Ultraviolent: Book Six in The Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  The man leaned back in his creaky old desk chair and considered the matter. In most areas of the country a story such as Ricardo’s would be scoffed at. Not in this neck of the woods, though. Here, anything was possible. Spooky spy shit went on all around them every day of the week. It was something that came with the territory, like earthquakes in California or blizzards in Montana.

  "I'll agree to your proposal if I can get a year's payment in advance," the man replied. "In cash, of course. I'll give you a vest and hardhat. You'll need to wear them when you're onsite. You'll also need to make contact here in the office before going back there, in case we're blasting or something."

  Ricardo stood and extended a hand. "Absolutely no problem, sir. I appreciate your willingness to do business with me." With that, he tucked a hand into an interior pocket of his suitcoat and extracted an envelope of cash. He counted out twelve thousand dollars and watched the old man tuck the folded bills into his pants pocket.

  "The two containers should be ready in a week," Ricardo said. "You'll be hearing from me. Good day."

  Ricardo had recently contracted with the man in California who was building out shipping containers into offices for him and he'd ordered several to be placed at locations around the country. When the first two arrived by rail, Ricardo had them delivered directly to the boneyard at the back of the quarry. No one other than Ricardo and the quarry owner knew of their existence.

  He swung the bike off the paved highway and into the crushed stone entrance of the quarry. The gravel road was smooth, compacted by the hundreds of heavily-loaded gravel trucks that had passed over it each day when the quarry was operational. The place was dead now, the thick yellow pipe gate closed and padlocked. Ricardo pedaled around it and headed deeper into the quarry. There were no cars at the office and no equipment moving around. Without food or weapons, a facility like this would have little draw to a thief or looter. There might be some explosives stored on the property, but they required a specialized knowledge to use.

  Pedaling along the rim of the quarry, following the road to the boneyard, Ricardo was struck by the neat rows of parked equipment and the idled conveyors. The plant ran twenty-four hours a day in normal times. He wondered how long it had been since the place had been idle for this long. Probably never in its history.

  When he reached the boneyard he had to climb off the bike. The road to this point had been compacted by the massive wheels of heavy rock trucks and rubber-tired loaders. The road into the boneyard, used less often, was rutted and pockmarked by puddles. Ricardo pushed the bike through orderly rows of rusting loaders with rotting tires, decades-old dump trucks, and piles of discarded, torn conveyor belts. There were neat stacks of rusting rollers and piles of damaged sorting screens, worn thin as paper.

  At the back of the yard was a row of the oldest and largest of the mothballed machines. There was a Bucyrus dragline excavator and a Marion cable-operated power shovel. Neither machine had run for decades. Just beyond their rusting hulks sat Ricardo's two containers, the cleanest and most modern items in the boneyard. At the owner's suggestion, both containers had been plastered with hazardous materials stickers. A sign warned "Danger! Do Not Disturb!" Tucked into this forgotten corner of the yard, the warnings were enough to make someone think the containers might hold nuclear waste.

  What they actually held was much more useful. One container was Ricardo's specially-designed emergency bugout shelter. The other, a standard container with few special modifications, held the supplies he had expected he might need if he was forced to flee his office. With the office in Chantilly designed to function indefinitely on solar power, Ricardo hadn't expected he'd ever need this escape plan. His line of work required caution and thorough planning. He always had to have a backup plan, then beyond that, a backup plan to his backup plan. Men who didn't concern themselves with such details didn't survive. That was the simple truth of it.

  Ricardo tucked the bike between the two containers, giving the Cervelo a nod of appreciation for its impressive effort at getting him this far. It had been overloaded and abused but had persevered. He shrugged out of his pack and leaned over to access the shielded combination lock on the container door. When he punched in the correct combination of numbers, the latch whirred and the door unlocked.

