The Witness

By Will Decker

Book One in the George 'Mac' McClain series. Ex-Special Forces, Ex-Homicide Detective. Mac is broad of shoulder and narrow of hip. He is ruggedly handsome, a trait that naturally attracts women to him. In this first tale of his adventurous life, Mac comes to the rescue of a young woman that inadvertantly witnessed a Federal Judge in the act of committing cold blooded murder. But it's not enough that Mac simply protect her from the Judge and his hired guns, he must draw out the Judge in an effort to get enough evidence if he is to prove that what his witness saw was real. It's not enough to rely on her word against that of a Federal Judge if they go to the police with no other evidence.
Unfortunately, Mac sorely under estimates the Judge's resources, and the trap that he so carefully laid might just catch him instead.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Will Decker
• Release date: Feb 25, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458156563

Will Decker

Hello,There have been some dramatic changes going on in my life and because of them I am finding that I now have more available time. Yeah, that's a laugh. Now it seems like my days are even more hectic than they were before. Hence, I have decided instead of using the narrow sighted approach to marketing my books, I am going to use a much simpler approach. No longer will my books be available through Amazon markets, but instead, my plan is to make them all available through the Smashwords site as well as their affiliated markets for FREE. However, this will take time so if you have read any of my books and are looking to read more of them, bear with me, I promise you they are coming. I hope this works for my dedicated (few) readers. On a different topic, as you can see, most of my writing efforts have been serials.With that said, you will never find a Cliff Hanger amongst my works. All of the stories have beginnings and endings and can stand on their own. Their common thread might be the characters and in some cases, the planet, but all are Stand-Alone novels! I really despise Cliff Hangers with a passion. Can you tell?Thanks for taking the time to get to know me a little better, WillHope you have a great day.Sincerely, Will Decker

Book preview

THE WITNESS

Book 1 in the George ‘Mac’ McClain Series

Will Decker

Copyright 2007 by WILL DECKER

Smashwords Edition

WILL DECKER has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased, or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

THE WITNESS is a work of fiction. The resemblance of any characters to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Names, characters, places, brands, media, situations, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

This eBook may not be re-sold or given away except with written permission from the author or as otherwise permitted through special promotions.

A special thank you to everyone that has made this story possible. My beta reader, my proof reader, and to you the greatest readers ever. I sincerely hope you enjoy this work of fiction.

Will

More Exciting Stories by Will Decker:

DRIVEN

UNREQUITED LOVE

FIRE BABY

HYBRID KILLERS

The ‘HEÄLF’ Collection:

MORTALITY REVISITED

CLONE WARS

DAY OF NIGHT

REGENERATIONS

HORSPAW

The ‘Mac" Collection:

THE WITNESS

TOXIC RAIN

BETRAYAL

RECORD KEEPER

DEATH IN THE DUNES

WIT-SEC FAIL

SIMPLY PERFECT BINDING 2ND Ed.

Every book is a standalone story-NO Cliffhangers!

If you enjoyed this book, please take a moment to leave a review. Authors starve or eat based on reviews. Thanking you from the bottom of my stomach, WILL

Table of Contents:

And so the Story Begins

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Discover More Exciting Stories by Will Decker

And so the Story Begins

What was once a grand and secluded hunting lodge in the western fringes of the southern Oregon Cascade mountain range that catered to high powered politicians and wealthy industrialists, had over time metamorphosed into a dilapidated, rundown bar with low cost rooms for rent by the hour, day or month. And no longer was it private and secluded, now it just existed on the fringe of society. Everything changed with the advance of civilization and the new college campus just a short distance up the road. But as rundown and lowly a place as it had become, it was still home to a few regulars such as myself and my good friend Larry.

Larry, loyal to a fault and always up for a challenge, knew instinctively when I came around so did trouble, and this time was going to prove to be no exception.

