“That was the one and only time I fired my weapon at another human being. Let me tell you something, Tom Dolan, I still consider that the worst damn day of my life. I hired you on to be a member of this department. I knew you as a kid, I respect your military service and already can see you as this city’s next Chief of Police, and that’s all well and good, but don’t ever forget what I just told you. Ending someone’s life…pulling that trigger is easy. The remembering though, God help me, it’s the remembering that kills a man slow.”
Jack Bennet’s words whispered back to Chief Dolan from the distance of time and experience as Dolan’s eyes pleaded for Raney to reconsider what the detective suddenly appeared so willing to do.
“You can’t outdraw me, Mark.”
Raney smirked, confident in the advantage he believed the numbers provided him.
“There are four of us, Chief, and just one of you. I’ve seen you at the range. I know you’re pretty good with a gun, but you’re not that good.”
He said four – that means the cameraman is a Fed too.
“I might not kill all four, but I’ll be damn sure to kill you, Detective. You really prepared to die for those three assholes over there and whatever shit you got yourself involved in?”
Dolan was confident he could outdraw Raney, but he also had no intention of allowing himself to then be shot down by the FBI agents who no doubt had intended to kill him regardless so as to pin the death of the two black men on him. For some reason, the federal agents appeared intent on increasing the racial tensions inside of America so that the fires burning Chicago would more quickly spread throughout the country.
They wanted a race war.
State of emergency…some kind of federal takeover.
Chief Tom Dolan was determined to meet up with his family at Mile Post 18. He wasn’t about to leave them on their own to face whatever mess was about to unfold across the United States.
That left but one viable option.
Detective Raney, the three other agents, and the female reporter would have to be taken care of. Only then would Dolan be able to make his way to his family.
For a brief moment it was as if time had stopped for just a second.
Like God was giving Tom Dolan a fighting chance…
----------------
EPISODE THREE:
The screams were getting louder.
Thirty-nine year old Atlin Blackstone was officially known as Prisoner #854 to the guards of the Ellis Unit inside the sprawling eleven-thousand acre Attwood prison facility situated within a large wooded area north of Huntsville, Texas.
Most just called him Preacher though, on account he had for the last seven years delivered daily one-hour sermons to a handful of prisoners who showed up to hear the convicted murderer warn any and all who would listen that time was running out for them to “get right with God.”
Preacher was among the very first of the two-thousand men imprisoned inside Attwood to notice that something was wrong. It started the week before when a handful of the regular guards were absent, their shifts being covered by other guards suddenly required to work double-time. Then some of those same shifts weren’t being covered at all – something that had never happened before inside a prison noted for being run like clockwork.
Three days ago the meal rations were half of what they typically were and yesterday there was no breakfast service at all. When a handful of prisoners began shouting their complaints, two guards who Preacher knew to normally be patient, even considerate men, quickly tased the prisoners, shackled them, and then dragged them off. None of those prisoners had been seen since.
Television and Internet privileges were then withheld as most of the prison population was forced back into their cells where they were given a small dinner ration late last night. It was the first time in the seven years he had called Attwood home that Preacher had ever taken a meal inside his cell.
Rumors among the prisoners were rampant. Some of the guards who continued to show up on the job were overheard talking about how bad things were getting. A story about nearly a hundred white occupants of a Texas border town having been gunned down in the street by gun-toting members of a Mexican drug cartel caused the greatest stir within the prison population.
The Mexican prisoners openly applauded the story, while the white prisoners shook their heads in disgust. The black prisoners appeared indifferent.
As for Preacher, he prayed for all of them because he knew as bad as that story of border town bloodshed was, things were about to get far worse inside the walls of Attwood.
Early in the morning Preacher was awakened in his cell by a guard he didn’t recognize. After the sleep was cleared from his eyes he realized the tall, young white man standing outside his cell was in fact wearing a military uniform.
“Mr. Blackstone?”
Preacher nodded his head.
“Yes sir.”
The soldier nodded to someone else further down the cell block hall and then the familiar sound of the automatic lock being disengaged echoed loudly in the corridor and Preacher’s cell door slid open.
“Please follow me, Mr. Blackstone.”
Preacher paused inside his cell.
“Can you tell me what this is about?”
The soldier turned around and stared back at the longtime Attwood prisoner. The younger man’s blue eyes were bloodshot, his face covered in at least three days of stubble.
This boy looks like he’s ready to shit himself.
“The warden wants to speak with you.”