  Taking a glance around to make sure he hadn't been followed and wasn't being watched, Ricardo swung the door open. He reached inside and hit a switch, the LED lights embedded in the wood plank ceiling coming to life. Ricardo smiled at the sight of it. The lights revealed what almost looked like the interior of a plush RV. There was a compact kitchen, a bathroom with a shower, a table for eating or working, and a comfortable bunk. Every spare inch was filled with storage compartments and cabinets.

  The roof of the container had solar panels adhered to it. Ricardo knew he'd have to get up there at his first opportunity and clean the quarry dust off of them to increase their efficiency. The chemical toilet would work without water but the sink and shower both required the installation of a water collection and storage system that was sitting in the other container. It was basically a field-installable gutter system that ran rainwater into a tank, then used a twelve-volt RV pump to pressurize the water supply lines.

  The hard-charging ride to the quarry had caused Ricardo to sweat considerably despite the cool day. His suit was damp, the cooling sweat making him chill now that he was no longer pedaling. He threw his pack into the living quarters and opened the lock to access the storage container. There were three one-hundred pound propane tanks stored there to run the water heater and wall heater.

  Ricardo rolled one out and positioned it against the outside wall of the living quarters. He opened a locked access panel on the side using a key fastened to the propane tank. When the panel door was opened, a coiled rubber hose dropped out, and Ricardo fastened it to the propane tank. He opened the valve and gas rushed into the system. After a few minutes of bleeding the lines, Ricardo got the wall heater lit and felt the welcome flush of heat against his skin.

  While the vented gas heater warmed the living quarters, Ricardo dug around in the storage container. He carried two five-gallon jugs of water into the living quarters and placed them in the kitchen. He also brought over two large plastic buckets containing freeze-dried meals. The last item he moved over to the living quarters was a footlocker of clothes and personal items. He pushed the bike into the storage container to keep it out of the weather and re-locked that container.

  He shut himself into the living quarters, pleased to find that it had warmed quickly. The well-insulated room smelled a little stale from being closed up but it was comfortable. Ricardo set a pot of water to boil on the gas stove, then stripped out of his suit and body armor. He dried off with a towel in front of the heater, then dressed himself a bit more casually. For most Americans that might mean sweatpants and a t-shirt, but for Ricardo it meant jeans, a button-down shirt, and a cardigan, along with a bright pair of new running shoes.

  He added the appropriate amount of boiling water to the freeze-dried meal, resealed it, and set it aside to do its thing. He used the remaining water to make a cup of tea, then set it on the table while he dug through his gear for the stack of satellite phones. He took a seat, selected the appropriate phone, and punched a contact. After a few rings, Earl Banks picked up.

  "Banks," he growled.

  "It's Ricardo. How are things there?"

  "Quiet," Banks said. "Nothing out of the ordinary."

  "That's good. Hopefully, this means your place isn't being targeted."

  "How are things on your end?"

  Ricardo let out a breath. "It's been a long day, my friend. I spoke to a colleague in Chantilly and apparently, I'm persona non grata now. No one wants anything to do with me. The controlling faction of government has moved against the Macallan Collective and all their associates. There's a contract out on anyone working under their umbrella."

  "I'm still trying to reach my friend with the chopper, but I haven't bee
n able to get up with him yet. If I can get a ride I could send a team."

  "That's not necessary, Earl, but thanks. I'm safe for now. I had accommodations prepared."

  "Of course you did, but what possible purpose could you have in staying there?" Banks asked. "With a price on your head, it seems the safest option would be to get the hell out of Dodge while you still can."

  "I'm not leaving yet. I still have business in this city. I need to make contact with some of the Macallan Collective members if I can find any still alive. There's a mole in their organization and I want to find him. I've got dozens of dead employees whose deaths need avenged. Someone is going to pay."

  "You be careful," Banks warned. "I'd feel a lot better if you came to West Virginia and sat this out with us."

  "I appreciate the offer. Don't let your guard down. Even if these traitors can't find a paper trail linking you to my organization, there have been a lot of pilots flying in and out of there. Someone may have seen or heard something. Someone could still connect us."

