"When I first got into this business I was working directly for the U.S. government. This was a couple of years before Ricardo came along. They didn't take people like me off Uncle Sam's payroll until they restructured the intelligence apparatus after 9/11. Most of my work during those early years was in Central America, the Middle East, or Eastern Europe. Sometimes Thailand. I was young and still wet behind the ears. Mostly I built custom explosives and handed them off to other folks to put to use. My job title and the division I worked for were all some made-up bullshit, but I still got a check every two weeks and that's what mattered."
"What was your job title?" Barb asked. "The made-up one?"
"Copier technician. Supposedly I was the bloke who repaired the fecking Xerox machines."
Everyone got a laugh out of that, picturing the brutish Mad Mick in a white shirt and clip-on tie, working in a professional office setting.
"I can totally see that," Barb said. "You beating on the bloody copier and shooting it full of holes for sucking more than one sheet of paper through at a time. All those office workers staring on in horror."
"That would be the truth of it. Fortunately, I never had to actually lay my hands on one of those infernal devices. I was more involved with the kind of devices that go boom. That was what I was doing when I first crossed paths with Browning. Covert services had learned during the days of the Nicaraguan revolution that smuggling cocaine into the United States was a good way to fund projects without having to involve Congress. This was still going on when I started working for the government. Intelligence agencies would buy cocaine directly from the cartels and bring it into the U.S. Congressional money required a paper trail and had strings attached. Cocaine money could be used for anything."
"Seriously?" Ragus asked.
Conor have him a serious nod. "I could talk all day about that, Ragus. If this is the first you're hearing of this, that's a long history lesson we'll have to save for later."
Ragus looked disappointed. "Don't forget. I want to hear about it."
"I promise," said Conor. "Anyway, one of the cartel’s leaders decided to jack the prices up significantly and he got all the other cartel leaders to band together in support of this price increase. That pissed off the CIA so they decided to take the guy out. They had another guy ready to step up and take control of the cartel once they did the hit. That guy had agreed to go back to the old pricing structure."
Wayne shook his head in astonishment. "No honor among thieves, apparently."
"It's a tough world," Conor allowed. "Anyway, the CIA had some plan that involved a car bomb so my boss sent me down to Florida to build a half-dozen of them. They had this black site way out in the middle of a swamp. They hauled me out there in this tiny boat and it was truly in the middle of nowhere. I think they did that so if something went wrong, I wouldn't blow up any decent, God-fearing Americans."
"Just a few snakes, gators, and catfish," Shannon remarked.
"That's the truth of it. There were so many gators hanging around the place that it had me wondering if they were used to a steady diet of human flesh. The place was perfect for interrogation. You couldn't get anywhere without a boat and the swamp was full of dead-ends. It was like a maze."
Conor paused to take a sip of his tea, frowning at the unsatisfying taste. "So when I was done, they flew me and my bombs to Honduras on this private cargo jet. The plane was packed with cases of weapons, which was our payment to the Honduran operatives who were going to carry out the bombing. The whole operation was put together by this CIA man I'd never met before."
"Browning?" Ragus guessed.
"The same. He had a big mouth and couldn't shut up about himself. Talked for the whole flight about how he'd been running around Central America making deals for twenty years. There were a couple of other guys on the plane who I think were also CIA, but they didn't say much. The plan was that we'd land on this jungle airstrip and the other men would distribute the weapons while I taught the Honduran assassins how to use the devices I'd built. If all went well, we'd lift off a few hours later and be home in time for a bologna sandwich and The Tonight Show."
Shannon turned up her nose. "Bologna. Yuck."
"How old were you, Dad?" Barb asked.
"Maybe late twenties. Somewhere in there, I guess. I was still kind of new to the business, so my boss at the time was constantly sending me to training. I did more training than jobs some years. I was a switchblade and he had hopes of making a multi-tool out of me. In between assignments they'd send me to various schools at different military bases. I learned all the basics those first few years. Guns, combatives, tactics, and all that military crap. Later they sent me to better schools. SERE school. Sniper school. Advanced combatives."