Preacher felt his eyes widen. He hadn’t had a conversation with Warden Wydell in almost two years when the warden showed up at one of Preacher’s evening sermons and briefly congratulated him for “doing God’s work and making Attwood a better place.”
Preacher nodded and then walked out into the corridor. He could feel the eyes of the other prisoners on him as he made his way to the exit while the soldier walked closely behind him armed with a powerful military assault rifle.
The distance to the third floor office of Warden Wydell took less than a minute. During that short journey Preacher silently noted there were only a few prison guards present along with a handful of other armed soldiers.
Preacher’s military escort knocked lightly on the warden’s office door.
“Enter!”
The soldier opened the door and then motioned for Preacher to make his way inside.
The warden’s office was enveloped in near darkness. The window shutters had been pulled closed and only a single bulb desk lamp was on.
“Please come in, Mr. Blackstone.”
Preacher took a few careful steps forward waiting for his eyes to adjust as the door was closed behind him by the soldier who remained outside in the hallway.
“Go ahead, have a seat right there.”
The warden pointed to a single chair that sat opposite his large wooden desk. Wilfred Wydell was just a few months shy of his sixty-seventh birthday. He had been the warden of the Ellis Unit at Attwood prison for almost twenty years. Normally Warden Wydell was impeccably dressed in a dark suit and blood red tie with a matching carnation but on this day Preacher was looking across at a man who appeared to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
The warden’s normally neatly combed thin strands of snow- white hair stuck to the side of his moist forehead. He wore a blue dress shirt stained in sweat and both his hands trembled as they rested atop the desk.
“I remember the first day you arrived here, Mr. Blackstone. You were different even then. Proud but not arrogant, a strong man come to a hard place. I admired you from the start and you proved my instincts right. You are truly a credit to your people.”
By your people, Preacher knew the warden was referring to his being a black man.
“Thank you, sir. I simply try to do the Lord’s work as best I know how.”
The warden offered a thin, pained smiled. The effort added yet another layer of seeming madness to his openly troubled deme
anor.
“Yes you do, Mr. Blackstone. I know that to be nothing less than the absolute truth. You are a man of God in a dark pit of lost souls. Do you know what this is, Mr. Blackstone?”
The warden pointed to a manila file that lay on the desk to his right.
“No, sir, should I?”
The warden let out a half-laugh and then opened a drawer to his left and withdrew a silver flask, removed the cap, and took a long drink from it. Preacher inhaled the unmistakable scent of whiskey.
“That there is the hard copy of your file, Mr. Blackstone. Your arrest, your conviction, sentencing, quarterly reviews of the time here at Attwood, it’s all in there.”
Preacher glanced at the folder but said nothing.
“You were found guilty of murder. Do you think that was a fair sentence, Mr. Blackstone? Now I ask this as something of a rhetorical question, because the fact is, I think that sentence was a crock of shit. That good old boy you knocked out had it coming. That’s what I think. You didn’t mean to kill the man, you were just defending yourself after pulling him off that woman, and he made the mistake of coming at a man who was a whole lot tougher than he imagined. Am I right on that?”
Preacher shifted in the chair, suddenly feeling even more uncomfortable than before.
“Ah, you don’t like to revisit that whole mess, do you? Can’t say I blame you. They took seven years of your life away, stuck you in this place with men who do deserve to be here - murderers, rapists, godless men who have devoted their lives to making the rest of society miserable. Not you though, Mr. Blackstone. You deserved better than what the system gave you, and I have no problem saying you wouldn’t be here now if the man you killed hadn’t been white and the nephew of a state politician. They were determined to make an example out of you and that’s exactly what they did.”
Preacher remained silent.
The warden took another long drink from the silver flask and then offered it to Preacher who quickly refused with a wave of his right hand.
“That’s the hand that killed that man, isn’t it? Word is you were a decent fighter in your day. I looked up your professional record. 17-3. Not bad, not bad at all. Your daddy was a fighter too, isn’t that right? Even fought for the Middle Weight Championship at one time?”
Preacher nodded.
“Yes, that’s right. He broke his hand in that fight and that ended his career.”
The warden shook his head, his eyes full of sadness and remorse.
“Damn shame. So…who was the better fighter between you and your old man?”
Preacher’s eyes narrowed, uncertain as to the intent of the question. The warden took another sip of whiskey and waited for a reply.
“He was a better fighter. I never trained as hard as he did.”
Warden Wydell nodded slowly while his eyes remained fixed upon Preacher.
“I see. Tell me, Mr. Blackstone, you ever think much about what happened the day you killed that man?”