  Banks chuckled. "Don't you worry about me, old friend. Focus on your own scalp. We'll be fine here."

  "I'll be in touch soon," Ricardo said.

  He tossed the phone onto the dinette table and checked his freeze-dried meal. As the instructions directed, he squeezed the pack to stir the contents. He found a disposable spoon in one of the drawers, then located an unopened pack of napkins. Deciding he could wait no longer, he slouched sideways in the booth and ate the meal directly from the pack, staring off into space as he did so.

  The next step was to make some phone calls, but he was too tired to do it now. He wasn't thinking clearly and needed to be razor-sharp. He needed all his senses working for him. The meal wasn't great but it was filling. It replaced the calories he'd burned through over the long, brutal day. As the feeling of hunger left him, only weariness remained. When he finished his last bite, he dropped the spoon and napkin into the empty package and crawled into his bunk.

  6

  Haymarket, Virginia

  Ricardo didn't know much about the membership of the Macallan Collective. That information was compartmentalized in such a way that only the core organizers of the group knew the names of all the members. From what he'd heard in the few meetings he participated in, Ricardo suspected that outside of that core membership there was a much larger ring of supporters holding influential positions in the government, the military, and business. Ricardo's participation in their mission didn't make him part of the collective. He was simply a contractor. A service provider. A tool that the Collective could use to reach their goals. While his contributions didn't make him a member, they put him close enough that there was a target on his back.

  Ricardo had come to do business with the Collective due to a longstanding relationship with two of its members. Clarence Hoffman, now in his seventies, was a former director of the CIA who lived on a horse farm north of Haymarket, Virginia. The other member with whom he'd previously worked was Terrence Long, who'd held some obscure position within the CIA's Directorate of Operations and had once run The Farm, the CIA's clandestine training center at Camp Peary, Virginia. In his late sixties, Long officially claimed to be retired as well, but consulted with intelligence agencies nearly every day of the week, even since the devastating terror attacks that had turned the lights out on most of the United States.

  After a good night's sleep in the cozy shipping container turned camper, Ricardo prepared for another day in the field. He decided to dispense with the suit this time and stick with the jeans and cardigan. He pulled his body armor on overtop the cardigan and hung the P90 from the single-point sling. Though he'd have preferred a shorter jacket, he found that nothing concealed the weapon like the long wool overcoat.

  He chose not to wear a backpack this time to keep the weight down. Less weight would make for easier pedaling over long distances. He shoved a few rations into his pockets in case he got hungry and tucked two water bottles into the wire bottle carriers attached to the frame of the Cervelo. He tucked his holster into the front of his waistband but hoped he wouldn't need it. Between the long coat, the armor, and the dangling P90 it wouldn't be the easiest thing to reach.

  His plan was to pay Hoffman a visit. He knew exactly where the man lived because he'd been a guest at his horse farm on numerous occasions, both business and personal. The two were friends as much as people in their line of work could be friends. Ricardo trusted him to a point, which was about the best he could say for any of his beltway relationships.

  When he was ready to hit the road, Ricardo checked the tires on the bike and topped off the air. He locked the container behind him, then set out pushing the bike. This time he chose not to exit the quarry through the exposed front entrance. Examining the map, he'd found that a short hike across a grassy field to the rear of the property would allow him to access another road. That should make it more difficult for anyone to track him back to the quarry if they spotted him coming and going. At least that was his hope.

  Once he'd escaped the quarry, Ricardo got back on US 29 and continued toward the Manassas National Battlefield Park. There he got on Sudley Road, following it until he hit US 15 and turned north. He was in horse country now, or what counted for horse country in the sprawling, over-peopled megalopolis of Northern Virginia. There were boarding stables, riding schools, and every other manner of service catering to the equestrian-minded. There were also dozens of large horse farms.

  Hoffman had told Ricardo he was never much of a rider, but farms provided good tax breaks and good breeding stock could be an excellent investment. Hoffman had a sprawling country house with a circular drive and expensive landscaping full of interesting statuary and dramatic lighting. The backyard was suited to gatherings with a lagoon-shaped pool, a hot tub, and a pergola that was usually wrapped in some type of seasonal lighting.