"That sounds kind of fun," Barb said.
"It was," Conor admitted. "Most fun I ever had in my life, really. It's not everyone who can embrace a heartless thug like me, but the governments of the world certainly do. They spent a lot of money making the Mad Mick a better version of the bomber they originally hired on."
"Where was I?" she asked. "I don't remember any of this."
"You stayed with a friend of my mother's. Fine older lady there in North Carolina. A grandmother. She'd keep you when I was out of town. Never would take a dime off me. Said it was her pleasure."
"She must have dropped you on your head," Ragus quipped, a wicked smile on his face. "That would explain a lot."
Barb winked at him. "I'll remember that and put it on your tab."
Ragus was no longer smiling. He hated when she used him as a training dummy.
"But back to the story, that trip south went like clockwork for the most part. It was a shit landing strip and scared the devil out of me, but other than that it was a piece of pie. Two hours, in and out. The rub came when we landed back in the states. At the time the CIA had these private airstrips in small towns around the country where they could do what they wanted. They could land, load, or unload anything they wanted without drawing the least bit of attention. My truck was parked at the airport and I was anxious to get home to Barb so I was at the door, ready to drop the stairs as soon as the plane stopped moving. I was halfway across the tarmac when the co-pilot yelled at me that I'd forgotten my rifle cases."
"You forgot your rifle cases?" Wayne asked. "That's hard to imagine."
Conor pointed a finger at him. "No, I didn't, because I hadn't taken any rifle cases. It was a quick trip and all I had was this short little CAR-15 I'd been issued for the operation. All my other gear was in my backpack and I was wearing that. So I turn around and head back into the plane to see what the co-pilot was going on about. When I get inside the plane, Browning is standing there telling the crew that it was all a mistake, that those were actually his gun cases. The co-pilot apologized and said that the cases said 'Maguire' so he assumed they were mine."
Conor paused for another unsatisfying sip of tea. "So I'm trying to figure out what's going on and Browning is getting a little twitchy. He's holding a rifle case in each hand and my name is clearly written on a piece of duct tape stuck to each case. I go to reach for one of the cases and Browning snatches it from me."
"Uh oh," Ragus mumbled.
"Uh oh is right. Now you have to remember that I was a little hotheaded back in the day, not the teddy bear I am now. So I whip up that little CAR-15 and stick it in his face. Everyone in that plane heard the selector click when I moved it off Safe. You could have heard a bloody pin drop."
"I told him to set the cases on the ground and open them up or I'd blow his bloody head clean off. If those cases had my name on them, I wanted to know what this was all about. He's all pissed off, ranting and raving that we're on the same team. He sets the cases down, pulls a key from his pocket, and opens both of them."
"What was inside?" Shannon asked.
Conor met her eye. "Brick-sized packages of white powder."
"Cocaine?" Wayne asked.
"Yep. Like I said, the CIA had been moving coke out o
f there for decades. We all knew that. We even knew there were a few loose cannons within our ranks who were smuggling drugs back to sell for personal profit. There was an informal understanding that as long as you were quiet about it, no one asked any questions. I was fine with that and played along by those rules. I'd grown up around criminals and underworld characters so I knew how to keep my mouth shut. What other men did was none of my business. However, I was not fine with him labeling those gun cases like they were mine."
"I wouldn't have been cool with that either," said Wayne.
"So the bastard was just covering his ass in case we had any problem landing back in the states. Despite who we were working for, there were times that local or state cops would get suspicious and start paying attention to us. Had any law enforcement been waiting for us at that airport, they'd have assumed the cases were mine because my bloody name was on them. I'd have gone to jail."
"What did you do?" Barb asked. "Obviously you didn't kill the bastard since he's still around."
"I should have, but I didn't,” Conor replied. “I dragged those rifle cases over to the door and tossed them onto the tarmac. Then I dumped a mag in the cases, shooting the things full of holes. When that mag ran dry I did another and soon that cocaine was blowing across the runway in a white cloud."
