The Mason Walker Bundle 3

by Alex Howell

  Nevertheless, she stood up and told him, “Sure thing Mason….”

  Mason then directed them to the basement. Raina followed Mason down a pair of rickety wooden steps that belied the true high-tech nature of what the rest of the basement contained. Here, in this basement was the most high-tech equipment Onyx’s contractor money could provide.

  There was row upon row of computers, and other gear, all for the purpose of tracking down fugitives. Raina sat down at one of the main consoles with Mason as he pulled up a kind of slide show that depicted a timeline of data from the beginning of their investigation into the terrorist.

  Mason pointed at the first data point and told her, “So you might remember, we first encountered these guys back in Iran, when they received an arms shipment of bioweapons.”

  Raina who accompanied Mason to the bio builder’s secret operations facility—which was surprisingly in the middle of a rec center in Tehran—recalled the event, “Yeah, I remember we missed the terrorist but we sure got an earful from the receptionist.”

  Mason laughed, “You kidding? That guy seemed as if he were about to crap his pants.”

  Raina smirked, “What? From little old me? Am I that scary?”

  Prompting Mason to laugh, “Umm—with your Glock pointed at someone’s head your scary enough believe me.”

  Raina did not take pride in having to be aggressive with people during her line of work, but all the same, recalling how easily she handled the guy, she couldn’t help but smile a little.

  Mason carrying on with the presentation then pulled up an image of the inside of an abandoned church, Raina immediately realized that this was the church where Mason had run afoul of the terrorists, and been held prisoner. Mason said as much, “And this is where those jerks were holed up when they waylaid me in that back alley.”

  Staring at the image of the burned-out church Mason rubbed the back of his head as he grunted, “Yeah, I’ve got a few bumps back here that need to repay the favor in kind.”

  Raina sighed, “Ahh…Mason…”

  Mason then shifted the presentation to the presidential inauguration of then President-elect Verne Landers. Staring at the still photos that depicted the large crowds that turned out for the event, Raina remarked, “Ahh—the inauguration… We were pretty lucky that we stopped that one.”

  Mason nodded, “Yeah, if that virus was released during that hectic celebration it would have been an absolute disaster.”

  Raina agreed, “Yeah—it’s a good thing that Kyle outfitted you and Benton with such stealthy weapons.”

  Raina was referring to the optical lens that he and Mathew Benton wore when they posed as secret service agents during the inauguration. All the two had to do was look at their targets, press a button on the side frame of the glasses and a long needle shot out like a bullet, striking its target before delivering enough volts to make a taser gun jealous.

  Mason recalling how easy it was to pick off targets, smirked, “Yeah that was something else…Like something out of a James Bond movie.”

  Recalling how difficult it was to nab the bad guys during the NYC attack several months later, Mason lamented, “Too bad we didn’t have that stuff at the Little Italy festival in New York.”

  Raina recalled with a chuckle, “Yeah—there the only projectile you were able to make use of was a beer bottle.”

  This was in reference to the fact that Mason found himself forced to bust a beer bottle over the head of a guy operating a float. The man wasn’t a terrorist but he wouldn’t listen to reason when Mason informed him that the float had been sabotaged and laden with a deadly virus. The virus would have been dispersed over several blocks of New York if Mason hadn’t stopped it.

  Since the man operating the float wouldn’t see to listen to his pleas for him to shut the float down, Mason had to take matters into his own hands. He grabbed a beer bottle from a guy standing next to him and threw it right into the float operators’ skull. Not a pretty thing when you have to resort to injuring non-combatants, but since hundreds of thousands of lives were potentially at stake because of the float operator’s insolence, Mason made the call to use force.

  Mason recalling General Thomson’s reaction to that said show of grumbled, “And that whole episode only caused General Thomson to say I was ‘being too rough’ with civilians.”

  Raina sighed, “Yeah, and he nearly got rid of Onyx as a result.”

  Raina then questioned, “Whatever happened with that anyway? Why did he suddenly put us back on board like this?”