Tethered to a small trailer out behind the main building is his personal little two-seater helicopter. It was grounded after discovering a minute amount of oil seepage past the main seals on the turbine housing. In the meantime, because he can’t stand being grounded for more than a week, two at the most, he has borrowed mine. They are identical little birds with only the slightest of individual quirks giving them each their own unique personality. But their similarities outweigh their differences, and while his is down waiting on repairs, mine suits him just fine.

The old lodge is the only watering hole within many miles and except for the Friday night crowd of drunk college kids, usually a quiet spot far from the hubbub of civilization that generally sports little more than the sound of night birds and during mating season, frogs.

But tonight things are different. A large group of motorcycle banditos-Hell’s Angels wannabes near as I can tell-found the place the day before and are creating quite a ruckus. Although a devout fan of the two-wheeled crotch-rocket and a bit of a biker myself, I have no idea what’s drawn them here. Nor do I get the impression that all of them really wanted to be here.

My own ride, a stretched out ’58 Beazer Road Rocket from the UK is parked in its usual place under the overhang of an old and neglected woodshed next to an equally weathered and decrepit line of rotting fence that separates the shed from an overgrown and long disused pasture. During the light of day, the fence appears as if being swallowed up by the lush green growth. Inside the shed there is still a small amount of pucky firewood making it impossible for me to fit my ride within its moldy confines. But that is just as well, since the roof doesn’t hold back much of anything anymore anyway.

In a leather shoulder holster worn smooth from use and tucked neatly beneath my left arm, I carry a piece for personal protection, of which I’ve had use of on more than one occasion. A tool of my trade and nothing more. However, for safety’s sake, the ammunition is buried beneath a change of clothes and a bottle of fine West Indies rum deep in the bottom of the black leather saddlebags strapped to my bike. Because I’m prone to a short temper, I keep the ammo separated from my piece for the simple reason that in the time it takes to retrieve the ammo, I will generally calm down. At least, for the sake of the person triggering my ire, I better calm down.

Tonight, however, I’m not in the least bit angry. Having just finished a favor for a friend, I have some jingle in my pocket, a dusty trip in the rearview mirror and a date with an old friend; I’m in a fairly good mood.

Still, I am a tad concerned regarding the gang of bikers, since there doesn’t really appear to be any apparent reason for their being here in this out of the way place unless they’re running from something or hiding from the law. It also means that I’ll have to venture through the throng of drunk and possibly antisocial malevolents without any means of defending myself, short of my own two hands, which generally causes me no qualms. Yet, tonight I feel like a stranger in this place that I usually refer to as home.

Walking slowly and casually down the dirt path leading to the old wood shed and my bike, I am less than fifty feet from it when I hear the familiar whoop-whoop-whoop of a heli-copter coming in low over the trees and realize immediately that my good friend is returning with my own small bird. Though I don’t begrudge him the use of it, I feel relief at hearing its approach.

The little two-man chopper will never be as close a friend to me as my Beazer, but it is still a friend that brings me another means of escape, something I’ve been perfecting my entire life. Houdini doesn’t hold a candle to me when it comes to escaping the strangle hold of women, work, and life’s responsibilities as a whole.

The sound of the low-flying chopper draws all eyes skyward, toward the encroaching blackness hovering threateningly above our heads with the coming of night. It is the distraction I need, and I hurriedly move forward across the open terrain, taking full advantage of reaching my ride before their attention turns toward me. Whenever a stranger moves among a close-knit group, he stands out and draws attention to himself, no matter how inconspicuous he behaves.

Upon reaching my bike, I quickly drop to one knee and reach within the nearest satchel. My groping fingers close on the comforting feel of the rum first, the curves of the bottle almost sensual, before closing around the square-edged corners of the box of .357 Magnum ammunition. As I pull the ammo out from under the change of clothing, a seductive looking young woman with full breasts and a nice curvaceous ass wrapped snuggly in denim grabs my upper arm with a surprisingly firm grip. Spinning to face her, I am immediately taken aback by her eyes; they are of the deepest midnight and frightened beyond measure.