"Was he pissed?" Wayne asked.
"Pissed and terrified," Conor said. "I was running full-auto in the middle of rural Arkansas. They were scared of who might have heard the shots or seen what was happening. I guess they were all scared I might kill them too. When Browning finally saw that I wasn't going to shoot him, he said I cost him over a million dollars. I told him I didn't give a damn about any side jobs he might be running, but I'd not work with a man I couldn't trust. I guess some of those people on the plane talked and word got around. While the story improved my reputation, I guess it hurt his."
"You two never worked together again?" Barb asked.
Conor shook his head. "Never. I saw him in passing a few times but we never exchanged more than a few hard looks. Word got back to me that no one wanted to work with him anymore. As far as I was concerned, he made his bed."
Wayne nodded slowly. "That explains a whole lot. This is more than business. This is personal. A grudge that's been simmering for decades."
Conor took a slurp of his tea. "Absolutely."
Barb set her empty plate down on the upturned log she'd been using as a side-table. She'd finished her meal while Conor was busy recounting his tale. "So obviously our long-term plan is to kill this idiot. What's the short-term play? What are we going to do tomorrow?"
"I want Shannon and Ragus at the mine with the cache. While I don't expect any trouble beyond him just being an asshole, it seems prudent. Barb, I want you with me since he already knows your face. Wayne, I'm going to put you in the woods as overwatch. Your role isn't for isn't security. I'm not expecting you to ride in and save the day if things go south. Mostly I want you out there as a witness in case something bad happens. Any questions?"
"Why are you hiding us?" Shannon asked.
"No offense to you two, but Browning doesn't know the size of our group. I'm sure he has satellite footage of people moving around the compound, but that doesn't tell him everything. I want to keep our unit size a mystery. He'll see the two faces he's already seen, Barb and mine, and that's it. Does that make sense?"
“It does,” Shannon said.
"Good. I don't know what Browning's schedule is but I want us in position by 5 AM. Get a good night's sleep and pack provisions for tomorrow. Any questions?" He looked around the group and found none. "Then let's eat up and enjoy the rest of our evening."
The group exchanged looks between themselves. Conor had seen those expressions before. It was the kind of look people had when their mother told them to put a smile on their face and have a good time or she was going to spank them. How were they supposed to relax and enjoy the evening when they knew what was coming tomorrow?
It was different for Conor. His outlook was shaped by the life he'd lived. He understood you had to enjoy the good times when you could. There were no guarantees in life, no assurances you'd ever have another happy moment beyond the one you were having right now. He could die tomorrow. They all could. It was best to remember that.
18
Conor's Compound
Jewell Ridge, Virginia
Well before dawn Conor, Ragus, Shannon, Barb, and Wayne assembled in the main living quarters. Conor made coffee and handed out a breakfast of ham biscuits and hard-boiled eggs he'd put together the night before. Everyone filled water bottles and packed away some snacks for the days. This was a good time to use some of those MREs no one really liked. They were more palatable when they were the only option.
They wasted no time and made little small talk, everyone nervous about what the day would bring. When each person had what they needed, they gathered their weapons and headed off to settle into their stations. Ragus and Shannon would be at the dog-hole mine, hiding out with the supply cache. Wayne would be on overwatch with a McMillan TAC-300, a .300 Win Mag tack-driver with a Nightforce scope. As Conor had told him repeatedly, his role was to simply observe what took place, though no one expected Wayne would just stand by and watch if Conor or Barb were truly in danger. If that was the case, all bets would be off.
When everyone else was gone, Conor and Barb settled onto the front porch, watching the sun rise. It broke across a distant ridge and illuminated the rich green canopy with brilliant golden light. For a little over thirty minutes they both watched the sky, neither having a lot to say. Crows mocked them and squirrels ignored them. Chickens crowed and goats answered.