  Mason shook his head, “Who really knows. With his histrionics and drama, I don’t know how Thomson ever even became a General in the first place. That guy’s a joke.”

  Raina then paused and thought about it, “You know, there have been some rumors that it was someone higher up that convinced General Thomson to change his mind.”

  Mason raised an eyebrow, “How higher up?”

  Raina smiled, “About as high as it gets—President Verne Landers himself.”

  Mason’s mouth dropped, “Really?”

  Raina nodded, “Yeah, supposedly he gave the General a severe tongue lashing recently, telling him that he was making a mockery of military operations—that his special ops had gone soft.”

  Mason furrowed his brow, and repeated with more conviction, “Really?”

  Raina answered, “Yeah, it seems that you do indeed have some friends in high places Mason.”

  Mason staring up at the ceiling responded, “Well, in this crazy world where allegiances shift like sand, who really knows… I can only hope these so-called friends remain friendly for the long haul.”

  Swiveling his chair around to face her, Mason then looked to Raina, and told her, “Alright—we’ve got work to do!”

  3

  Hunkering Down

  THREE DAYS LATER IN MASON’S BALTIMORE BASEMENT, AROUND MIDNIGHT. Mason was staring at the screen, obsessively going over every piece of information he could find on the virus case. The idea that the perpetrators of such a diabolical scheme were still at large, ate at his conscience.

  Mason had barely left his basement command center in the past three days, while Raina had come and gone numerous times. Mason had given her a key to his house so she was free to come and go as she pleased. It was on one of her return trips that Raina was alarmed to find Mason practically right where she had left him the previous day.

  As Raina ducked her head into the basement, she remarked, “Mason! You are still down here! Seriously you need a break!”

  At this point his bloodshot eyes were no longer on the screen. Instead, she found Mason staring at an old school piece of peg board attached to the wall with all kinds of notes, photos, newspaper clippings, and descriptions tacked to it.

  He was paying particular attention to photos of suspects that had either been arrested or at least questioned during the course of the investigation. Underneath each photo he had meticulously noted every little piece of information.

  One guy for example, had been spotted and surreptitiously photographed at a local Buck’s Star coffee shop. Underneath his photo you could find his entire order written down. All apparently done in the offhand chance that the suspect’s coffee habits could somehow lead to a break in the case. Part of the caption read, “Likes iced coffee, little bit of cream, and just a little bit of sugar.”

  Raina was amazed at the great lengths the investigation had taken, and yet the complete and utter failure of any real leads to materialize. She looked to Mason and asked, “Has any of this produced any valuable data on these religious terrorists?”

  Mason sighed, “No—no, not yet. But I’m telling you—I’m so close I can almost taste it.”

  Raina teased, “Oh—and what does it taste like?”

  Mason chortled, “Like a bunch of toxic and hateful ideological crap, defecated from an extremist’s behind. It may not be pretty but I can taste it all the same.”

  Raina rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help but smile at Mason’s
absurdity as she quietly intoned, “Okay…”

  As tempting as it was to laugh at Mason’s dogged determination. She knew that Mason was in fact so desperate to find a lead, that his inability to do so, was beginning to have a direct impact on his mental well-being.

  She felt really bad for him, and sincerely hoped that some clue would emerge to break Mason out of this slump. Raina trying hard to connect the dots began to stare at the images and printouts tacked to the peg board. As her vision scanned across the material, her eyes stopped on the photo of a guy in what looked like an expensive suit.

  In an almost knee jerk reaction Raina exclaimed, “Mr. Armani!”

  Mason spun around in his chair to look at her as he asked, “Huh? Mr. what?”

  Raina pointing at the image was adamant as she proclaimed, “It’s him! Remember Mr. Armani? The guy me and Case accosted at the Little Italy festival?”

  It took him a minute, but Raina had finally managed to jog Mason’s memory. He recalled how during the debriefing after the last mission Raina and Chris Bradley described how they literally had one of the terrorist crooks by the collar.