Help me, please, she whispers in a tense voice, her lovely features twisted with anxiety and fear. You have to get me out of here. Please, you cannot leave me here.

Her plea only emphasizes my earlier premonition regarding the fact that not all of the bikers desire to be here. Yet, her plea rings much more desperate than simply a need for a change of scenery and I immediately wonder if she hasn’t hooked up with the wrong dude, someone that can’t appreciate the finer gifts of a beautiful woman.

Slipping the box of ammo into my inside vest pocket so that no one, including the girl can see what it is, I casually close the flap on the saddlebag and while still holding the bottle of rum in my right hand, use my left to gently ease her clenched fingers from my upper arm. To my surprise, her nails have broken the skin, leaving four little dimples of blood in a line on my bicep.

Miss, I say in a slow drawl, my eyes taking her all in while remaining determined to make a clean getaway without injuring her pride too deeply. You made your choice when you joined up with this sorry bunch, now you have to live with it. I’m sorry, but you’re asking the wrong man. I’m not in the hero business of rescuing good looking women that make bad choices.

But I didn’t! she quickly stammers, her eyes darting about nervously as she reaches for me and grabs my arm again before I can pull it away. This was never my choice. They caught me trying to get away from some bad people almost two weeks ago. It isn’t my fault that I’m here. You have to get me out of here before they take me back to them. She openly sobs for a moment, catching her breath in a gasp before falling against me. Please, you have to take me home. I don’t know how much longer I can stand this.

Her voice is rising with hysterics and I know in that defining moment that I believe her. My opinion of this bunch of ruffian lowlifes also dropped a few more notches from low to lower.

Unfortunately, though genuinely distressed by her situation, her hysterics are going to draw unwanted attention toward us, something we don’t need. I need to calm her down and quickly. Using the only resource at my disposal, I put a steadying hand on her shoulder while pushing my prized bottle of rum at her. Here, take a swig, it’ll do you good.

Her hysterics come to an abrupt halt, only to be replaced with immediate hostility as she angrily hisses, I don’t need booze! I need you to help me get away from here! And then, in a calmer, resigned voice, she adds, I think they’re going to kill me.

Since she wasn’t interested in the rum, I decided it was prudent of me not to waste any on her. Instead, though I sensed immediately that I was going to regret it, I say, No one is going to kill you. Trust me. I continue studying her and liking everything I see. You are much more valuable to them alive then you will ever be dead. Come with me.

Rising, the bottle of rum now held securely in my left hand, I keep a grip on her with my right hand firmly clamped to her upper left arm. If this is some sort of trick or ruse to catch me off guard, she was going to be close at hand.

Moving stiffly, yet willingly, as if suffering from severe soreness in her joints, she keeps pace with me. Sensing that we are being watched, she instinctively throws an arm around my waist, and falls into step, making it easier to move quickly among the drunken and disorderly crowd of bikers. Glancing at her from the corner of my eye, I am again taken aback by her strained yet lovely features. In that defining moment, I become her unwitting slave from then forward. If I have a weakness for West Indies rum, I have an even greater weakness for damsels in distress, especially beautiful damsels in distress.

My hand relaxes its grip on her upper arm and slides casually down around her waist, noting the smooth firmness of the flesh beneath the thinly worn fabric of her blouse. Her hair, a rich darkness hinting at Native American or maybe even Latino, is braided loosely, the braids hanging almost to her waist. Her face, although naturally olive-complected is further enhanced with a deep tan, and not just from recent exposure to the sun and wind. Her breasts ride firm and high, the nipples pressing hard for escape against the thin material of her blouse, while her stomach lies hard and flat. And, as if that isn’t enough for one woman to possess, she has the fullest, most inviting pair of lips that I can ever remember. Even dirty and disheveled as she is, she sets my heart to racing.

