They slept on long dining tables in warm sleeping bags. The place was a wreck but it still beat sleeping out in the weather. In the morning they had a quick breakfast of protein bars that looked like old cookie dough and tasted like damp cardboard. They were back on the road as the horizon lightened and color returned to a murky world.
It took them around two hours to make it to the town of Tazewell, Virginia. Neither had spent much time in the town. The four-lane highway passed by it, so if they were travelling, sometimes they’d stop here to fill up on fuel or grab a snack. The highway wound through farmland and stayed to the north of the town. There were few houses visible from the road and they saw no foot traffic. It was better that way.
They were passing the last exit to the little town that was once on the edge of the frontier when Conor reined his horse to a stop. Barb’s horse took another couple of steps before she stopped too.
“What?” she asked.
“Fresh horse poop.”
“So what?”
“We didn’t meet anyone coming toward us.”
“Maybe whoever this belongs to is on the road ahead of us going in the same direction we are.”
Conor was quiet, listening, thinking. He searched his gut to see if it pulled him in either direction. “It makes me wonder if we should ride down this exit and have a look around in the town itself.”
Barb turned her horse. “If you say so.”
They angled down what would have been the onramp to the highway back in the days when there were cars on the road and rules that governed them. They were halfway down the ramp when they heard a distant gunshot. Both riders stopped.
“Could have been a hunter,” Barb pointed out.
“Could have been.”
They started riding down the ramp again when there was a flurry of gunshots in the distance. Several dozens rounds were fired.
“Different guns. Different calibers. Sounds like a gunfight,” Conor surmised.
He took the lead and Barb followed him into a dense cluster of underbrush. They sat their horses for a while, waiting to see if anyone was following them or saw them go into the woods. When no one came, Conor dismounted and tied his horse off with a short lead.
“Take the gear?” Barb asked.
“Definitely,” Conor said. “These horses can make a racket with their snorting and chewing. If they draw any attention I don’t want to lose my gear.”
Barb dismounted, tied her horse off, unstrapped her pack, and threw it over her shoulders. She double-checked the chamber of her weapons and Conor did the same.
“Take the lead, father dear.”
Conor gave his daughter a slight bow and waded out of the woods. He kept to the edge of the tree line, perhaps fifty feet onto the shoulder of the road. There were no houses anywhere close to them now but they could see some in the distance. More houses, more people, more danger.
“Utmost caution, Barb.”
“Roger that.”
28
“I’ve always wanted to visit this town,” Bryan said as he led his army past an antique iron sign that said Welcome To Tazewell.
“Why’s that?” Zach asked. He and Carrie had been riding alongside Bryan since getting off the highway.
“It was originally named Jeffersonville back in 1800,” Bryan said. “Named after one of the greatest men of his time or any other, Thomas Jefferson.”
“I didn’t know that,” Carrie said.
Bryan frowned at her. “I wouldn’t expect that you would. It’s an obscure bit of historical trivia.”
Carrie bit her tongue but gave Zach a look when Bryan turned away from her. Bryan was a dick. He had no respect for women at all. She wanted to teach him some respect but hadn’t yet had the opportunity to do so, although she swore the time would come. She wanted to deliver him an old-fashioned ass kicking.
Bryan regarded the old brick houses and the stately rural mansions. Many of the historic structures of the town still stood. Locals had done their best to preserve what they could.
“Jefferson is a personal hero of mine. In fact, I strive to model myself after him. As far as this town goes, a hundred or so years later they renamed it to Tazewell, a much less dignified name if you ask me. At the time, it was the smallest town in America to have an electric street car. As far as I know, that was their only claim to fame.”
“You know your history,” Zach said.
“Can’t remember if I told you or not, but I was once a history professor in a different life,” Bryan said.
“You mentioned it. Or someone did.”
Bryan nodded, paying little attention to the conversation as his eyes roved from building to building. “I love these old towns.”
“Someone else does too,” Carrie said, pointing toward a colonial era brick church.
The double-M symbol of the Mad Mick was painted upon the handmade bricks in garish six-foot high letters.
Bryan’s lips tightened. “Damnit!” He nudged his horse into a trot, stopping in front of a historical marker that indicated the church was built in 1783. A modest house of more recent construction stood at the edge of the property. Smoke curled from a chimney of dark brick.
Bryan rode to a house with a sign in the yard indicating it was the parsonage for the adjacent church, slid from the back of his horse, and tied it off to a wrought iron fence. He stalked up a sidewalk of brick pavers and banged on a solid white door with antique hardware.
A pleasant man with a shock of bushy white hair opened the door and smiled at his guest. “Good afternoon. Can I help you?”
Staring at the man, not understanding how he could fail to grasp the source of his rage, Bryan shot out a hand and grabbed the man by his hair. He yanked him violently from the doorway, the man losing his glasses in the process. He staggered in his sock feet, trying to keep up with the way he was being tugged and jerked about, trying to get a hand up to lessen the pressure on his hair.
When Bryan had him in the middle of the yard, a point at which they had a clear view of the side of the church, he slung the elderly man to the ground and gestured at the large letters. “How could you allow this blasphemy?”
