Ultraviolent: Book Six in The Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  Ricardo stuffed his sleeping bag into its tiny storage sack, then slid it into his pack. "I need to see a man in Mount Vernon."

  "That's a long walk."

  Ricardo slipped on the chest rig, then hung the P90 around his neck. "It's not like I have anything else to do. Besides, it's important."

  "I don't get you. You dress like Mister Rogers in that cardigan and jeans, but then you're wearing all that army-looking gear and hauling around a gun that looks like something out of a science fiction movie. What is it you do for a living, again?"

  Ricardo pulled on his long wool coat and smiled. "I told you it's complicated."

  "I'd say interesting is a better word than complicated."

  Ricardo held up the inflatable Luci light. "I'm going to leave this for you. You need it more than I do. A few hours in the sun will keep the battery charged."

  Valeria beamed as if it was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for her. "Thank you so much!"

  "No problem. Please stay safe."

  "As long as people continue to ignore this building I'll be fine."

  "Have a backup plan," Ricardo suggested. "You can't be certain that someone won't get curious about this place one day. Pack a bag you can run with and keep it handy. Stash it somewhere you can get to it without returning to this room."

  "That's not a bad idea. Are you coming back this way when you're done in Mount Vernon?"

  Ricardo considered before replying. "I could. I hadn't thought that far ahead."

  Valeria raised her eyebrows. "This must be some trip if you haven’t even thought about how you're going to get back."

  "I don't know how long I'll be. It could be a few days or it could be longer. I'll try to stop by and check in on you when I'm passing back through. How's that?"

  "Thank you. I know this probably sounds stupid but running into you has given me a little hope about things. The talk we had last night, the fact you were a nice person and not someone trying to hurt me, you saying you'll come back and check on me…all those things give me hope."

  Ricardo tipped his ball cap to her. "Glad to be of assistance. Don't lose hope. We may be in for a long, ugly ride, but this isn't the end of the world. Not yet anyway."

  "You sound like a man who knows about those things so I'll take your word for it."

  Ricardo shouldered his pack and departed with a wave. "I'll let myself out."

  He used his small LED flashlight to navigate his way back through the building, leaving the same way he'd come in. The loading dock was the most private way in and out of the building. The morning was cool and the sky gray with pre-dawn light. It felt like it could eventually warm up to be an almost pleasant day.

  It eventually lived up to that promise, reaching nearly fifty degrees. Ricardo navigated by way of his GPS, trying to keep to the least crowded routes. He made good time, running out of daylight near the town of Newington. There, he picked the lock on a windowless brick building that served as a telecom switching station. It contained nothing but racks of lifeless electronics and a dead air conditioning unit. There was an empty propane tank outside connected to an emergency generator. The station had made a valiant effort to remain functional until it burned up the last of its fuel.

  He slept on the concrete floor, his wool coat and a foam pad providing an insulating layer between the cold slab and his sleeping bag. A couple of ibuprofen helped ease his sore muscles and allow him to grab a few hours of sleep, but it wasn't the best of accommodations. It did feel very safe though. The structure was like a bunker with its precast concrete walls and thick steel door.

  The next morning he was on the road before the sun was up. With careful route planning, he was able to travel through woods for most of the morning. It wasn't deep forest but parks, golf courses, and the wooded perimeter of the Fort Belvoir area. He was glad for the cover because this was one of the most active areas he'd seen in months. He understood it was because of the military bases and other essential agencies. These people were getting fuel and were able to power their bases with generators.

  As he closed the final miles between him and Terrence Long's home, he used the wooded shoulder of the Mt. Vernon Memorial Highway to conceal his movement. Keeping a low profile felt like the right thing to do even though there had to be pedestrians moving around every day in this dense, residential neighborhood. It wasn't just the military traffic on the roads that made him nervous, it was the price on his head. Even though he carried fake identification, something he always had in the aluminum briefcase he traveled with, he didn't want to risk an interaction. Someone might recognize his face or get a picture to run through a facial recognition database.

  According to Hoffman's directions, Long lived in a waterfront home along Dogue Creek, near the Mt. Vernon Yacht Club. The homes there were small compared to the sprawling horse estates in Hoffman's neighborhood. There simply wasn't room for a home like that in this community. Instead, there were a lot of colonial-style homes, a few ultramodern or Mediterranean-style dwellings, and the odd 1970s-era monstrosity. In this area, an empty half-acre lot could run two million dollars if you could find one.

  Here Ricardo had no choice but to walk the sidewalks. Cutting across yards would only bring more attention. Many homes appeared to be vacant, the owners perhaps having better options for sitting out these dark days. Many likely had the means to buy passage to Europe or were lounging in the Caribbean on the yachts they'd once docked behind their homes.

  Ricardo paused beneath a barren tree to study his directions, then consulted his GPS again for a satellite photo of the area. Once he had his bearings he kept in the direction of Long's house. He didn't make it fifty more feet before he stopped in his tracks. Dead ahead, a black civilian Hummer was sitting sideways in the road, blocking access to the dead-end street where Ricardo was headed. That couldn't be a coincidence.