As I continue studying her surreptitiously from the corner of my eye, I feel a growing desire within my loins. If we don’t reach the darkness beyond the sodium yard lights soon, others will see my desire also. But then, it’s possible that we aren’t being questioned or challenged simply because it is assumed that I am a paying customer of hers. After all, it seems the logical conclusion that if they had indeed kidnapped her, it was to sell her into slavery or prostitution, both of which means that someone is watching us and will be waiting to be paid either before we consummate our deal or soon there afterwards. Someone is going to be sorely disappointed, and it isn’t going to be me.

That is the only explanation that makes sense of her previously frantic words. Moreover, not knowing what drugs they may have forced her to take to keep her compliant, there is no telling how much of what she said is simply drug-induced fabricating. Once I get her alone and someplace where we can talk without drawing attention, I can question her in more detail. Maybe then, I’ll get the real story.

Although I expect the challenge at any moment, I don’t give up hope that it is coming later rather than sooner, because our deal, if there was one, isn’t about to be consummated anywhere within the vicinity of this crowd.

As we move beyond the limited reach of the parking lot’s sodium bulbs, we advance into the softer glow of light emanating from the wall mounted sconces and a neon sign lining the whitewashed exterior wall of the lodge just as the chopper dips into view over the asphalt strip. It is the only place within miles that is open enough to safely set down a small helicopter, and my friend and I use it regularly, often storing our birds in the small backyard behind the main structure.

Under normal circumstances, Larry would have settled the bird down on the asphalt and met me at the bar within minutes. But tonight isn’t normal, and when he sees the bikes and bikers strewn all over our miniature helipad, he quickly pulls up and disappears back into the darkness beyond the reach of the parking lot lights.

Someone, clearly not using all of his mental resources, fires a shot into the air. This sets off a chorus of hooting and yelling. To my relief, the small bird doesn’t waver, the shot having gone wide and afar.

Hurry, I say under my breath, gripping her arm once more and guiding her swiftly along the length of whitewashed wall before pushing her through the only opening on this side of the building.

The tableau before us catches me completely off guard. The place is a mess. Tables and chairs lay strewn and busted about the floor. Broken glass intermixed with booze, blood, beer, and what is unmistakably vomit.

Meanwhile, Jake, the proprietor of the place, is nowhere to be seen, probably having taken shelter in the basement beneath the heavy wooden trapdoor located in the floor behind the bar. He will be safe down there until the party leaves or the law officers from up north finally find him. We are regular business partners, Jake and I, but we aren’t really friends, and I don’t worry about him as such; he can take care of himself, as I’m certain he has enough weapons and ammo in the cellar to hold off the US Army. At the moment, it is the girl that has me more concerned, not to mention my own safety.

The sound of the chopper suddenly grows louder, and I realize that Larry must have seen me duck into the side door with the girl. From his vantage point in the sky, the parking lot and the surrounding grounds would have appeared well lit and visible. From the sound, the chopper is now directly overhead the tavern when I hear the sound of splintering wood, and I realize that he is attempting to set the little bird down on the roof. But if he is thinking of rescuing me, he had to have seen me with the girl and realize that all three of us aren’t going to fit in my little bird. Unless he is only creating a distraction so I can improvise a means of getting out of here with the girl.

No sooner does the engine start winding down, then a chorus of gunfire erupts from the parking lot and the patrons in the bar start whooping and hollering in response, pulling their own weapons and shooting into the ceiling. To my immediate relief, the turbine winds back up to speed and the little bird lifts off, making haste once again into the inky blackness above.

From the sound of the engine, I know he hasn’t been hit, thanks in great part to the inebriation of the bikers.

Come, I instruct the girl, having drawn the conclusion that there isn’t any refuge to be found in or on the tavern.

Wait! she suddenly cries out, her body going stiff and unwilling to move while her eyes lock on the naked body of a young woman stretched out on one of the last standing pool tables.

