Deep Black Elements

By Jesse Walker

Max Strong, a former special forces operator, is a man torn apart by the murder of his wife, a former federal prosecutor, and the framing for the crime that landed him in prison.
After newly discovered evidence, and the Pro Bono work of a powerful attorney, leads to his convictions being overturned and his release, his mind is set on seeking justice for his slain wife and getting answers along the way.

Taking on a new career as a contractor for Defense Corporation, a provider of private military and intelligence services for the US government, he uses his position within the powerful company to uncover the facts and find the trails that lead to the people responsible for his wife's death and his false imprisonment for the crime.
His first assignment with the defense contractor is to take on the role of a hired professional gun for transnational organized crime groups, providing his connections, skills and trade secrets to various outfits, including a Colombian cartel with operations throughout the U.S.

He's not breaking the law though, as ironic as he views the work, it is sanctioned and coordinated by the government through Defense Corporation, a multibillion-dollar enterprise that does the deeds deemed too dirty or politically sensitive for the military or CIA to handle directly.
The funding for the actions comes from the secret coffers of the federal government, the so-called "Special Access Programs" or "Deep Black" programs of Uncle Sam.

Finding love, and lust during the course of his endeavors for vengeance, Max goes from Washington D.C. to New Orleans, to Miami, New York City and Colombia, traveling the lands and working with some of the most sophisticated and dangerous bad guys in the business.
As his new career and the hunt for justice begins materializing, Max embraces the concept that sometimes you have to do some bad to achieve a greater good, and that justice comes at a high cost.

This is a story of Power, Love, Hate, and the distance a man holding onto his core principles and pride is willing to go to fulfil a vow of justice to a loved one whose life was taken as a means of covering up the dark truths of corporate greed, corruption, and the politics as usual mentality of the elite who control the optics of the nation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667881362

Jesse Walker

Jesse Walker is the books editor of Reason magazine and the author of Rebels on the Air: An Alternative History of Radio in America. He lives in Baltimore with his wife and their two daughters.

Book preview

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Copyright 2022

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN: 978-1-66788-135-5 (print)

ISBN: 978-1-66788-136-2 (eBook)

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 1

The moon was blood red in the cloudless black sky.

Waves crashed ashore.

I love you Angel, Max told his wife, passionately kissing her soft neck while caressing her bare body, fingertips moving down the magnificent curves of her thighs.

She peered into his eyes, moaning softly.

Her bright hazel eyes were hypnotizing.

He was atop her, deeply sunken into the sultriness between her long legs.

Her shoulder length auburn hair smelled like fresh honey.

The beach shore was deserted, not a soul astir but the two of them.

A warm gust came off the ocean, rustling the palm trees in the sand dunes.

A lone mansion on the beachfront suddenly went ablaze.

Flames crackled and howled like wild dogs as the wind whipped the fire, fueling the blaze which rapidly engulfed the mansion.

Angel, Max whispered into his wife’s ear, slowing the rhythm of his strokes. something’s wrong.

Her pleasurable moaning stopped.

The wonderful warmth of her love had become cold.

She didn’t say anything.

Angel, he said louder, rising from her flesh, looking down into her lifeless eyes.

Karina, he called her name, staring into the emptiness of her eyes. Karina, baby, get up, please. Get up baby.

Then came loud banging on the steel door of a small, brightly lighted prison cell.

Strong, wake up, shouted a burly gray-haired guard in his forties. Attorney visit.

Max Strong awakened in a frigid sweat, images from his recurring nightmare flashing through his mind.

I’m getting ready, he told the guard who grunted in response.

Hurry up, Strong.

Max rose from the mat, hurriedly fixing himself, straightening the khaki uniform pants and short sleeve shirt which he’d slept in.

Two minutes, he said, putting on his white tennis shoes while glancing at the guard who waited outside the secured cell door. I need to brush my teeth.

You’ve got thirty seconds, uttered the guard, indifferently glaring at the inmate who was presently residing in a secured housing unit within the United States Penitentiary Terre Haute, a maximum-security facility in rural Indiana.

Max quickly brushed his teeth, spitting in the tiny metal sink and then washing his hands, splashing cold water in his face, wiping the sleep out his eyes.

A moment later he was being handcuffed through a small waist-level portal in the cell door.

When the door opened, the guard placed him in waist chains, securing the iron chords by slipping them around the handcuff casing and keeping them in place with a padlock.

Then came the leg restraints.

Steel shackles clamped onto his ankles.

Let’s go Strong, ordered the guard. I’ve got crap to do.

Max silently nodded his head, shuffling along in the restraints.

Chains and shackles clanged and jangled, creating a gloomy melody with each step he took.

Electronically controlled doors and gates noisily opened and closed as guard and prisoner proceeded to the designated area which was reserved for legal visits.

The guard used a key to open the door of the inadequately spacious room.

If he needs to sign anything, let me know now and I’ll take the cuffs off’, said the guard whose eyes focused on the middle-aged brunette seated at the laminated wood table.

Yes, remove the handcuffs and chains, she said, cutting her eyes from the guard to her client. I have quite a few documents which require his signature.

Ma’am, policy states I must be present at any time the prisoner is unrestrained due to his status, advised the guard, eyeballing the high-profile defense attorney whose navy-blue Chanel pantsuit and golden Rolex surely cost more than his pickup truck and mobile home combined. Get your paperwork ready for him before I leave you two in here, to talk in private.

