Ultraviolent: Book Six in The Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  "Are you armed, sir?" the other sentry asked. Just because their host had agreed to see this stranger didn't mean they could let their guard down.

  Ricardo frowned at the question. "Absolutely. What kind of idiot would be running around out there without a means to protect himself?"

  The two guards looked at each other and one shrugged. "Mr. Hoffman said to let him through. He must know the guy."

  "I assure you he does and I have no intention of harming him," Ricardo offered. "I'll be on my best behavior."

  "Good enough," the other sentry replied. "He'll be waiting for you at the front door."

  Ricardo mounted his bike and pedaled off toward the house while one of the guards announced his arrival over the radio. There must be other teams in place on the property, which would be entirely logical given Hoffman's history.

  In the first hundred yards from the gate, the property transitioned from looking like every other wooded entrance along the road to looking like the most spectacular of Kentucky horse farms. There were lush fields surrounded by miles of picturesque board fencing. There was a pond with a fountain in the middle, which must have been solar-powered since it was still gushing.

  Even though Ricardo could see the house in the distance it still took a good bit of pedaling to reach it. It was a beautiful home that appeared as if it had been lifted from an English manor and dropped into this Northern Virginia setting. There was a circular drive with a fountain in the center, though this one was idle. The hedges had once been meticulously manicured but now looked tufted and uneven, like a man who'd gone too long between visits to the barber.

  The house itself was stone and sprawled in all directions. Built to look as if it were a much older home, Hoffman had incorporated features he'd purchased from architectural salvage firms around the world. There were centuries-old gargoyles perched at the parapets and antique statuary to each side of the broad entry stairs. The front door was new but Hoffman had once explained that it had been built using traditional techniques, then distressed to look as if it had come off a European castle.

  In front of that distressed door stood the man himself, Hoffman, his hands clasped in front of him while he watched Ricardo approach the house. Hoffman was wearing a royal blue track suit with a white turtleneck underneath it. He looked like a man who belonged in a gated community in Florida rather than living on such a massive estate. Of course, had he been in any other line of work that was probably where he would have been. Instead, he'd chosen a career from which there was no retirement. You worked until you died or until someone took you out on a boating trip from which you'd never return.

  Ricardo coasted to a stop in front of the limestone steps and smiled at Hoffman. "Greetings, my friend."

  Hoffman studied Ricardo intently.

  Ricardo asked, "What is it?"

  "I'm trying to decide if you're real or not," Hoffman said, his voice deep and resonant. "When you get to be my age it's hard to tell sometimes. The lines get all blurry. The boundary between the real and the imagined doesn't matter all that much."

  Ricardo climbed off the bike and leaned it against the cast limestone pillar at the base of the entrance. He jogged up the steps and gave the old man a hug, patting him heartily on the back. "I assure you I'm real, old friend. With the week I'm having, though, it could have gone either way. I could just as easily be visiting you as a ghost."

  "That's what I heard. I was shocked when the guards relayed your message because I'd heard you were dead. When the guards referenced the party in Georgia, I almost thought my time was up and the same killer who'd taken you out had come for me."

  "Nonsense," Ricardo said. "You're invincible."

  Hoffman chuckled. "Now that is nonsense. I suspect my day is coming sooner rather than later. Now let's get inside before I catch a chill."

  Hoffman led the way and Ricardo followed, closing the door behind them.

  The older man gestured around the grand home. "I apologize for the state of things. Some of the staff disappeared and I don't know what became of them. I have the security team, a cook, and that's it."

  "Who's providing security?"

  "The Zephyr Group."

  "Good company," Ricardo said. "I don't have much experience with them, but I hear good things."

  "Eh, it's a small company but I've had good luck with them. Terrence Long tried to get me to use Catalyst Security but I don't trust those guys. That company hires anyone and everyone."

  "What's Long's relationship with Catalyst?" Ricardo asked. "He consult with them?"

  Hoffman waved off the question. "Who the hell knows? Let's go to the library. I need a drink."