  But as Chris held on to the top of the perp’s suit, he jerked away, and ripped himself out of Bradley’s hands, only to disappear into the fleeing crowd. Mason acknowledged as much, “Yeah—I remember you guys talking about him…”

  Before looking at the picture with amazement, “Is that him?”

  Raina nodded in the affirmative, “I’m positive, I’d recognize that smirk and those Gucci glasses anywhere.”

  Raina then had another thought, “The coat!”

  It took Mason a second to remember what she was talking about, before he answered, “Oh! You mean the piece of suit coat that Chris ripped off the dude?!”

  Raina nodded, “Yeah! Does Kyle still have it?”

  She was referring to the fact that although the collared crook had gotten away, Bradley hung on to the shredded piece of cloth he had torn from his suit. Kyle had taken custody of the stuff as evidence at the time, thinking it could be tested for DNA, but the group had almost forgotten about it since then.

  Now that it was fresh in Mason’s mind however, he began to seriously wonder if this insignificant piece of material could provide the break in the case that they so desperately needed.

  Mason grabbing his phone, began to furiously scroll through his contacts until he reached Kyles number. Dialing it up, he exclaimed, “Calling him now!”

  AT A BAR CALLED “THE LIZARD’S KEEP” AT A COMIC CON IN NEW JERSEY. Kyle Garrison the tech guru of Onyx was sitting rather uncomfortably between a man dressed in a hairy ape costume and a guy dressed like a knight from the round table, complete with armor and broadsword. Kyle was in the process of gulping down his third beer when his phone started to ring.

  Kyle, whose obsessed fandom with old TV shows from decades past knows no bounds, was dressed as Steve Erkel, the nerdy neighbor from the 1990’s sitcom “Family Matters”.

  Decked out in suspenders and thick glasses, Kyle fumbled for his cellphone which was nestled in the front pocket of his shirt, along with pens, pencils, and a mandatory pocket protector.

  As he tried to pull his phone out, it slipped from his hand, tumbled out of the shirt pocket and crashed into the side of the beer mug of the hair ape seated next to him. The glass tipped over and splashed the malt liquor all over the front of the guy’s furry wardrobe, prompting him to scream like the Wookie he was, “Damn it, Kyle! You just ruined my costume!”

  Kyle picking up his phone and observing the mess he created proceeded to give his best Steve Erkel impersonation, as he remarked in a nasal voice, “Did I do that?”

  Both the Ape and the knight glared at him like they wanted to punch him in the face, but the inebriated Kyle ignored them both as he picked up the phone, “Hell-o?”

  Kyle was surprised to hear Mason’s voice on the other end cutting right through his intoxication, shouting, “Kyle! Kyle! It’s Mason!”

  Kyle attempted to regain his composure, but his voice still carried his inebriation over the line as he loudly slurred, “Maa-shun? Ish that you?”

  Mason noting the strange timbre of Kyle’s voice plus the loud laughing and talking in the background ventured, “Yeah—where are you? The bar?”

  Kyle snapped back, “I’m at bloody comic-con… what do you want?”

  Mason not really appreciating Kyle’s pastime activities sarcastically offered, “Oh I see—sorry to disturb your comic con.”

  At which Raina knowingly rolled her eyes. Mason then continued, “But I need your help with something buddy.”

  Feeling a bit more important all of a sudden, Kyle inquired, “Oh yeah? What you need boss?”

  Mason knowing that he now had Kyle’s ear asked him, “You remember that scrap of clothing you sent off to be tested for DNA?”

  Kyle sobering up a little at the thought of official Onyx business, slid off the barstool, and began walking to a more isolated corner of the bar, as he replied, “Sure Mason, just a second…”

  Sitting down in a booth away from prying ears, Kyle breathed heavily into the phone as he asked, “Okay big guy, what is it you need?”

  Mason growing impatient, hissed into the receiver, “The DNA testing done on the cloth ripped off the terror suspect—you remember that? Did you find anything?”

  Kyle had indeed sent off the material for testing but he forgot to follow up. As he realized as much, he cursed, “Shit—I forgot to check up on that.”

  Mason feeling his blood begin to boil, growled through his clenched teeth, “You forgot?”

