Masters of Mayhem

by Franklin Horton

  “Have you checked for people inside the vehicles?” Barb said. “That red van and the one that looks like a paramedic truck?”

  Conor adjusted his view. “Good call, girlie. There’s a man planted in the front seat of that van.”

  “Window up?”

  “Yes,” Conor said. “I can see the reflection of the fire off the window.”

  “Shit. That makes things harder.”

  “No kidding. Now I’ve got to yank open a door and hope it’s not locked.”

  “I’m not comfortable with that plan,” Barb said.

  “You got a better idea?”

  “Yeah, lure him out into the open.”

  “What’s your plan?” Conor asked.

  “I lose the tactical gear and stagger out of the darkness like I’m drunk. I don’t have a coat on and I’m trying to get home. I see the barrel and stop to warm up by the fire for a second.”

  Conor was contorting his mouth, wrestling the idea around in his head. “I’m none too happy with your plan. It’s risky.”

  “It will work though, won’t it?”

  “Probably.”

  “Once he comes out and starts talking to me I’ll act like I’m nervous. I’ll walk off into the darkness. Maybe trip and fall. He’ll probably come help me up. Then I wrap him up like a fucking pretzel until he submits.”

  “Do you even need me here or should I just pack my shit and go home?”

  “Before I choke him out, you step out of the darkness and put a gun to his head. Then we walk him to a more secluded location and you can do your interrogation while I gear back up.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  Barb was already stripping off her gear. She shed the helmet, the plate carrier, and the rifle dangling from the sling. She unfastened her battle belt and lay it across the rest of the pile. She shoved her pistol into her waistband and covered it with an untucked shirt. She lost her gloves and anything else that might throw up a red flag. “How do I look?”

  “Like a lost kid.”

  Barb smiled. “Perfect.”

  Then she was off, heading like a moth toward the flame before Conor could remind her to be careful or issue any more instructions, although that did nothing to stop him from repeating those warnings to himself. He settled into a comfortable shooting position where he had an unobstructed view of the front of the building. The Eotech optic on his .300 had a night vision setting that allowed him to view a targeting dot that would not interfere with his NVD.

  He could barely breathe as he watched his precious daughter walk into harm’s way. He kicked himself for not having talked her out of it. He should have put himself out there. He’d had luck before adopting the persona of an Irish traveler stranded in the U.S. by the terror attacks. It was too late now. She was out there. The operation was underway. All he could do was try to keep her safe.

  Barb didn’t drink. She’d never been drunk in her life but she’d seen drunks on TV and in the movies. She’d also seen drunks in the streets when she’d visited cities with her father. She had no trouble adopting the staggering gait of a woman drunk or impaired by drugs. She walked out of the night and by the parking lot, hesitating at the sight of the fire in the barrel. She hugged herself as if she were trying to stave off the cold night.

  She ignored the man in the van, acting as if she didn’t see him, but watching from the corner of her eye. She caught him making a few subtle movements. She suspected he was readying a weapon. She went right to the fire, holding her hands over it, moving as close to it as she could, trying to absorb every bit of heat it offered. The night was indeed cold so it required no acting on her part to appreciate the heat offered by the fire.

  There was a metallic click behind her, the door latch on the van opening, and she pretended to be startled by the sound. The man was opening the door slowly, perhaps to avoid making any noise that would wake the folks inside. He had a shotgun pointed at her but his expression was more curious than concerned.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  She focused on slurring, willing her tongue to not cooperate with her attempts to speak. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know I was bothering anybody. I was just so cold.”

  The man looked away from her, out into the night. “Are you by yourself?”

  She nodded, performing the motion in an exaggerated manner, as if it took great concentration. “Yeah. The people I’m staying with pissed me off. We were getting fucked up and things got a little out of hand. I got mad and left. I guess I went too far away and now I’m trying to get home and it’s dark and it’s cold.” When she was done, she gave a big sigh, as if the speech took great effort. Then she forced another shiver and hugged herself.

