MAC WALKER'S BENGHAZI: The Complete Collection (18 page)

Mac couldn’t hide his shock at the vastness of the plot Ella and the ambassador were laying out before him.

“So what about Louis Danton? I was given that name by Angelo Moretti, the guy who organized our flight into Benghazi. He tried to have me and my team killed the night we arrived. Moretti told me before he died to contact Danton if anything went wrong with the assignment. Danton’s United Nations, so I assumed he couldn’t be trusted. Is he the one facilitating the movement of these dirty bombs? And if he is, why don’t I just go kill him?”

For the first time since sitting down, the ambassador’s eyes betrayed, however briefly, a moment of alarm.

“No Mr. Walker, Louis Danton is one of ours. Not directly, but certainly one of us.”

Mac’s brow furrowed. The ambassador’s words made no sense.

“How can Danton be, as you put it, one of ours? His man Moretti tried to have me and my team killed.”

The ambassador had already regained his composure, his eyes once again appearing calm, almost amused.

“Mr. Danton has been at this for some time now Mr. Walker. I assure you, if he wanted you or I dead, it would have happened already. Moretti was acting on his own. He has been working with the local militants for some time, and being paid well for it. His turn on you cost him his life of course, so thank you for eliminating what was becoming a problem for all those of us here not on the payroll of the Saudis, or the globalist United Nations operatives. Louis Danton had nothing to do with the attempt on your life. As I said, if he wanted you dead, you most likely would be already.”

Mac glanced over at Ella for confirmation of what the ambassador was saying. She simply nodded her head once, but said nothing.

“What about Dasha Al Marri? She was the one calling the shots when I met with her and Tilley and Mardian before coming to Benghazi. What do you know about her Mr. Ambassador?”

The ambassador closed his eyes momentarily before opening them again to look back at Mac.

“She is a very dangerous woman Mr. Walker. As anti-American as you will ever find, extremely well funded, and has an open door to the current administration. She was the one who had you sent here to kill me. She’s a globalist, an extremist, and more than willing to kill whoever gets in her way. I happen to be one of those people.”

Mac realized then, he had been forced into a corner as soon as he accepted the assignment.

“And me and my team will be one of those people too if we don’t kill you, isn’t that right?”

The ambassador’s smile and sadness over Mac’s realization of the position he had been placed in, appeared genuine.

“Yes Mr. Walker, unfortunately, you either kill me, or join me on the hit list. I’m afraid that is your dilemma.”

Ella waived a dismissive hand in response to the ambassador’s words.

“They will try to kill him either way. Mac, you kill the ambassador and they kill you and your team to make certain none of you can communicate the details of the assignment. You refuse to kill the ambassador, and they still have you all killed for the very same reason.”

Mac thought Ella’s words over briefly and then nodded. He also noted Ella had, for the first time, addressed him by his first name.

“Ok then, that makes things much simpler. I kill all of them before they kill any of us.”

The ambassador laughed as he shook his head.

“If only it were that simple Mr. Walker.”

Mac stared back into the ambassador’s eyes and smiled, his voice a low growl.

“For me, it really is that simple.”

XXIII.

Tilley attempted to reach Mardian for the third time in ten minutes. Finally Mardian picked up, though he remained silent on the other end.

“Mardian? You there?”

The call had gone through, someone had picked up, but whoever it was refused to answer. Tilley ended the call and slowed his car down, not wanting to get too close to Mardian’s building at 19
th
and G. If someone had gotten to Mardian, they were likely waiting for Tilley to make his way back there.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!”

Tilley hoped yelling out his frustration from inside his car would make him feel better.

It didn’t.

He couldn’t go home. He couldn’t go to Mardian’s. The general was dead. Tilley’s world was closing in on him fast, and if he didn’t come up with a plan soon, there’d be no escape from whoever wanted him dead.

The car moved quickly back onto the street as Tilley repeatedly glanced into his rear view mirror.

Need to find a place with lots of people, lots of security.

Tilley moved the big BMW down G Street, past the massive IMF and World Bank buildings toward 17
th
, which ran parallel to the White House grounds. 17
th
was busy as always, slowing Tilley’s progress. Again he looked behind him, but found no indication he was being followed.

Finally 17
th
met up with H Street. Tilley moved the car into the far right lane and slammed down on the accelerator for several hundred yards before again turning sharply to the right, bringing him to the entrance of the very popular and much visited, Lafayette Square. Tilley could see several people moving within the meticulously manicured park that faced the front of the White House, the two areas separated by Pennsylvania Avenue.

Tilley opened the glove box and removed the small handgun he kept there. The carrying of handguns in Washington D.C. was forbidden. Even obtaining a license to own a handgun to keep at home, had become increasingly prohibitive in recent years. Taking one into a public park so close to the White House was probably breaking a myriad of local and federal laws Tilley wasn’t even aware of.

Not even bothering to see if he was leaving his BMW in an approved parking space, Tilley moved swiftly into Lafayette Square, the bottoms of his heeled shoes echoing off of the red bricked walkway that led to the center of the seven acre park. The leaves of some of the trees were already turning various shades of fall colors, and the air, though still somewhat warm, whispered of the cooler temperatures soon to come as September worked its way inevitably toward October.

There’s a bench – a good place to watch anyone coming at me.

Tilley sat down on one of the multiple park benches placed throughout Lafayette Square. This particular one allowed him to put his back against a stone wall, meaning nobody could sneak up on him from behind. In front of him was a group of Japanese tourists, a young couple jogging, and an older man walking his dog. For now, he appeared to be safe.

Should have parked the car several blocks away and walked here. If anyone spots the car, they’ll know I’m in the park.

