stuff up Shanks?”

  The cell grew quiet as Shanks smiled down at Mac and whispered his response, his eyes twinkling like some demented, dark skinned Santa.

  “The toilet bowl.”

  Mac’s right hand stopped midway to his mouth, some
of the contents of his cup spilling onto the floor.

  Again the cell filled with raucous laughter. Even the professor was laughing with some effort, his head thrown back as tears streamed down his desiccated cheeks.

  Mac glared back at everyone and then shrugged.

  “Screw it.”

  He drank the cup dry once again.

  By tomorrow morning, the laughter filling Mac Walker’s world that night would go silent as he found himself fighting for survival hour by hour and day by day in the hell that was the hole of Allenwood Prison’s A Block.

  XXVII.

  “Mr. Neeson this information is unacceptable! Suicide? That is what they are calling it? What the hell happened? How is this possible?”

  Finn Neeson knew Alexander David Meyer was not going to take the news of Benjamin William’s death with anything less than barely controlled rage.

  “Sir…I’m very sorry. We had a man at the house, Mr. Williams was inside alone…I don’t know how it happened, but it did. He was found by his family…it was a single gunshot to the head. The investigation declared it to be self inflicted.”

  Finn could hear Mr. Meyer’s breath coming out in a hiss.

  “You know damn well that’s bullshit! He was murdered, like so many others this government decides as knowing too much! Dammit Mr. Neeson! We promised to keep that man safe!”

  Finn Neeson was just as disgusted and saddened by Benjamin William’s death as was Alexander Meyer, but he also knew it would do no good to add his own rage to that of the billionaire’s.

  “I know Mr. Meyer. Sir, we still have Mr. Walker. I’m doing my best---“

  Alexander Meyer cut off Finn Neeson’s comment in mid-sentence.

  “And just what are you doing about THAT situation Mr. Neeson? You tell that senator - you remind him how much he owes me! We want this sentence reduced! We want it thrown the hell out and Mr. Walker made a free man again! And it will be your duty to inform Mr. Walker of his friend’s recent death. This is a man whose trust I had hoped to secure, but we are now left looking like total incompetents! Why should Mr. Walker trust us now Mr. Neeson? Why would anyone?”

  “I understand Mr. Meyer. I’ve already initiated a scheduled meeting with Mr. Walker. I’m just awaiting approval from the facility supervisor. It appears they have transferred Mr. Walker to another area within the prison complex. I don’t know why.”

  The sound of something being thrown echoed from the speaker of Finn Neeson’s shortwave radio. Alexander Meyer now demanded they only communicate via shortwave, no longer trusting other forms of communication to be secure.

  “He was likely transferred because they are preparing to have him killed Mr. Neeson. That cannot be allowed to happen. Do you understand? I will not have them kill that man. So if this White House and that reptilian little adviser who believes herself ruler of the universe are manipulating Mr. Walker’s situation in that prison, I want you focused entirely on altering their attempted outcome. Devote all our resources now to securing Mr. Walker’s freedom. Everything we have at our disposal, you are to use. Do you understand Mr. Neeson? Beyond the safety of yourself and your family, this is now your one and only priority.”

  Finn Neeson could feel the simmering rage within the former Wall Street billionaire’s voice.

  “Yes sir – understood.”

  The communication ended, leaving Finn Neeson alone in the study of his Florida home looking down at a framed photograph of his wife and two children.

  I’m risking everything to try and make sure they have a world left to them when I’m gone.

  Finn Neeson was certain his own life was at risk, but he had also recently wondered if the lives of his family were also now in danger due to his work in trying to protect military and government members who found themselves under attack by the very government they had once served.

  There were rumors of a massive re-education facility being constructed somewhere in California that would be capable of holding tens of thousands of people. Homeland Security had begun door to door home checks in several cities throughout the country, primarily to locate and then confiscate weapons the government deemed no longer legal to own. There were the now daily reports of Muslim protests and attacks in several Canadian cities, and nearly as many reports of ongoing gang violence that was spilling across the Mexican-American border.

  Things were getting downright dangerous all around them now.

  The words of Alexander David Meyer bellowed inside of Finn’s head.

  So if this White House and that reptilian little adviser who believes herself ruler of the universe are manipulating Mr. Walker’s situation in that prison, I want you focused entirely on altering their attempted outcome. Devote all our resources now to securing Mr. Walker’s freedom. Everything we have at our disposal, you are to use. Do you understand Mr. Neeson? Beyond the safety of yourself and your family, this is now your one and only priority.

  Finn Neeson, his eyes still fixated on the picture of his family, let out a long sigh and sat back in his chair.

  It was time to get back to work.

  XXVIII.

  “818 – please step to your right and remain there.”

  Mac Walker found his hands and feet bound in chains as he stood inside of the A Block processing room. Two armed guards stood on either side of him, as another guard reviewed his paperwork while seated at a small metallic desk in the upper right corner of the small room.

  Once you get inside, you find a guy named Chopper. Tell him I sent you. Tell him you’re former military. He might help you out. Might not – but worth a try.

  That was the advice of Shanks given to Mac right before the guards arrived to take him from his cell in C Block and deliver him here. Mac had entered the processing room from a small, steel framed door that was now behind him. Directly in front of him was another door, this one larger and far more substantial – the entrance into A Block.

  “818, you will now be delivered to your cell. Do not speak during the transfer. Do not ask questions. Do not look at anyone. Do you understand?”

  Mac nodded. One of the guards motioned for Mac to follow while the other, with his rifle at the ready, walked directly behind him. A single loud buzzing sound filled the room, followed soon after by the entrance door to A Block swinging inward.

  Mac was greeted by the smell of sweat, violence, and decay. He was familiar with the scent, having experienced it in some of the most dangerous places in the world. It was the smell of men pushed to the limits of their humanity, who had been reduced to the simple rule of kill or be killed.

  The walk to cell 312 was slow and deliberate. Guards watched from behind rows of thick, clear plastic windows as Mac was directed down one long corridor and then another. Feral eyes peered out from cell after cell, followed soon after by howls of aggression, intimidation, and primal lust.

  “Quite a place you got here.”

  Mac’s comment resulted in the guard in front of him stopping and turning around while the guard behind him slammed the butt of his rifle into Mac’s lower back, causing his legs to buckle. The pain was excruciating, but Mac merely winced as he forced himself to stand back up to his full height.

  Mac smiled back at the guard in front of him.

  “Please sir, may I have another?”

  Another blow crunched into Mac’s back with even greater force than the first, sending him onto his knees for a brief moment before he once again forced himself back onto his feet.

  “No talking 818.”

  All of the sounds from within the cells had gone silent as the prisoners watched the altercation between Mac and the guards with hungry anticipation, their desire to witness an act of violence washing over both Mac and the guards like an unseen but easily felt body of ever yearning water.

  Mac stood silent. The brief display meant to convey to the prisoners watching that he was no bitch. He could handle pain, and give plenty out in return.

  The walk to cell 312 continued. Another long corridor, ma
ny more eyes and faces looking and leering back at him, until finally, the guards stopped and motioned for Mac to enter a cell that already housed three other men.

  The oldest among the three appeared to be perhaps as old as sixty. He had a clean shaven, tattooed skull that was covered in a layer of sweat, a full, round face, and grey goatee that framed a thin lipped mouth turned downward into a frown. He was a few inches shorter than Mac, but likely several pounds heavier.