Ultraviolent: Book Six in The Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  The appearance of the trucks brought every member of the Jacks family out to the front porch. Conor tossed up a hearty wave as he opened Johnny's gate and drove the big International through. Wayne was close behind him, stopping to close the gate once he was inside the fence. They drove directly to the house and killed their engines.

  Johnny, Jason, and Sam stood on the porch with a range of expressions on their faces—curiosity, concern, surprise. Conor understood. Moving vehicles weren't something they saw every day in their new world.

  Conor hopped out of the truck and walked toward the porch. "I guess you're kind of wondering what this is all about?"

  Johnny smiled. "You'd be right about that. They start selling fuel again?"

  "Sadly, no. I had a few barrels put back for emergencies and decided this was the time to use them."

  "That mean this is an emergency?" Jason asked, his wary tone implying that he'd had enough of emergencies lately.

  "Not for you, lad, but it is for me and the folks who live with me."

  "What can we do, Conor?" Johnny asked. He was always up for lending a helping hand.

  Conor's expression grew serious. "I've never told you folks what I do for a living and that's for your own safety. All I can say is that I work in a pretty violent field."

  Sam and Jason exchanged glances, but it was Sam that put it into words, her tone oozing with playful sarcasm. "Wow, Conor, we'd have never guessed that. Totally shocked."

  "I'm sure you have questions and I'll do my best to answer what I can, but time is short. Basically, I've got a knife to my throat. I've received orders that I'm not sure I can carry through with. Unfortunately, the penalty for failure is that my home will be destroyed and my family killed."

  Every face on that porch reflected the horror in Conor's words.

  "You're welcome to stay with us," Johnny offered without a moment's hesitation. "If anyone wants you, they have to come through me first."

  Conor smiled. "Thank you, my friend, but that's not what I'm asking at the moment. In case I do lose my home, I'm trying to get gear and supplies spread out so I won't lose everything. I was wondering if I might be able to store a few shipping containers here and maybe stick a few items in your barn."

  Johnny gestured toward the barn. "My place is yours, Conor. Whatever you need."

  "I'm in your debt," Conor said somberly. "If you'll excuse our rudeness, the clock is ticking and time is precious. I'm going to dump this container behind the barn and help Wayne get unloaded. Hopefully, we'll have time for another load before the day is out."

  "I'll help unload," Jason said.

  "Me too," Sam offered.

  Johnny grimaced. "I'm still too busted up to be much help."

  Conor stepped forward and extended a hand to Johnny, shaking with him. "You've been a tremendous help already."

  With a final nod, Conor hopped back in his truck. He followed the farm road to the barn and backed up alongside it, positioning the container in a spot where it should be hidden from the road. He hopped out and released the chain binders, freeing his load. When he climbed back into the truck, he hit the lever that tilted the deck. For a moment the container did nothing, held in place by friction, then it broke loose and slid down the deck. Conor pulled forward until the container was completely free, then raised the bed back into position.

  Wayne had already backed the big M35 up to the barn door and was untying his load. While he was still wrestling with his ropes and tarps, Jason and Sam were pulling out totes, cases, and boxes. They hauled them to the farthest depths of the barn and stacked them neatly. Uncertain of just how much Conor would be bringing, they wanted to maximize the storage space.

  Conor joined them just as Wayne was stashing his tarps and ropes in the cab of the truck. They jumped in alongside Sam and Jason, hauling at double-time. Johnny watched from the barn door. Every time Conor looked at him, he could see a million questions on the man's face, but Johnny understood this was not the time to ask them.

  Conor understood he'd owe the man big time. He'd have to come clean with him after this and explain everything. Who he was, what he was, and what he did for a living. He suspected the old man knew, at least on some level. Conor didn't fight, shoot, and handle guns like most of the welders and machinists that Johnny had met in his life. He'd said as much, but Conor didn't take the bait at the time, not wanting to blow his cover in the small community.

  Certainly by now it was already blown. Who among his neighbors could have fought by Conor's side and thought he was simply a metalworker with really good tactical gear? What other fabrication shops anywhere else in the entire country had choppers flying in and out? What other welders could give away cases of MREs and boxes of ammo in this disaster like candy at Halloween? It didn't take long to figure out that whatever Conor Maguire did for a living, he hadn't learned it in vocational school.

  As it always did, unloading took more time than expected. When they were done, they said a quick round of goodbyes and hopped back in their trucks. The drive back to the compound was uneventful, but Conor couldn't help but give a small cheer when he reached the mudslide. True to her word, Barb had cleared the road for them. Muddy tire tracks and mud-stained asphalt were the only indicators of what had taken place there. Conor and Wayne breezed by the scene without even slowing.

  "Yay for Barb!" Wayne shouted into the radio.

  Conor grinned, proud of his girl. "Damn right, Wayne. Yay for Barb."

  21

  Conor's Compound

  Jewell Ridge, Virginia

  After two days of running loads to Johnny's house, the compound looked considerably different. While the outside was relatively unchanged, the inside looked picked over and ransacked. They simply didn't have enough time or space to take everything of value. Though they got all of the weapons, other useful items would be left behind—some gear, food, clothing, and tools. They all tried to convince themselves that nothing bad would happen and they'd eventually move everything back onto the compound, but there was no guarantee of that. No one knew what lay ahead of them.

  Shannon and Conor were working in the kitchen, going through the cabinets and drawers for anything important they might have missed.

  "Does it make you sad to see it like this?" Shannon asked.

  Conor shook his head. "I get a little miffed at the inconvenience of it, but not sad really. I've moved a lot in my life. Living here was the longest I've ever been settled in one spot. It was a good run, but I understood it might not be forever. If I have to relocate, rebuild, and start over, I can do it. I've done it before."