There is a puddle of blood soaking into the felt material of the table and slowly dripping onto the floor. The woman has apparently been raped and badly beaten. Whether she is dead or simply unconscious, I am unable to tell from this distance. Though it pains me to no end, I realize in that split second that there is nothing I can do for her if I intend on helping the one in my grasp. Turning away in search of an avenue of escape, I realize also that our entrance is beginning to draw unwanted attention. The men in the bar, having figured out that the little bird is no longer on the roof, are looking for something else to focus on and my unfamiliar face means only one thing to them; I’m open game and I could very well be their next target.

Sensing our imminent danger, I order her for a second time to stick close to me and, dodging the rubble strewn across the floor, I hurriedly guide her down a narrow hallway that leads to the rear exit. Because the trash dumpsters are in the front parking lot for ease of access and all the deliveries are made through the front door, this exit is rarely used, even by Jake. It was probably installed simply as a fire escape to satisfy building codes when the place was remodeled several years prior, and that is exactly what it is being used for now.

Reaching the door, I put my shoulder against it and heave. It flies open with a rusty squeal of hinges and we swiftly push our way through. Turning back, I slam it shut and search about quickly in the semi-darkness for something to jam against it. To our good fortune, my eyes come across an old garden rake. Keeping my back pressed against the door, as I am sure more than one noticed us scurrying out the back, I hurriedly instruct her to fetch it. With understanding comes action and she lunges forward, retrieving the rake and turning back just as the first of the men inside the lodge crash solidly against the other side of the door. Jamming the broken handle under the latch, she quickly jumps down on the tines, driving them deeply into the soft, moist earth.

That should keep the bastards in there, she says with conviction before turning to face me, a wild look flaring in her eyes as she adds, We should set the place on fire and burn them all to Hell.

Though I may share her sentiment, I could never perform such a heinous act. Instead, I shake off the thought and turn toward the darker area beyond the reach of the small sconce lights. There is a path along the far side of the building leading back to the parking lot. It’s well worn and trampled down from use and I hope they don’t find it too quickly in the dark.

This way, I say, taking her by the hand and pulling her toward the small helicopter strapped on a two-wheeled trailer. It’s Larry’s crippled bird and though it shouldn’t be flown for both safety concerns and to prevent causing more damage to it that will add to the cost of repairs down the road, desperate times call for desperate measures, and I’m sure my friend will understand. Moreover, as he is flying mine, I don’t really have a lot of other options open to me if I’m going to get out of here in one piece with a beautiful girl in tow.

Climbing up on the trailer, I unlatch the passenger’s door and reach down for her hand, first pulling her up onto the trailer and then pushing her into the seat before passing her the bottle of rum. Not mincing my words, I hastily instruct her to fasten the seat harness before re-latching the door.

On the ground again, I scramble around the trailer, quickly undoing all the tie downs. It takes less than a minute, though it seems like hours. Out of habit, I instinctively check the rotor, and then stop to catch my breath. Larry must have been watching from the darkness above, because he suddenly swoops in low over the parking lot, drawing their attention back to the sky and buying me time. Hopefully enough to get the little bird airborne.

Not understanding my own actions, I pull out the box of ammo and draw the stainless steel weapon from the shoulder holster. Wasting precious seconds, I carefully insert a round into each chamber, and then return the weapon to its holster and the remaining ammo, less the box, to the inside pocket of my vest while letting the empty box fall to the damp grass below the trailer.

The little bird is now unfettered and waiting to be fired up so that it can shed its heavy burden and take flight. With the ease of repetition, I enter the cockpit and strap myself in. With practiced precision, I flick off the safety covers and toggle the switches in their proper order. Our birds are kept in tip-top condition, they are always in a state of readiness, and except for the minor oil leak, now is no exception.

Slowly, too slowly, the rotors start to rotate, the whine of the turbine growing steadily louder. I suddenly worry that the bikers are hearing the noise and realizing that another bird is getting ready to take flight. If they find us before we reach the apparent safety afforded by the darkness above us, we’ll have no chance of escape, like a sitting duck. All it will take is one man hanging on a skid to keep the fragile little bird grounded. Moreover, these little helicopters were not intended for combat service and thus, they offer no protection from gunfire, to either the engine and controls, or its occupants!