  Kyle likewise, feeling incredibly patronized, protested, “Well I’ve been busy Mason—I do have a life outside of Onyx you know.”

  Mason taking a deep breath, and attempting to be as patient with Kyle as possible told him, “Look buddy, I respect your free time but while you’ve been busy hobnobbing with Klingons, hobbits, and elves at comic con, we have a known terror cell that’s about to erupt.”

  Kyle sighed, “Alright Mason, I’ll give them a call first thing in the morning.”

  Mason asked with obvious disappointment, “Morning?”

  Kyle laughed, “Yeah Mace—what do you expect? They’re not like 7-Eleven—they’re not open 24 hours to give you a DNA slurpee.”

  Mason conceding the point, sighed, “Okay—sure. Just call me in the morning.” Kyle Garrison then heard the disappointed click of Mason Walker’s cell phone as he disconnected the call.

  4

  Midnight Confessions

  MASON’S BEDROOM, A FEW HOURS LATER.

  Mason was in bed with Raina hugging on to him tight. For an outside observer, it would appear to be a very loving and idyllic scene. But deep inside Mason’s slumbering mind, it was in fact, anything but. In a dream that had filtered up through his consciousness on numerous occasions he found himself walking through the winding streets of bombed out Baghdad.

  In the smoky haze of rocket propelled grenades, Mason had gotten separated from the rest of his crew. He was turned around and needed to find his way back to the safety of his brothers at arms, so when he heard loud, guttural shouting in Arabic just around the corner—his intuition told him that he probably needed to go back in the other direction in order to avoid being killed.

  But something he heard the combatants shout in the melee caused him to stop in his tracks. His Arabic was certainly limited, but during his time stationed in the Mideast he had picked up enough to know that what these enemy fighters were shouting definitely was not good.

  He heard one of them shout, “American! American!” Followed by another exclaiming, “Al-Nisa! Al-Nisa!” Which was Arabic for “The woman! The woman!” This exclamation was then followed by several vulgar taunts interspersed with gunfire.

  Whatever was going on—Mason knew it wasn’t good. Even though he had a chance to run back to his comrades who were holed up on the other side of the back alley, he went ahead and lumbered forward to see what was transpiring. Creeping aroun
d the corner, Mason saw Tessa Rogers—the only female SEAL he had ever met ducking under a metal dumpster—single handedly holding off four militants who were taking pot shots at her and slowly gaining ground on her position.

  She was pinned down, and as admirable of a job that she was doing at holding off their advance, it would only be a matter of time before the combatants killed her—or in what would surely be a far worse fate—captured her. Mason didn’t know the girl that well at all—but there was no way he could just stand by and allow such a thing to occur.

  So, taking a breath, he raised his gun and charged right into the middle of the fire fight with his firearm blazing. It was a suicidal charge to be sure, and his odds of survival were low. But Mason had caught the combatants by such surprise that their response time left much to be desired.

  And no sooner than two of the attackers wheeled toward him, Mason managed to fire off several rounds into them. One was struck a couple times in the head and tipping like a freshly cut tree, fell over backwards, flat on his back—dead upon impact. Mason’s bullets then tore through the man next to him, slicing a diagonal pattern through his shoulder, heart, and stomach. The man gurgled blood like a fountain and crumpled to the ground, perishing just a few seconds later.

  Now Mason had two combatants gunning for him. Dodging bullets like a maniac he managed to reach Tessa’s position, taking cover behind the dumpster just as she finished the job for him. Tessa was wounded—shot in the leg, but ignoring her pain she hopped up on her injured feet and with a service revolver in each hand—taken from her two slain fellow SEALS whose dead bodies were piled next to her—she filled the final two attackers full of lead.

  Mason would come to call Tessa by the nickname of “Hawkeye” and in this instance her bird’s eye vision didn’t let anyone down. At about 20 feet away with nothing more than standard hand guns, she shot both of her antagonists several times in the face, neck, and chest. As their limp forms dropped to the pavement, the battle had been won.