  He backed up a short distance and took cover behind a brick pillar at the driveway to another home. He pulled a pair of compact binoculars from a pouch and studied the Hummer. Ricardo recognized the logo on the door as belonging to Catalyst Security. They weren't a direct competitor of his. Instead, they were more like Hector Vazquez's Straight Razor Security. While they offered domestic personal protection teams that guarded the homes of the wealthy elite, they were also in the private army business. Their staffing levels fluctuated depending on how much unrest existed in the world at any given moment, but Ricardo had heard they sometimes had as many as one hundred thousand employees on the worldwide payroll.

  The presence of security at Long's certainly wasn't a surprise. After all, a man with Long's connections could be expected to call in some favors and have his home protected, just as Hoffman had done. The fact that it was Catalyst Security nagged Ricardo a bit. If Long had the same concerns for his personal safety as Hoffman, that the Macallan Collective had been compromised and he now had a target on his back, it was odd that he'd employ a security company with so many ties to the government.

  In fact, it was kind of odd that Long would remain in the city at all unless hiding in plain sight was a part of some elaborate ruse to throw off those who might be targeting him. Perhaps it served the same purpose as holding a risky meeting with people who couldn’t be trusted in a public place. By maintaining a high public profile, Long might be making it difficult for anyone to move against him. Maybe there would be too many eyes, too many witnesses, and too many questions for someone to move against him in this crowded neighborhood.

  Ricardo took a moment to get his head together. At Hoffman's house he didn't have much of a problem walking up to the gate and asking to see his old friend, but a little voice inside his head warned him not to do that here. Maybe the back entrance to Long's place was less protected.

  He eyed the property around him and saw no signs the home was occupied. There were no cars in the driveway, though there was a closed garage, no garbage piled up, and that was often a dead giveaway that people were living in the home. He got to his feet and jogged aroun
d the house. He used features in the landscaping when he could, running from bush to tree to retaining wall.

  The backyard was entirely enclosed by high fencing that looked like wood but was actually some indestructible plastic composite. It ran to the edge of the yard, but the shoreline was reinforced with large stones rather than wooden pilings so it was easy for Ricardo to skirt the end of the fence and move on to the next yard. He didn't even look for signs of life at this home. He was totally committed to this course of action now and was only focused on getting to the next yard, which was Long's.

  He sprinted across the small lot until he reached the wooden fence that separated him from his destination. Tall bushes and decorative trees overgrew the fence. He ducked beneath a sprawling shrub to skirt the fence, just as he'd done on the other side of the yard, stopping in his tracks when he heard voices.

  He slid his pack off his back, leaned forward, and parted a cluster of evergreen branches. The first thing he noticed was that the pier jutting from Long's property had several boats docked there. The second thing he noticed was an armed guard standing watch over those boats. A glance through his binoculars confirmed that the guard wore a Catalyst Security logo on the sleeve of his fleece jacket.

  This was considerably more activity than Ricardo had expected to run into. He didn't dare try to speak to Long until he knew more about what was going on here. Although he didn't exactly feel safe in his current hide he saw no alternative. It was the only place where he might be able to see who was coming and going.

  10

  Terrence Long's Home

  Mt. Vernon, Virginia

  One good thing about late winter was the short days. Even as the sun faded and the cold seeped into his bones, Ricardo was appreciative of the darkness. It gave him the freedom to shift his stiff body. To move a little without fear of giving his position away. So far no one had come out of Long's home. From what he'd seen in the hours he'd spent hiding in the bush, the security team wasn't running patrols on this small property. Instead, they appeared to be concentrating on a few fixed positions that covered what they apparently felt were the critical points. Ricardo hoped this was something he might be able to exploit. There might be a few blind spots in their coverage that he could take advantage of and gain access to the property.

  As night fell, exterior lights came on, powered by an industrial generator sitting behind Long's home. There were lights mounted on posts along the dock and lights along the path leading from the house to the dock. Ricardo removed a nightvision device from his pack and strapped the bump helmet onto his head. He dropped the twin tubes and turned on the switch, getting a grainy white image in seconds. His movement hadn't caught the attention of the sentry closest to him, the one on the dock. The man was oblivious. He had no enhanced optics and stood on the dock looking bored, his rifle dangling from the sling while he smoked a cigarette.

  Creeping backward into the yard adjoining Long's, Ricardo kept the fence between him and the guards. Now free of the bush he'd spent the day under, he stretched his back and took stock of his surroundings. This home appeared to be empty. Even in the darkness there were no signs of light inside. Ricardo grabbed his pack and stashed it in a safe place in case he had to retreat in a hurry. He'd be able to move easier without it.

  He tried to get an idea of how many sentries he was dealing with. He was pleased to find that the man on the dock looked to be responsible for the entire backyard. The team must have felt that it was their least vulnerable side since most of the security presence was focused on the street side. There were two men stationed at the Hummer blocking the road to Long's front yard. They were reinforced by a team of three who were positioned in front of the property where Ricardo was currently hiding. Three more men in Catalyst uniforms stood in the front yard of Long's home. Although all were heavily armed, Ricardo saw no enhanced optics. These men would be blind in the dark unless using flashlights or headlamps.