  “It’s dangerous out there,” the man said. “You shouldn’t be out there wandering around. You pass out and you’ll freeze to death.”

  “Tell me about it,” she said. “Or some wild animal could eat me. That’s why I need to get home.”

  The man was easing the barrel of the gun away from her. He looked more concerned than predatory. She’d been fully prepared for some man ready to take advantage of a drunk girl showing up at his camp in the middle of the night. That wasn’t what she was getting. She’d have to go easy on him when this got physical. She’d have to remind herself not to twist his bloody head off.

  “You need to get out of here,” he said. “I can’t allow you to stay. My instructions are to turn away anyone who approaches our camp.”

  Barb looked at him as if she couldn’t focus. She nodded again, then saluted. “Yes sir. I understand. I have to get home. Thanks for letting me borrow your heat.”

  The man smiled. “No problem. Now get out of here and be careful.”

  She staggered away again with an ungainly stride. She turned to salute him again, then intentionally allowed her feet to tangle, causing her to fall to the ground. As expected, the man rushed to her. She struggled to sit up and he crouched in front of her, setting the shotgun on the ground.

  She smiled at him, then her arms and legs fired out. Before he even knew what was happening, she had him tightly wrapped up in an uma plata, a shoulder lock she’d learned in Brazilian jujitsu. Before he could open his mouth to cry out, she yanked her pistol from her waistband and jammed it against his temple.

  “Not a fucking word,” she hissed.

  The man gritted his teeth against the pain and fear. His face reddened as she threatened to twist his arm out of the socket. Lucky for him, Conor was soon at her side. He stuck the wide suppressor against the back of the man’s head.

  “Easy now, son,” Conor said. “You’re getting to your feet and coming with us. If you cooperate, you won’t be harmed. If you try to raise an alarm, they’ll find your body in the weeds tomorrow. In pieces.”

  The man nodded, wide-eyed, lips curled back.

  “Ease up, Barb,” Conor whispered. “Don’t break him.”

  She did as instructed and they got the man to his feet.

  Barb and Conor walked behind their prisoner, each holding the fabric of his jacket and pressing a weapon against him. With the man unable to see in the darkness, Conor guided him. Hopefully the man understood that his options were limited and didn’t try to make a break for it. Conor wasn't interested in killing him yet.

  With their night vision gear they had an advantage. It would be difficult for the other group to pursue them through the night but that wasn’t how he wanted this to go down. This was about information. It was about finding Jason’s wife.

  Near the spot where their horses were tied, they set the man down in the tall grass. Conor held him at gunpoint while Barb slipped back into her tactical gear. With no visible lights, their prisoner could only make out the faintest outline of his attackers against the night sky.

  On the other hand, Conor could see his prisoner pretty well. He could see the expressions and the range of emotion that played across the man’s face. He could see the fear. The indecision. Conor let him wait in silence for an uncomfortable pe
riod. It would cause his panic to escalate.

  While he waited, Conor prepared for his first question. It would set the tone, giving him insight into the man’s resistance and hostility. It was this first question that would help him figure out if the prisoner was going to die immediately or live a little longer.

  "What your name?" Conor asked.

  “Furillo," the man replied with no hesitation at all.

  That was good, he’d come out right with it. He wasn’t oppositional and he made no threats of retaliation. "What are you doing here, Furillo?"

  "We’re just passing through. We ran out of fuel and had to abandon our vehicles a few miles up the road. We lucked up and traded for some horses so we’re hoping to get back on the road soon. Some of them are trying to decide if it's better to go now or wait until spring."

  The man sounded completely sincere. Everything he said matched up with what Conor had learned from Wayne on the day they traded horses at Johnny Jacks’ house. Of course, it could have all been a well-rehearsed lie. A cover story.

  "Where did you get the horses?" Conor asked.