The whine of the engine has grown extremely loud to my ears, though I know it’s not above normal, when I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. Without thinking, I throw off the harness and swing out of the cockpit, drawing the gun at the same time.

I am both relieved and alarmed by the fact that there is a law enforcement officer standing at the back door, his weapon also drawn. He glances back at me, but I don’t recognize him. Although I am familiar with almost all of the law enforcement officers that work this area, his face draws a complete blank. Fortunately, he is more preoccupied at the moment with his radio, and the conversation that he’s having over it, then he is with me.

Suddenly, his attention turns to the rear door that we just exited, and even above the growing whine of the engine, I can hear angry voices and banging coming from the other side.

In one fluid movement, I am back in the cockpit, my weapon returned to its holster and my hands on the controls, no time to refasten the harness or to wait for proper temperatures and pressures; there may not be time to lift off.

To a staccato of gunfire, I push the throttles to their furthest setting and glance skyward, toward our expected destination. To my dismay, I see the barrel of a rifle protruding unsteadily over the ridgeline of the roof. It is suddenly very apparent to me that someone has no intentions of letting this bird escape.

Glancing over at my passenger, I am struck by the chalky grey hue of her face in the green glow of the instrument panel. It suddenly dawns on me that this has to be much bigger than just a biker gang pimping runaway girls and street urchins. For some reason, they feel they can’t afford for her to escape, and they’re willing to blatantly usurp the law and kill innocent bystanders in order to prevent it from happening.

The little bird is rising slowly, much too slowly for my liking.

Open your door! I yell at her over the whining roar of the turbine.

She looks at me questioningly, almost as if expecting me to throw her out if she does as I ask.

But then, hugging the bottle of rum to her chest with her left hand, she opens the door with her right, pushing it all the way ajar. The cool night wind rushes in from the downdraft of the rotor, carrying with it the sounds of the engine and increasing the noise level within the cockpit tremendously.

Seeing me draw my weapon, she suddenly flinches, certain that I intend now on shooting her if she doesn’t jump. Seeing the look of hurt, disappointment, and fear on her face, I draw little pleasure from it. Yet, it makes me glad inside that she feels something toward me, even if it is only disappointment.

Lean back! I shout at her over the rushing roar of wind.

She has no sooner pressed herself into the back of the seat, then I take aim at the tavern roof and let loose five quick shots, spacing them each less than a foot below the ridgeline and in the vicinity of the wobbly rifle barrel. Instead of being jerked back, the barrel slowly slides down and out of site, confirming that at least one of my bullets found its mark.

My spirit slips downward in relation to the rifle; it goes against the grain to shoot someone without looking them in the eye. For the briefest of moments, I feel that I am no better than the bushwhacker I just shot.

Slipping the weapon back into its holster, I shake off the feeling of regret and grab the controls with both hands while stepping hard on the left rudder, dipping the bird away from the tavern. As if on a slide, she slips down and to the side, quickly approaching the stand of trees surrounding the small back yard while rapidly gaining in airspeed.

Using the momentum of the downward slide, I pull up on the controls and step down on the right rudder, instantly reversing my momentum. As if on a long chain connected to space, the small bird reaches the top of the pendulum, and hovers for a moment before sliding back down, its speed increasing even faster as we fly back toward the rear of the tavern. When I am barely halfway across the small yard, I jam my right foot down on the rudder control and swing the tail section into alignment behind me, moving nose-first toward the looming backside of the tavern. It appears that I intend on crashing head-on into the rear wall of the tavern, and I almost laugh as the officer and several others run for cover. But my speed is good, and she lifts easily, despite the combined weight of two passengers. With ease, she carries us lightly over the rooftop.

The parking lot appears