The old man rose carefully to an elbow, trying to smooth his hair back in place, and squinting to see what Bryan was raving about.
Bryan rolled his eyes the minister’s failure to comprehend. “The letters! The damn letters!”
“Oh,” the man said, understanding dawning on him. “I didn’t allow that. Someone did it of their own accord without my knowledge or permission. I haven’t attempted to remove it, because I see nothing particularly blasphemous about it. One might even take the mark as a gesture intended to show the church and its people are protected. While the mark has no religious significance, I see it as being similar to the story of the Passover in the bible.”
“I don’t give a damn if it’s a church or not!” Bryan bellowed, his face red and his eyes fiery. “It’s a significant historical building now serving as little more than a billboard advertising some murdering madman.”
The minister tried to get up, bracing a hand on the ground, but Bryan kicked it out from under him, sending him sprawling.
“Is everything okay?” came a voice from the house.
Bryan spun in that direction and found a grandmotherly lady, likely the minister’s wife, standing at the door. She was distraught but too fearful to come outside. Bryan drew his gun and levelled it at her. “Back in the house, lady!”
She did as she was told, receding back inside like inhaled smoke. Bryan went to the minister and hovered over him, his pistol still in his hand. “What do you know about this Mad Mick?”
The minister seemed confused in his distress. “Why, very little actually. My parishioners have told me that he rescued some kidnapped women and is forming some type of militia to organize folks. That’s all I know. To the best of my knowledge, I’ve never laid eyes on the man.”
“Who in this town would know something?” Bryan demanded.
/> The old ministered hemmed and hawed. Bryan couldn’t tell if he genuinely knew nothing or if he was just playing dumb. It was time to turn up the stakes. He pointed his gun at the minister’s face.
“I will kill you,” Bryan hissed.
In the face of threats, the minister seemed to find some strength. He stared at Bryan with a deep resolve. “You can physically assault me but I will not be bullied. If it’s my time, then I will walk joyfully into the arms of the Lord.”
29
Barb and Conor moved house to house with practiced precision, running along alleys and climbing fences. If anyone saw them, they were too scared to react. The town was laid out in the organic and meandering manner often found in old towns. Over time, these towns never expanded as much as they evolved, streets popping up where they were needed and where it became most convenient for people to travel.
The pair were several streets away from the church when they first heard angry yelling. Barb was the first to hear it. She made a clucking sound to get his attention and waved him in the direction of the yelling. They cut through a gravel alley, staying to one side. They moved through private yards, hoping there were no residents ready to shoot at them out of fear or a desire to rob them of their possessions.
They cut around a mansion dating back to the Civil War, with towering columns and tall windows. It was surrounded by brick sidewalks and a retaining wall with iron spikes inset to prevent loafers from passing the day there. What had once been a world-class garden designed by a botanist of some note was now an overgrown thicket indistinguishable from the surrounding woods. Barb and Conor found the overgrowth useful for concealing their movement. Eventually, they found a vantage point where they were looking down off a slight knoll and over a vast mob of riders and pack horses.
“What the hell is he going on about?” Conor hissed. “Is it a shakedown?”
“I believe you have a fan,” Barb whispered. She pointed at the large double-M symbol on the wall of the church.
“You think that’s why he’s so angry?”
“Could be. This has to be the army the hunter was referring to, but how do they know the significance of the symbol?”
“I don’t know, but I can’t let him keep beating that old man.”
“The odds suck,” Barb whispered. “If we open fire on him this is going to get real hot, real fast. Bullets will be flying everywhere and we don’t know the area.”
“Then I’ll just break up their little party,” Conor said. He opened a pouch on his plate carrier and retrieved two grenades. “I’m going to throw a flash bang and pop smoke. We’ll dump a few rounds over their head and then change positions.”
“You think that’s going to save the old man?” Barb asked.
“There may not be any way to save that old man. Maybe in the chaos, we can separate the guy doing the yelling from his people and ask him a few questions.”
“You think he’s the leader?”
Conor shrugged. “We’ll find out.” He pulled the pin on a smoke grenade, compliments of his boss Ricardo, and tossed it toward the rear of the mob. As smoke began hissing out, voices rose in the crowd. “Get ready to fire.”
Conor waited until there was enough smoke wafting around to conceal him, then pulled the pin on the concussion grenade and tossed it in the same direction as the smoke. There was a boom and the sound of horses panicking. Riders were shouting to each other.
“Now!” Conor hissed.
Barb moved clear of Conor and started popping off rounds. Shooting above the smoke, she shattered several high windows in the church and rounds rang off the brick walls. Another smoke grenade sailed over her head, Conor deciding they needed a little more concealment.
“Let’s roll,” he said, patting her on the back as he passed her on the right.
Barb fell in step behind him and they moved across the yard, over the retaining wall, and down to street level. The smoke and concussion grenade sent most of the riders away from them, hurrying further into town. Others could still be heard moving around in the chaos, shouting to each other, trying to find their way to safety.