I’m well aware of B.O.P policies, she brusquely stated, trying her best not to sound overly arrogant. I was a Justice Department special prosecutor for a decade before going into private practice. Due to the nature of this visit, officer, the confidentiality of the documents, and of course, my client’s safety, you cannot be present during the signing of the documents, or at any other time during this visit, and sure as hell hope that security camera is turned off, as well as the audio.

She paused, pointing her left index finger at a camera mounted to the ceiling in the far corner of the room.

If I discover this visit is monitored or recorded, you’re going to have the DOJ pissing on your resignation papers.

She paused again, now smiling ruby red Chanel lipstick at the seemingly disquieted guard

She softened her tone a bit: Officer, I assure you Mr. Strong poses no threat to me, you, or anyone else in this facility. He’s a few days away from freedom.

The guard nodded his head and said, Yes Ma’am, I’ll be right outside the door, and I’ll radio the control room and make sure that camera is off.

Thank you very much Officer, She said as the guard removed the handcuff and waist chains from Max, who, once unrestrained, stepped inside the room and took a seat across from his attorney.

The guard closed the door.

I’m not going to miss any of this, said Max, looking beneath the table at his ankles which remained shackled, then shifting his piercing blue gaze to the emerald eyes of his attorney. Mainly the restraints, something about handcuffs and shackles has begun making me feel like a real bad guy, not to mention the food is terrible ; the military fed us much better, even while deployed overseas during combat tours.

The attorney smiled, then confidently said, Mr. Strong, I certainly don’t want you to start feeling like a bad guy. You’re an American hero, decorated combat veteran of the war against terror, and, unfortunately, a statistic of those who became wrongfully convicted of crimes because of overzealous prosecutors, politics, and other circumstances beyond your control.

Right, said Max in a sarcastic, slightly bitter tone. ‘But justice’s beautiful face prevailed and now I’m on my way home."

A perfect way of putting it, said the attorney, opening her black leather briefcase which lay on the tabletop, removing a manila folder containing documents. Justice’s beauty has shown upon you, and soon you will once again be invaluably serving our great nation.

CHAPTER 2

Three days later.

Thursday, June 11.

9:35 a.m.

An order from the US Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia, was faxed to the US Bureau of Prisons headquarters in DC, then forwarded to USP Terre Haute.

The first-degree murder conviction of Maxwell Strong had been overturned based on newly discovered evidence which amounted to proof of innocence.

Within an hour of receiving and verifying the court order, Max was stepping out the front entrance of the penitentiary.

His attorney was waiting outside for him.

Congratulations Mr. Strong, she said, extending her hand to him. you’re a free man.

Thanks, he said, shaking the attractive woman’s hand, not halting a moment, continuing to step away from the USP’s secured perimeter walls, fences, and concertina wire, distancing himself from the gates and gun towers and everything else he had grown to loathe. where’s your vehicle?

Black Suburban, said the attorney, pointing at the SUV in the nearby parking area while heading toward it. You take the front seat; the driver’s name is John, and he’s taking us directly to Indianapolis International. About an hour drive. We have two first-class tickets to DC.

Sounds like a plan Ms. Rosenberg, he said, adjusting the black blazer which had been provided along with other clothing and shoes prior to leaving the facility. I appreciate the threads, by the way.

You’re very welcome, Maxwell, she said, placing a hand on his shoulder, gently squeezing. Please call me Melissa from here forward.

Okay Melissa, he said, nearing the Suburban which idled in the parking space.

They got in the SUV.

During the flight, Max and Melissa occasionally made small talk, but mainly remained quiet.

She had the aisle seat and got caught up on some case work.

He distantly stared out the window, taking in the aerial view of the Nation’s capital as the airliner made its final approach to Washington Dulles International airport.

It was shortly before eight in the evening when Max and Melissa walked out of the airport’s main entrance.

A black Lincoln Navigator awaited at the curb for them.

I’m Doug, said the driver, a tall, slim fellow in his thirties with a military buzz cut. No luggage?

Max didn’t answer the guy in the black suit who had former special forces written all over his expressionless face.

No baggage, Doug, said Melissa, holding up her briefcase. Only this and us.

The driver opened the rear passenger door, gesturing for the attorney and her recently freed client to get inside the luxurious SUV.

The windows were darkly tinted, and Max had been unable to see the well-dressed man in the front passenger seat until then.

Melissa, glad you and Mr. Strong made it here safely, said the man.

We’re glad too, Glenn, said the attorney while sliding her bottom across the backseat, placing her briefcase on the seat between herself and Max, who was seated behind the front passenger. it’s been a long day for Mr. Strong, so please excuse his silence.

She paused as the driver shut the rear passenger door.

Max, allow me to introduce you to Glenn Oswald, she went on. Mr. Oswald is an associate of mine who holds an executive position with Defense Corporation of America.

A pleasure finally making your acquaintance Max, said Glenn, turning in his seat and extending his right hand as the driver got behind the wheel. I’ve followed your case very closely over the years. I’m glad everything got straightened out.

Max shook the exec’s hand, staring at him while saying: Straightened out doesn’t seem like the appropriate terminology for my case, and I’m inclined to ask why you followed my case over the years?

I’ve been a Washington Post reader for decades; your case was highly publicized as I’m sure you’re aware. And your background with the military as well as your work with Globe-Op, made me extremely interested in your situation, considering my own military background and current line of work.

Globe Operational was Max’s former employer, a security services company which had contracts with the Department of Defense.

And your current line of work, Defense Corporation of America, said Max, looking out the rear passenger window at the scenery as the navigator headed toward metro DC. DOD contracts for security services?

Absolutely, and much more,