  "We traded for them. We got them fair and square from some local guy named Johnny. He had more horses than he needed and was glad to get rid of them. He seemed to be happy with the supplies we traded him."

  “Where did those supplies you traded come from originally?” Conor asked.

  The man shrugged. “Some of it was stuff we brought with us. Some of it was stuff we found coming down from Detroit.”

  “Did you steal it?” Conor accused. “Did you rob people?”

  “No sir,” the man replied with an offended tone. “Some of it we found in abandoned vehicles or houses on the way down but we never robbed anyone.”

  Conor stepped closer and put the cold ring of his suppressor against the man's forehead. "You feel that, son?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Do know what it is?”

  “I have a pretty good idea,” the man replied tentatively. “A gun barrel?”

  “That’s right, my boy. It’s there because I want to impress upon you the importance of this next question. There could be life or death consequences to your answer. You understand me?”

  “I do.”

  “Have you been back to Johnny's house since that day you traded for horses? Did you go back there today?"

  "No," Furillo replied. Again, he sounded sincere.

  Men could be good liars, Conor knew. He’d lived under a cover story of one kind or another since he was a kid.

  "Are you certain about that? Maybe you weren't able to get all the horses you wanted? Maybe you decided you’d just go back and steal some more? Maybe your people needed some beef? That what happened?"

  "Hell no!”

  “Keep your fucking voice down,” Conor hissed. “If anyone wakes up you’ll be the first to die but you damn sure won’t be the last.”

  “That's not how we do things, mister. I mean, we’ve all had to do things we weren’t proud of to survive. I bet you have too. But we didn't steal any horses. None of us went back to that house."

  "I hear what you’re saying,” Conor breathed. “Let me take it one step further. This next question is important. It’s really the crux of why I’m here so I want you to think carefully before you answer. That girl of mine, the one who kicked your ass, is good with blades. If we’re not satisfied that you’re telling the truth, you’re going to find out just how dangerous she can be with a piece of sharp steel.”

  Barb drew her knife, the blade hissing as it scraped against leather on its way out of the sheath. She placed it against the man's neck. She felt him flinch.

  "I suggest you don't even cough," she said in a whisper that absolutely terrified the prisoner.

  Conor cleared his throat. "I was at Johnny's house today. Johnny and his son were both shot. His dear wife is dead and his daughter in law is missing. It was a brutal scene and left me a little upset. These were people I liked and that’s a short list. I’m looking for the people who did it. Are your people responsible?"

  Perhaps out of reflex the man attempted to shake his head in denial but the movement caused Barb's knife to poke him in the neck. He flinched again. "No!" the man insisted. "Wayne liked that old man too. He would've never done anything to hurt them."

  "You better not be lying to me, son. Bleeding to death in the weeds on a cold, lonely night is a miserable way to die."

  "I'm not!" The man’s voice quavered with the certainty that his life would soon end.

  Conor got close to the man’s ear and whispered. "If I find out you lied to me, I’m going tie you up and slit your belly. I’ll drag you across the road to the edge of the Dismal River over there. The pickerel, the catfish, and the snapping turtles will feast on your innards while you’re still alive."

  "I'm not lying," the man insisted.

  "Barb, I need to get something from my saddlebags. You have him?"

  Barb let out a low laugh. “Completely.”

  With the aid of his NVD, Conor dug into his saddlebags and came out with a pouch and a hard case. “We’re going back to your camp now.”

  “What are you going to do to us?” Furillo asked.

  “I need to talk to Wayne,” Conor said.

  “He’s going to be pissed about this.”

  “I’m pissed too,” Conor said. “He can fucking get in line.”

  They walked to the fire hall, the only sounds that of the river and of feet scraping on the road. In the parking lot, at the edge of the firelight, Conor halted.

  “Keep him here a second. If he struggles, kill him. If shit gets hairy, kill him.”