  Here in horse country, Ricardo saw more people out and about than usual. Piles of horse manure scattered on the road demonstrated that at least some of the locals were taking advantage of this alternate form of transportation. Ricardo did his best to avoid the piles. Without fenders, hitting manure on a bike would spray it all over his clothing. He certainly couldn't have that. Though people ribbed him about it, Ricardo was particular about his clothing. He lived out of an expensive suit so often that the casual clothing he was wearing didn't particularly feel comfortable to him. He was one of those people.

  It was flat country, the road alternately lined with pockets of woods or vast open fields. Some of the fields were surrounded by decorative white board fences, grazed by horses and other livestock. Other fields had been plowed and planted with crops that had gone unharvested due to the collapse. There were occasional houses seated alongside the road and others, typically older farmhouses, which were set among clusters of trees far back off the road. Other driveways, paved and often gated, led to more modern estates.

  Ricardo charged north, making good time and enjoying himself to an extent. Now that he wasn't wearing a heavy backpack, the riding was almost pleasant. It was the type of meditative activity that could allow him to push aside the state of the world around him. What Ricardo couldn't forget were the employees he'd lost and Doc Marty's death on the op in Georgia. It was also hard to forget there was a price on his head. Something as ominous as that had a way of tapping a man on the shoulder and reminding him of its presence.

  Nearing Hoffman's farm, Ricardo eased off the cadence of his pedaling and allowed the bike to coast. Just before reaching Hoffman's private road, he hopped off the bike and used a handkerchief to mop his brow. Despite the crisp morning, he'd broken a sweat on the ride. When he was done, he pocketed the handkerchief and walked the rest of the way to Hoffman's entrance. He hadn’t wanted to ride up on it too quickly for fear he might startle some trigger-happy guard.

  Old hardwoods lined the road on both sides and nearly obscured the entrance to Hoffman's estate until he was upon it. While Hoffman's home was distinctly ostentatious, the entrance was
less so. His home was for entertaining and conducting business, not impressing strangers who might drive by on the road. There was a high iron gate with the ornate panels closed and chained. A stainless steel post on the right held a video intercom and a keypad for requesting entrance, but Ricardo suspected they didn't work. Anyone seeking admission to the property likely had to go through the two menacing guards standing just behind the gate and pointing guns in his direction.

  The two guards wore jeans and fleece pullovers with web gear draped over them. The bulky chest rigs were obviously packing plates. Other pouches held an assortment of gear from first aid kits to spare mags. Both men wore handguns in drop-leg rigs and carried short-barreled rifles with suppressors. Ricardo could feel their stares through the dark Oakley sunglasses they both wore.

  Ricardo took the initiative before either could speak. "Good morning, gentlemen. There's no need to be alarmed. If Mr. Hoffman is home would you please inform him that the man organizing the party in Georgia is here to see him?"

  The two men looked at each other. This encounter was outside of the scope of what they normally dealt with, which was driving off the curious or the shady. Ricardo wanted them to immediately understand that he knew who lived at the house and had an existing relationship with him. He waited patiently while they pondered his request.

  Finally, one of the sentries made an adjustment on his radio and spoke into the microphone. "Gate to Primary. Gate to Primary."

  It was a moment before the response came. "Go for Primary. What is it?"

  "Mr. Hoffman, sir, I'm sorry to bother you but you have a visitor at the gate. He said to tell you that the man organizing the party in Georgia was here to see you."

  Ricardo could hear genuine pleasure in Hoffman's voice when he replied. "Excellent! Please send him up."

  The guarded replied, "Absolutely, sir. He'll be approaching the house on a yellow bicycle." The sentry changed the frequency on his radio, then removed a key from his pocket and unlocked the chain holding the gate closed. He swung it wide and held it while Ricardo wheeled the bike inside.