Conor yanked two more grenades from pouches on his chest. He tossed one and there was the hiss of more spewing smoke. He tossed a second flash-bang toward the stragglers, wanting to encourage their movement in the other direction.
“There!” Barb said, pointing to a white-haired man staggering out of the smoke.
Conor ran toward him while Barb took a position near a tree and provided cover.
“Where is the man who was yelling at you?” Conor asked.
The minister looked traumatized, but Conor needed to know.
The man raised a wavering finger, pointing east. Conor couldn’t tell if the old man knew what he was talking about or not. Perhaps he was just telling Conor something to make him go away and leave him alone.
“Get inside!” Conor told him, steering him toward the nearest structure, unsure if it was the man’s house or not. “Barb, let’s go.”
They moved as a team, weapons at high ready. There were fewer voices. The epicenter of the chaos, the bulk of the men, were elsewhere now, likely regathering themselves outside of the thinning smoke.
A man staggered out of the smoke, a pistol raised in their direction. Conor was still trying to figure out if he was the man they were looking for when Barb pulled the trigger. A suppressed double-tap caught the man in the sternum and neck. He spun, spraying blood like a bad brake line.
Conor looked at his daughter with a what the hell look.
“Not him,” Barb called, taking a hand off her rifle to gesture ahead of them. “There.”
At ten o’clock to his position, Conor could see a man trying to mount a spooked horse. This was the guy. The horse was circling, trying to free itself. The man held a rein tight, trying to get a foot into the stirrup. He was cursing and threatening the horse. Forty feet separated him from Conor and his daughter.
The smoke was thinning, moving in the direction of town, carried away by a slight breeze. It still hid them from the larger mass of riders but barely obscured them from this man. Had his back not been turned, had he not been distracted by his problems with the horse, they would have been looking right at each other.
“Can you choke him out?” Conor hissed. “You’re faster than me.”
Conor knew how to put a man’s lights out better than most but he could not close that distance as fast as Barb. Before he even finished the sentence, Barb had dropped her pack, handed off her rifle, and was sprinting across the distance. Conor scanned their surroundings, watching for anyone that might see what was happening. By the time he got his eyes back on the man, Barb was clinging to his back, her arms cutting off the flow of blood to his brain. He fought her for a moment, then staggered. A moment later, her hold was all that kept his head from hitting the ground.
Barb took her gear back from Conor. He transferred his own rifle to his off-hand and grabbed the fallen man by the hood of his parka. Using it as a drag handle, he started moving, trying to put some distance between them and the mob. It was exhausting even though the parka reduced the friction. It was like dragging a dead deer from the woods. Each step pumped Conor’s quadriceps and jacked up his heart rate.
They made it roughly the distance of a city block before Conor was huffing and puffing.
“There.” Barb was pointing at a stone dairy. It was a type of masonry root cellar that people in these old homes would have used to keep milk and vegetables cool before refrigeration came along.
Conor started off in that direction and Barb passed him by. She planted a foot in the door and the screw holding the hasp in place flew in all directions, then popped a white chemlite and tossed it inside. After propping her gun against the wall, she helped Conor drag the man over the concrete threshold. Once inside, she closed the door carefully.
Sagged against the wall, Conor sucked wind.
“Need to work on that cardio, grandpa,” Barb said.
Conor wiped a
sleeve across his forehead, acknowledging with his eyes that she was probably right but unable to get enough air to comment. He nodded toward their prisoner and, again, Barb knew exactly what to do. She rolled the man onto his stomach, quickly secured his wrists and ankles behind his back with a pair of zip ties, then rolled him over onto his back.
She pulled her water bottle from a black Maxpedition pouch on her belt. The bottle had been wrapped several times with duct tape. There was nothing wrong with the bottle, it just provided a convenient place to store a few wraps of the tape. She pulled off a two-foot strip and wrapped it over the man’s eyes. It wasn’t like he could call the cops if he got out of here alive but their appearances were information that he didn’t necessarily need to have.
She was less than delicate with her application of the tape. As she was firmly patting the tape into place, the man began to stir. She looked around at Conor to make sure he was aware of this fact. Conor was still flattened against the wall with a water bottle in his hand but he appeared to have recovered from the exertion of the long drag. Not satisfied that the tape was sufficient, she spotted a moldy burlap sack on a shelf, shook the mouse droppings out of it, and bagged Bryan’s head.
“We don’t have much time, Dad. They’ll probably be looking for him.”
Conor replaced the water bottle on his belt. He crouched at the man’s side and took the meat of his bicep into his hand, applying as much force as he could. He couldn’t see the man’s eyes open because of the tape and the hood but the move had the desired effect. The man was awake now.
“What do you want?” the downed man croaked.
“Initially, I was trying to keep you from beating that poor defenseless old man to death. Now I want to know who the hell you are and why you’ve brought an army into my territory.”
The man was silent, a macabre, hooded figure in the pale artificial light of the chemlite. “Your territory?” he finally said. “That’s kind of ironic. I was beating that old bastard because I wanted to know where I could find the Mad Mick. Are you the Mad Mick?”
Masters of Mayhem Page 21