  Ricardo's initial reaction was that it was early for a drink, then again, why did it matter? Hoffman was an old man living in the apocalypse—who did he have to impress?

  "I'm assuming you had some sort of backup power?" Ricardo commented as they walked, noticing the occasional lamp glowing in the empty rooms they passed.

  "We do,” said Hoffman. “We have a natural gas generator as a backup and a commercial diesel generator as a backup to that. I've also got solar but the company that provides maintenance on the system hasn't been out here since the country went to shit. I’ve got no idea how much longer it will work."

  Hoffman led Ricardo down a wide hallway with walnut paneling and hand-painted wallpaper. The walls were decorated with paintings of historical battles, all of them original, museum-quality work. They ended up in the library, which Ricardo knew was Hoffman's favorite room in the house. It was modeled after the old Explorer's Club in New York City, with wood paneling, maps, and high bookcases. The room was filled with leather furniture in a vintage style.

  "So you're faring well?" Ricardo asked.

  Hoffman wavered his hand in the air. "Eh, I'm not sure anyone is faring well. Conditions were at least acceptable until the last few days. Now I'm not so sure." Hoffman headed straight for a corner of the room that was built to resemble an old English pub. "You drinking with me or is it too early?"

  "I'll have a scotch."

  "Macallan it is," Hoffman said. "Kind of appropriate since the Macallan Collective might end up being the death of us all."

  He poured them both several fingers of a Macallan twenty-five-year-old scotch. Ricardo had given Hoffman the same liquor for Christmas several years ago and knew it ran over two grand a bottle. He raised the glass to his nose and savored the smell.

  Hoffman did the same, closing his eyes to savor it. When he opened them, he raised his glass to Ricardo. "To the Collective."

  "To the Collective," Ricardo repeated, raising his glass, and taking the first sip. He enjoyed the flavor for a moment before speaking. "So you heard that I'd been killed? News apparently travels fast even under these circumstances. It was only yesterday morning that my chopper was shot down."

  Hoffman fished his satellite phone out of his pocket and held the device up for Ricardo to see. "Long called me."

  "Yeah, I was going to pay Terrence a visit next. He's the only other member of the Collective that I know well enough to speak freely with. I'd like to know if he has any idea who killed my people and tried to take me out."

  Hoffman took another sip of his scotch, then settled into a stool across the bar from Ricardo. "Tell me exactly what happened."

  Ricardo shrugged and placed his tumbler of scotch on the bar. "I got a call from one of my operators in Georgia that the op had been compromised. An outside contractor went rogue and killed one of my team and another contractor. I asked them if they wanted to abort but they decided to proceed since they were so close. They didn't want to miss their window."

  "Good people," Hoffman commented.

  Ricardo nodded in agreement. "The best. Concerned about the compromise, I was going to leave the city until I could figure out what the hell was going on, but we were going to recover the operator's body first. I promised my team I'd take care of that. We were barely off the ground when the missile warning system alerted us that somet
hing was up."

  Hoffman shook his head as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "How in the hell did you escape a missile? Long said that it was being reported as a confirmed kill. Witnesses saw your chopper blow up in the air."

  "My head of security saved my ass," Ricardo admitted. "It was crazy. The guy has...had...this incredible instinct for what to do and when to do it. He never had to think—he just acted. We were over a body of water and he threw me out the door once they locked onto us. Obviously dropping into a frigid lake wasn't the most pleasant experience, but it beat the alternative. Eventually, I made it back to my office in Chantilly where I found all my staff had been slaughtered."

  Hoffman winced. "Damn, that's tough. Sucks to lose good people."

  "Yes, obviously I'm a bit upset about the whole thing. After I got myself together I paid a quick visit to my neighbor Hector Vasquez because I knew he was still operational."

  "Straight Razor Security?"

  "That's the one. He confirmed there'd been a hit on my place but he said it wasn't his people. He said there'd been a contract that came from outside the usual channels. It not only targeted me but members of the Macallan Collective and their associates as well."