A wave of momentary panic shot through Tilley’s mind. Leaving the BMW near the park entrance was a mistake. He wasn’t thinking as clearly as he needed to, and that could cost him. His hand, resting inside the right pocket of his jacket, gripped the handgun. The hard steel outline of the weapon brought some measure of reassurance to Tilley as his eyes continued to scan the landscape in front of him.

Ray Tilley sat on that park bench for nearly an hour, his composure slowly returning with each passing minute.

Gonna be ok. Keep my shit together like Mac said. Make my way to a hotel and hunker down there for the night.

Tilley stood up, looking out in front of him again for any signs of trouble. The few people he saw nearby appeared normal. They included another person walking their dog, an older man sitting on another park bench, and a woman walking slowly along a walk path some forty yards from Tilley’s location.

Then Tilley spotted Nigel, Dasha Al Marri’s personal bodyguard, walking slowly past the man seated on the park bench. Tilley could see Nigel’s head moving slowly from right to left, looking for him in the park.

Ray Tilley moved slowly to his left, around the cement wall, making certain to not move too quickly and catch Nigel’s attention. Once on the other side, he looked down another red bricked walk path that a sign indicated led to the White House viewing area – the place where protesters were always gathering along Pennsylvania Avenue.

That’ll have more people, security, maybe even media.

Tilley glanced behind him and saw no sign of Nigel. Perhaps he had already moved on. The walk path toward the White House viewing area was oddly absent of people though, which caused Tilley to pause momentarily, wondering why the path suddenly felt so isolated. Mere coincidence perhaps - it was nearing the early evening hours after all.

“Let’s not have ourselves an unnecessary spectacle Mr. Tilley.”

The accent was English, and all too familiar. Nigel stood directly in front of Tilley, his dark eyes glaring back at Tilley with just a hint of disdain.

“Do you understand Mr. Tilley – there is no need for any displays of false bravado now.”

Tilley pushed back his fear and stood his ground, staring down the shorter Nigel.

“You keep away from me. Come any closer, and I shoot you dead.”

Nigel smiled back, holding his hands out from his sides.

“Oh, I’m certain you would Mr. Tilley, if allowed to do so. Your mistake was talking to others about this you know. We hired you in great part because of your reputation for keeping your mouth shut. You have disappointed us terribly you know. You Americans and your penchant for talk - it’ll be the death of you all some day.”

Tilley withdrew the handgun from his coat pocket and pointed it at Nigel.

“I’m walking out of this park. Fuck you, and fuck that bitch Dasha.”

Nigel’s eyes flared angrily as he took a step toward Tilley.

“No need for such language Mr. Tilley. You know nothing of Ms. Al Marri, and are not worthy to speak of her like that. In fact, you are not worthy to speak of her at all.”

“Hey! What’s going on? You – stay right there!”

Tilley turned to see park security walking toward him. The man appeared young, no more than thirty, dressed in the blue short sleeved dress shirt and slacks common to security personnel of the area. Seeing the security officer offered Tilley a feeling of hope, as it seemed unlikely Nigel would attempt to harm in with such a witness so nearby.

Placing his gun back into his coat pocket, Ray Tilley turned to look back at the park security who now stood no more than ten feet from him.

“This man is threatening me sir. I want him detained and questioned please. I believe he may be armed.”

Tilley was shocked to feel Nigel brush past him as he walked toward the security officer. That shock quickly turned to horror as Nigel aimed a gun at the officer and fired, the bullet ripping through the young man’s forehead. Tilley’s legs were already moving before he thought to do so, running through a batch of trees as the gloom of impending night cast a shadow over the park grounds.

At nearly sixty years of age, Ray Tilley was not accustomed to running so fast, but run he did, even as his heart began to pound painfully in his chest with enough force he feared he may be having a heart attack. He emerged from the trees onto another red bricked walk path, moving as fast as he could, not daring to look behind him. Nigel’s gun made almost no sound when it fired, indicating it was silenced, meaning the shot was unlikely to have drawn any attention, and thus, no chance of help.

Your gun doesn’t have a silencer though.

Tilley removed his handgun from his pocket and turned to look behind him. There was no sign of Nigel, though the increasing darkness was making it increasingly difficult to see more than forty or so feet in any direction. Tilley raised the gun into the air and fired off two rounds, the sound echoing across the park grounds. Given the park’s proximity to the White House, surely the gunfire would alert more security – possibly even Secret Service.

A flash of light erupted from the darkness thirty yards from behind Tilley, followed by the pain of a bullet grazing his upper left arm. He turned to once again run, gasping for breath and waiting for another bullet to rip through his back. Up ahead he saw a well lit area, one of the large statues common to the park grounds. It was of a man atop a horse rearing up onto its hind legs – the Andrew Jackson sculpture. Tilley knew that meant he was nearing the very center of Lafayette Square.

Get to the statue, use the base of it for cover.

The Jackson sculpture was enclosed by a simple, wrought iron fence. The fence’s height was nearly as tall as Tilley, the tops of the bars ending in large metallic arrows.

Just need a few seconds to climb over the fence. Just a few seconds…

Ray Tilley glanced behind him again and seeing no sign of being followed, placed his handgun back into his coat pocket and grasped the top of the fence in each hand and began pulling himself up. It took more than a few seconds, but with shaking muscles, and sweat pouring out from him, Tilley felt the grateful thud of his body dropping to the other side of the fence. He was inside the sculpture area, the large granite base of the statue no more than twenty feet away.

Get up and run!

Even though there was no evidence Nigel was nearby, a warning sounded in Tilley’s head. It is said all people have a sense of knowing something is there, even if one’s eyes tell them otherwise. Ray Tilley’s senses were propelling his body forward toward the statue as fast as he legs would carry him.