  Ricardo determined that the narrow stretch of yard to the side of the house was left unguarded. He carefully tested the six-foot-high fence that separated the properties to see if it would support his weight. It was rock-solid. Someone had gotten their money's worth when they paid for the fence. Ricardo hoisted himself up and threw a leg over the top, then lowered himself to the other side. Under other circumstances he would have been concerned about any noise this might make, whether it be the creaking of boards or any rattling from his gear, but the hum of the generator overpowered every sound.

  Even so, Ricardo froze there by the fence for a moment, waiting to see if he'd been detected. There was no response from anyone. When he was certain it was safe he headed toward the large brick colonial, using the manicured hedges to break up his silhouette. There were windows above him with indirect light visible through the blinds, but this wasn't what he was looking for. Long would likely be entertaining in one of the public spaces of the home or hosting a small meeting in his office.

  Ricardo continued toward the back of the house. There was a sentry on the dock, but the yard was large enough that there was a lot of space between the dock and the home. The area was designed for entertaining with a pool, a hot tub, and a patio of brick pavers. There was a pool house and a gazebo, along with several low brick walls that divided the space. All of those elements gave Ricardo plenty of options for cover as he moved around.

  He followed a brick path around the corner and crouched low to stay out of sight. The path ended at steps leading up to a patio level with the back of the house. From that patio, a bank of French doors led inside. Ricardo was pleased to discover that this vantage point allowed him to see into the formal dining room, which had been situated for optimal water views. Sometimes people tended to forget that views equated to vulnerabilities.

  Inside, Ricardo immediately spotted Terrence Long at the head of the table. He was the model of exuberance, talking animatedly with a raised glass of wine in his hands. He looked happy—almost joyous—as did the other seven people at the table. All were well-dressed and clean, which would have made them stand out among most Americans at the moment. Being groomed and wearing clean clothes this far into an ongoing national disaster said a lot about who these people were. They were elite, wealthy, or powerful enough that fluctuations in the stability of the country didn't impact them. They were untouchable.

  Ricardo focused on their faces and tried to figure out who they were. Were these simply personal friends of his? Were they old intelligence acquaintances who were weathering this societal collapse at Long's home? Perhaps they were living on those boats docked on Long's pier? As fast as the idea came to him, he discarded it. That didn't fit.

  He focused on those faces, aware that there was something familiar about them. Then he found that he recognized one of them. Ricardo was fairly certain the man he was focusing on was Darrin McGlothlin, one of the tech billionaires who lived in the Northern Virginia area. He ran a firm that mined social media sites to build a database of information shared by those users. He sold information on everything from shopping habits to political beliefs to the weapons that a person might post a picture of online. Everyone from the government to major corporations subscribed to his service in order to have access to those profiles.

  The presence of a man such as McGlothlin at this meeting was interesting. He was someone that Long traditionally would have been at odds with. He threw a lot of money at the political process and even went as far as organizing his own political action committee. All of the causes McGlothlin supported were contrary to Long's traditional positions. At least they were contrary to the opinions he'd expressed to Ricardo and the other members of the Macallan Collective.

  With that thought, Ricardo suddenly knew where he'd seen the other faces before. These weren't intelligence colleagues or fellow Macallan Collective members. Indeed, they were the very opposite. Ricardo now recognized them from the packet of information the Macallan Collective had provided when he'd accepted the contract he'd just sent Conor on. These folks having
dinner with his old acquaintance Terrence Long should have been his political foes. They were folks working specifically against the interests of the Macallan Collective and, even more importantly, against the interests of the American people.

  In light of this realization, Ricardo put names to the other faces. There was a political strategist who'd played a critical role in getting the current administration into power. There was a news anchor for one of the nation's premiere cable news networks, a man who used his position to "influence" rather than to "report." There were two junior lawmakers, only recently elected but outspoken in their party for their anti-establishment sentiments.

  The last face that Ricardo recognized took a moment to present itself. The man had his back to Ricardo and it wasn't until he spoke directly to Long that Ricardo caught his profile. It was Sanjay Thongwaitaipassan, an advisor to the Secretary-General of the United Nations. He was a man outspoken in his belief that American influence had a negative impact on the world. He was devoted to changing that. He felt that America needed to share its wealth with the world. If that meant the American standard of living had to drop in order to raise the standard of living for the rest of the world, so be it.

  Between the sound of the generator and the closed doors of the house, there was no way for Ricardo to pick up what was being discussed. He wanted to creep inside and eavesdrop but it was too risky. He'd only manage to get himself killed. He retreated into the shadows, hurried around the side of the house, and slithered back over the fence to the adjacent property.

  In the neighbor's yard, Ricardo slouched in a wooden Adirondack chair and stared out on the water. With the nightvision, the moon and stars reflected brilliantly off the water. A few distant lights shone like beacons, their brightness enhanced by the optic. Ricardo's head was reeling, all of those thoughts eventually converging on a single, inescapable point.