  Hoffman tipped back his scotch and drained the glass. He set it on the polished bar top and appeared to be considering whether he should immediately refill it or not. "Everything you've said is consistent with what Terrence Long told me on the phone. There's an extremely lucrative contract out there naming hundreds of people, including me. Obviously, it included you and your people too."

  "Obviously."

  "He said the contract came out of the West Coast, according to his sources."

  Ricardo frowned. "Who the hell is on the West Coast?"

  "Maybe it's some of those rappers." Hoffman grinned. "Don't they battle coast against coast?"

  Ricardo gave a little laugh. "I've pissed off a lot of people in my time but I'm not aware that I've crossed any rappers."

  "Just a thought." Hoffman gestured to Ricardo's glass. "You want to finish that so I can pour us another?"

  Ricardo did as asked, tipping back the last of the scotch, letting it linger on his tongue before swallowing it. He slid the glass back to Hoffman. "Did Long say if he was on the list or not?"

  Hoffman uncapped the bottle. "I don't recall him saying that, but he did say it targeted members of the Macallan Collective."

  "Did he say it mentioned you by name?"

  "He did."

  "Interesting," Ricardo said.

  Hoffman frowned. "I'm not sure where you're going with this. Long's credentials are impeccable. I've probably known the guy forty years."

  "I'm not accusing him of anything," Ricardo said. "I'm understandably paranoid though. I intend to visit him next and I just want to make sure I have all the available information."

  Hoffman poured carefully, not interested in spilling a single drop of the precious liquid. "You said your operation is still underway, targeting those bastards on the cruise ship."

  "Correct."

  Hoffman capped the bottle. "If you look into the people on that cruise ship off the coast of Georgia you'll find common denominators. Donors who hold tremendous sway over the politicians and fund the lobbyists."

  "Obviously, right? I mean that's the whole intention of the mission. We have politicians in bed with the Chinese, the Saudis, and the United Nations who are undermining our national interest in favor of their own personal interests."

  Hoffman nodded emphatically. "Yes, those are the obvious common denominators but are they all this particular group of politicians have in common?"

  Ricardo looked lost. "I don't know. You tell me. I'm acting on the information I was provided in the briefings with the Collective and that's as deep as my intel went. I was told about Chinese, Saudi, and UN connections."

  Hoffman tapped a thick finger on the bar top. "There's more, and I haven't shared this with anyone yet. Ever since I heard about the hit on you, I've been looking at other angles."

  "West Coast angles?" Ricardo ventured.

  "Indeed," said Hoffman. "If you ignore the more obvious connections, there's a less obvious player behind the scenes. A tech mogul who's well-positioned to become something of an oligarch if the traitors with their comfort camps and globalist dollars succeed."

  "The United States has been heading in the direction of a technocracy for several years now. Perhaps the mogul you're referring to has seen the opportunity here to make his move."

  Hoffman took a sip of his drink. "I'm not sure if it's a he, a she, or a they in this case. A lot of the digital elite have been sitting out this disaster on foreign soil, making it a little harder to get current information."

  Ricardo smiled. "Where better to brainstorm a coup than some tropical bar? I'm sure it wouldn't be the first time that's happened."

  "Seriously though, I don't have a name yet but I'm fairly certain one of the tech billionaires is footing the bill for the assassinations."

  "I guess I should be honored to be included among such prestigious company," Ricardo said.

  Hoffman shook his head. "Being targeted for assassination is not an honor, though it's often a hazard of our line of work."

  Ricardo gestured with his thumb toward the front gate. "Speaking of being targeted for assassination, are you sure you have enough firepower out there to ward off a hit?"

  "There is only so much a man my age can do. Besides, what good are guards if they come after me with a drone or a rocket? Even a mortar? If they want me, let them come. Rest assured, I won't make it easy on them. If they show up here in person, I'll take a couple of them with me." Hoffman unzipped the jacket of his tracksuit to reveal a Walther in a shoulder holster.

  "Old school to the end," Ricardo said.