Preacher’s back stiffened. The fact was, not a day went by since it happened he didn’t think about it.
He had been a brash, cocky younger man in his early 30’s who had made some decent money fighting and then working as a popular fitness trainer in Houston for wealthy clients with more time and money than obligations. That’s how he met Danielle, an attractive twenty-six year old blonde who had once been a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader.
She flirted with him, and he did the same. Their attraction for each other was almost instant, and soon they were having an affair behind the back of her thirty-four year old bank executive husband, a man by the name of Steven Cole whose family was both politically influential and quite wealthy.
Six months into the affair the husband found out. He demanded to meet the other man who had been seeing his wife. Danielle called Atlin in a panic, telling him Steven was demanding to meet him or he would “take it out on her.”
Atlin arrived at Danielle’s home prepared to apologize to them both and to tell her husband it was over. As long as she was married, he wouldn’t see her. The former boxer turned fitness trainer was genuinely sorry for having been the cause of so much trouble between a husband and his wife.
“You got to be kidding me! He’s a nigger? You’re cheating on me with a nigger?”
That was the repeated outrage of Danielle’s husband as Atlin stood just inside the entrance to their home – a home he had been to often during the affair.
Steven Cole was dressed that day in a light blue dress shirt and tan khakis. A gold Rolex glinted off of his left wrist. He was of average height and build, with a lean face and full head of light brown hair that he parted neatly to the left. He had money and liked to show it. That included trips to the local strip clubs where he enjoyed regular private sessions with some of his favorite dancers – the younger the better.
“Mr. Cole, this was my fault. I was out of line and should have known better. I assure you, the affair is over.”
Steven Cole’s face twisted into a mask of aggressive revulsion.
“Shut up, nigger! You have no right to talk to me! As for you…”
Danielle stepped back to avoid her husband’s outstretched right hand as he tried to grab her by the hair. Atlin ran to place himself between the enraged husband and his wife.
Steven Cole used both his hands to push Atlin away and then began swinging wildly at his wife’s lover. The third punch connected, hitting the former boxer on his left cheek.
Danielle’s husband paused, already breathing heavily, and pointed at Atlin.
“See! He’s not so tough! He’s nothing but a piece of nigger trash that you brought into MY home!”
“Mr. Cole, we’re all adults here. Your wife is afraid. Everybody just needs to calm the hell down.”
Danielle took another step back as her husband turned back to face Atlin with hands that were once again clenched tightly into fists.
“Nigger!”
Danielle’s husband began swinging again and this time Atlin’s boxing instincts took over. He easily ducked the first two swings and then delivered a single, powerful right hand blow to the left side of Steven Cole’s jaw, sending the smaller man crashing to the floor where his head struck the corner of the granite stone steps that comprised the foyer entrance. There was a sickening, wet thud and then Steven Cole remained on his side unmoving.
“Oh my god!”
Danielle’s scream were even louder than the earlier, enraged shouts of her husband.
“You killed him!”
Atlin leaned down and carefully turned Steven Cole’s body over and saw a large, deep purple lump forming over his right temple.
“Danielle, call 911.”
Danielle’s eyes filled with tears as she made the call. Ten minutes later and the Cole home filled with emergency response staff and law enforcement. After briefly interviewing Danielle Cole, Atlin was cuffed and placed into the backseat of a police cruiser.
The trial took place a month later. It was Danielle’s testimony that was most damaging. She indicated under oath that Atlin showed up at her home demanding to see her after she had called to tell him it was over. She described Atlin as being “out of control” and “intimidating” to both her and her husband, and when Steven Cole attempted to protect her, Atlin attacked and killed him.
Atlin Blackstone was sentenced to fourteen years for murder while Danielle Cole was granted a 1.4 million dollar life insurance policy and remarried to another wealthy bank executive two years later.
Over the course of the next seven years inside the walls of Attwood, Atlin Blackstone became the man everyone knew as Preacher. God was clearly testing him, and Preacher was determined to pass.
“I don’t see much good comes from talking about it.”
Warden Wydell grunted to himself as his eyes suddenly welled with tears.
“Yeah, I suppose not. Do you know you were due for early release next year, Mr. Blackstone?”
Preacher nodded.
“Yes sir.”
The warden took another drink.
“I had every intention of recommending that release. You have been nothing short of a remarkable citizen. I know for a fact your little sermons have helped a great many who took the time to listen.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The warden wiped a tear away with a trembling hand.
American Survivalist: RACE WARS OMNIBUS: Seasons 1-5 Of An American Survivalist Series... Page 3