  Conor went to a distant vehicle, a Toyota Celica, parked about a hundred feet from the fire hall. He planted a device on the metal body of the car, then flipped a switch. An LED on the small box flashed red four times and then went dark. He worked his way closer to the fire hall, planting another device on the van Furillo had been stationed in, then placing a final one on the rolling steel door of the fire hall. When he was done, he raised his weapon to the ready and backed away from the building, receding into the dark.

  When he reached Barb, he put his gun back on Furillo. “Go inside. Get Wayne. Tell him I need to speak to him. No funny shit.”

  “You’re not going to shoot me if I walk away are you?” Furillo asked.

  “I’m more likely to shoot you if you don’t get moving.”

  Furillo jogged across the parking lot, bending down to pick up the weapon he lost in his scuffle with Barb. He threw a look back over his shoulder, angered again by his recalling of the indignity, then moved forward until he reached the door to the fire hall. He twisted the handle and entered slowly.

  "Barb, you move up into the brush where you have a view of what's going on. I want you up high. If you see anything wonky you let me know. If people come streaming out the back and try to circle us let me know. If they try to rush me, drop some three-round bursts onto the asphalt between me and them. If things go nuts and we get separated, we meet back at the horses. If it’s not safe to wait on me there, fall back to Johnny's house and we’ll rendezvous there."

  "Got it." Barb clambered up the bank to the right and tried to find a vantage point where she could see both the front and back of the fire hall.

  Conor looked for a good position for himself. He noticed that to make more room inside the fire hall, Wayne and his men had rolled one of the pumper trucks from a garage bay. They pushed it well clear of the building. He took a position by the front of it. He would be visible to Wayne when the man came outside but he could take cover behind the massive engine block if things went south.

  It was a few minutes before Wayne appeared. He opened the door cautiously then stepped into the opening. He stared out into the darkness, looking for Conor. The only light was the dwindling flame from the fire barrel and it didn’t travel far.

  Conor stepped clear of the pumper truck and threw up a hand. "Over here!"

  "What the fuck is this all about?" Way
ne demanded.

  “I hope you don’t mind but I had ask your boy there some questions. I need to put the same questions to you before I leave."

  "That's assuming we let you leave. You attacked my guard."

  Conor erupted into a musical laugh the rolled boldly across the parking lot and into the night. "Nobody got hurt. I think he's just a little burned that he got rolled up and disarmed by a girl. He shouldn’t feel bad. I doubt there’s a man in there that could go toe-to-toe with her."

  "We’ll see about that,” Wayne said. “We don’t like being ordered around. We don’t like people showing up in the middle of the night and making demands."

  Conor shook his head. “I hate to do this but let's get it out of the way first so we can quit the shit-talking.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a device, holding it into the air. "I'm not sure you can see this all the way over there but it’s a universal TV remote. They make these for the dumbasses that lose their television remotes all the time. It’s a simple but versatile piece of equipment. This particular one has five buttons at the top. Those buttons are made for surround sound, DVD players, CD players, or other pieces of equipment. What you might not know is that you can assign other more interesting things to those same buttons if you know how."

  "I'm in awe," Wayne said, his voice flat, sarcastic.

  Conor laughed again. "You’re a cheeky bastard, Wayne. Why don’t we see what’s behind button number one?"

  Conor pushed the first button and the most distant of his explosive charges detonated. There was a loud pop, the shattering of glass, and debris rained down on the parking lot. Conor had his eyes closed and the tube of his NVD cupped in his palm to shield them from the flash.

  "Maybe you’ll find that to be a little more impressive than my lesson on remote controls."

  Wayne looked pissed but he bit his tongue. He didn’t want to provoke Conor into more pyrotechnics.

  "I’ve found that a display like that speaks louder than words. All I’ll add is that I've got more of those little devices tucked around your building there. Just for my own safety. If you decide to get shifty on me, I might have to pop them off so I can make my getaway. If it comes to that, I’ll flatten your building and everyone in it."