Barb’s silence was the result of nerves. She hadn’t been in a situation like this and had no idea how it might play out. She'd experienced a lot in this last year but the world kept throwing new things at her. While she was still alive and fighting the good fight, she still struggled with keeping a cool head.
Conor focused on trying to relax. He wanted to remain in a mental place where he had utter and complete control of himself. He didn't want to lose his temper and kill Browning, though that would have been the perfect highlight to the morning. Conor was certain that Browning wouldn't put himself in Conor's crosshairs without some backup plan to keep himself safe. It was exactly what Conor would have done if he'd been in Browning's place.
His state of calm was disturbed by a distant flutter of sound. As always, Barb was the first to notice it, pointing to catch his attention. Conor, his hearing damaged by too many booms and bangs, caught it a second later.
Conor rose from his seat. "Let's go greet our guests."
Barb let out a long, tense breath and stood. They walked toward the chopper pad, carrying guns because they always did, but slinging them over their backs in a relatively non-threatening position. Should the situation descend into all-out chaos they'd have the tools to join the fight. The chopper made a beeline for Conor's place, which confirmed Browning's statement that he knew exactly where to find them.
Conor waved his hands and arms in the standard manner to direct the chopper to the landing pad, but they ignored him. The flight crew was responding to someone else's directions, likely Browning's, as he ordered the chopper directly down into Conor's garden. The rotor wash flattened corn and beans before the chopper even touched down. When it finally settled to the ground, the landing gear crushed ripe tomatoes, green peppers, and potato plants.
"Those bastards," Barb snarled. "They did that on purpose!"
"Easy, daughter," Conor warned. "They most certainly did, but we'll salvage what we can. I'm not dying over a bloody vegetable and neither are you."
"We shouldn't have to salvage anything! We put a lot of sweat into that garden and they destroyed it intentionally."
The crew killed the engines and the side door slid open. A head and a rifle barrel popped out, checking the surroundings.
"We'll make them pay," Conor said. "Not today and maybe not tomorrow, but we'll
make them pay."
There was venom in Barb's voice when she said, "I want in on it when we do. I want to make them bleed. Blade or bullet, I don't care."
"No promises, but I'll do my best, daughter. Now choke it down and be professional. They intentionally did that to piss us off so don't give them the satisfaction."
Three men, likely Browning's security detail, hopped to the ground and scanned the perimeter with weapons raised. Seeing nothing of concern, they waved Browning on out. He hopped down and strode boldly in Conor's direction, shading his eyes against the dust the chopper had stirred from the garden.
"I hope our garden dust blinds him," Barb seethed.
Conor ignored the comment, Browning now close enough that he might hear any response he made.
"Ahoy there, Conor. Seems my pilot might have missed the chopper pad. Hope we didn't damage anything." He flashed a sarcastic smile.
Conor ignored the comment. "What can I do for you, Browning?"
Browning looked around, checking out the compound with great interest. "So this is the Mad Mick's lair, huh? I always wondered what you were up to out here in the hills. Everyone thinks of the Mad Mick as Ricardo's junkyard dog, but I didn't realize he really kept you in a real junkyard."
"That mean you're wanting a tour?" Conor asked. "It's a simple place but I call it home."
Browning rolled his eyes. "Spare me the blarney, Conor. I won’t waste a minute more than I have to in this scrapyard. There's nothing here I give a crap about, including you and that psycho daughter of yours."
Conor's expression hardened. "Not all of us had the illegal drug income you had, Browning. I never had to buy a cattle ranch in Montana or a waterfront estate in Maryland to hide my cash. I don't own a bar in the Florida Keys or the Bahamas like you do."
Those comments hit home and the two men locked eyes for a long moment. While Browning had been keeping tabs on Conor over the years, Conor had just revealed that he'd been doing the same with Browning. The home in Montana and Maryland were not just random comments. They were fact. Same with the bars in the Keys and the Bahamas.
Ultraviolent: Book Six in The Mad Mick Series Page 16