  "Damn right." Hoffman grinned, zipping the jacket back up.

  Ricardo took another sip of his scotch. " I'm not ready to surrender either, my friend. This assault on my organization is unforgivable. I don't care how long it takes me, I'm going to find the people responsible and I'm going to make an example of them." He meant what he said. He would use every resource he had available to hurt those who had hurt him.

  "Do you have a place to stay?"

  "I made preparations," Ricardo said. "I'm safe and I have supplies."

  Hoffman raised an eyebrow. "Firepower?"

  "Of course. Did you forget who you were talking to?"

  "I should have known," said Hoffman. "Sorry about that."

  "I didn't call before I came because I'm trying to hide the fact that I'm still alive. I have clean phones but I didn't know if your line was being monitored or not. Do you have a secure phone I can call?"

  Hoffman pulled the one out of his pocket and slid it across to Ricardo. The phone number was written on a strip of white medical tape stuck to the back. "That's a new one. Only a few people have that number and it's not tied to me. You can call that one. Go ahead and plug your number in there too. I'll give you a heads-up if I come across anything that might help you."

  Ricardo did as he asked, adding his number into Hoffman's phone. "I'm calling the contact 'Yellow Bike' in honor of my new bicycle."

  "Whatever floats your boat," Hoffman said. "Sure you don't want to stick around here? I have a lot of good liquor and there's no way I can drink it all. We eat well too."

  Ricardo patted Hoffman on the shoulder. "I appreciate the offer but duty calls. Vengeance calls."

  "Then let me send you home with something." Hoffman turned away from the bar and scanned the glass-doored cabinets behind him. Spotting what he was looking for, he removed a bottle from the cabinet and slid it across the bar to Ricardo. "Teeling Irish Whiskey. Thirty-four years old. Five grand a bottle, if you can get it."

  "I can't take that," Ricardo said.

  Hoffman gestured around him. "I already told you I have more than I can drink. I'm nearly eighty years old and have a contract on my head. You'd be doing me a favor by taking it with you. If I get killed I
have no way of knowing what manner of unrefined swine may get their hands on it. At least this way I know it will be imbibed by a man of honor."

  Ricardo held the bottle up in front of him and admired the label. "I'm genuinely touched and I'll take it if only to keep it out of the hands of the unrefined."

  Hoffman grinned. "I appreciate it."

  "So where do I find Terrence? I've never been to his place before."

  Hoffman reached under the bar and came up with a notepad and pen. "He has a house on the Potomac in Mt. Vernon, right beside Fort Belvoir. I can give you directions. It's not as rural as my place so getting there may be challenging given the current circumstances."

  Ricardo chuckled. "You call this rural? You should see where some of my operators live. Mountaintop compounds in the middle of nowhere."

  Hoffman tore the sheet of paper off the notepad and slid it across to Ricardo. "I used to dream of living somewhere secluded like that. I was too obsessed with work, though, and got old before I even saw it coming. Life has a way of sneaking up on you."

  "Make sure it's only life sneaking up on you. Don't let the bad guys get that close."

  "I've lived a long life," Hoffman said. "If they get me, they get me. I won't lose sleep over it and I won't hide in the basement."

  Ricardo held up the bottle of liquor that Hoffman had given him. "Thanks again for the present, my friend. I'd better be going. I have places to go and people to kill."

  Hoffman came around the bar and patted Ricardo on the back as he escorted him to the door. "Wars always redraw boundaries. They change alliances. Don't assume you can trust the people you used to trust. Question everything and everybody."

  "Your advice is appreciated," Ricardo said, shaking the old man's hand. "Stay safe."

  Hands on his hips, Hoffman watched from the porch as Ricardo pedaled off. Ricardo gave him a final wave before the old man disappeared back into his cavernous home. It wasn't lost on Ricardo that Hoffman almost looked proud he had a price on his head. In some odd way it validated the man and his career. It demonstrated that he'd been a player in the game up until the very end. It was somehow the fitting end of the life he'd lived.