  Shannon looked around. "I get it. Dad and I moved around so much that I don't feel like I'm attached to any particular place either. Home is wherever I am at the time."

  Conor smiled and patted her on the shoulder. "Nothing wrong with that, Shannon. You have to plow your own row in this world. Everyone lives their own life. They're all different. It's what you make of it that defines you, not where you lay your head at night."

  Her smile revealed the struggle she was still experiencing over the loss of her father. The loss had disoriented her. "I'm learning."

  Barb came clamoring through the back door like a herd of horses. "You got your shit packed, old man?"

  Conor winked at Shannon and cocked his head toward Barb. "You hear the mouth on that one? The way she talks to her father..."

  Barb made a sad expression. "Oh, did my words hurt you? I'm so sorry. If I could find a teddy bear in this mess I'd give you one to hug."

  "One day I'll be in the bleeding old folks' home and this is what I have to look forward to?" Conor mused. "Not even a kind word for your old man."

  Barb rolled her eyes. "They don't have homes for old thugs like you, dad. You think there's some Father Brady's Home for Retired Assassins and Pipehitters? I doubt it."

  "Maybe you could live at the beach and ride around on a bicycle all day," Shannon suggested. "I could see you in flowery shorts, high white socks, and a straw hat."r />
  Barb snickered.

  Conor's eyes brightened and he raised a finger in the air. "Or maybe I buy some RV resort in Florida and open me own retirement village for folks like myself."

  "It worked for the circus," Shannon said. "I think there used to be a few 'clown towns' in Florida."

  "Shame that name has already been used," Barb said. "It would have been perfect. Conor's Clown Town."

  "Everyone's a comedian around here,” Conor grumbled. “You're a regular Cheech and Chong, you two are."

  Barb and Shannon frowned at each other, having no idea who Cheech and Chong might be.

  "So, father dear, do you have your gear packed?" Barb asked sarcastically, rephrasing her original question in a gentler manner.

  Conor beamed. "Now that's more like it. Yes, daughter dearest, I certainly do."

  "Then haul your aging carcass outside and let's get our horses loaded. We're burning daylight."

  They'd delayed it as long as they could, and now Conor and Barb had to get moving. It was time to head for Jim Powell's community and at least give the appearance that they were playing along with Browning's orders. With Barb's assistance, Conor shuttled several loads of gear out onto the front porch. They debated taking a pack horse but decided they needed to keep things light in case there was a pursuit. Dragging a pack horse around made everything more complicated. Fortunately, the warm weather required they take less bulky gear. They could carry lighter sleeping bags and thinner clothing.

  Each of them would wear a light pack with basic survival gear. The bulk of their gear would be stored in nylon saddle bags. They had a camo tarp they could rig as a shelter and thin fifty-degree sleeping bags that should provide enough warmth for late summer. Everything was packed in a waterproof manner in case a summer storm caught them on the trail. They wore camo gear that would help them blend into the hardwood forests and high grasses of farmland.

  For weapons, Conor carried a Glock 19 with a threaded barrel. A suppressor for the handgun was stored on his chest rig with the spare mags. Some of those spare mags had the bottom plates painted orange to designate them as holding subsonic rounds. His rifle was a suppressed .300 blackout with a holographic sight. He carried subsonic rounds for that weapon too. Barb carried the same handgun, a Glock 19, with the same suppressor. Her rifle was an AR platform in 7.62 with a variable-power scope.

  Despite some debate on the matter, most of it related to the summer heat, they both wore plate carriers with full plates. While they didn't expect this mission to turn into a firefight, they knew that a fight could come out of nowhere when they least expected it. It would be uncomfortable to ride around in the sun with those plates on, but bullets wounds were also uncomfortable. Even before they hit the road, Conor swore he could feel his innards boiling from the lack of airflow to his chest and back. They took along lightweight bump helmets because they made it easier to mount their nightvision.

  The rest of the group stood around watching them tie the last of their gear into place. When they were done, Conor faced Shannon, Ragus, and Wayne. "I don't know when we'll speak again since I had to pack up the radio room. I guess you'll see us when you see us."

  "That's not much of a comfort," said Ragus. "How will we know if anything bad happens? How will we know if you need help?"

  "You won't, lad. That's the nature of it and we can't change it."

  Ragus looked at the ground. "Still sucks."

  "Indeed it does," Conor admitted. "So everyone is clear, there's no staying at the compound until this is over." He looked around at each face to see that everyone understood.

  Wayne cleared his throat. "Yeah, we've kind of got a schedule worked out for that. Shannon and Ragus are staying with the gear at the dog-hole mine. They'll come up here to the compound each day and do a quick pass to check on things, feed the livestock, and water the garden if it needs it. I'm going to stay at Johnny's place but I'll come check on them every other day."

  Conor looked at Ragus and Shannon. "You guys good with that? No issues?"

  "We're good with it," Shannon said.

  Ragus nodded.

  "I bet you are," Barb teased. "An hour or two of work a day leaves plenty of time for snogging."

  "Oh God," Ragus groaned, embarrassed.

  Shannon elbowed him. "We live together, dude. It's not like it's a secret anymore."

  "It's reflex," Ragus said. "I'm so used to her giving me crap."

  Conor let out a long breath and shot a glance at Barb. "Then if everyone's good, we need to get on the road." He stepped up to Wayne and shook his hand. He gave him a look that said all the things he hadn’t put into words when they'd been discussing this mission. If the worst happened, he wanted Wayne to make sure Ragus and Shannon were safe.

  Wayne's nod conveyed his understanding, his acceptance of the unspoken bargain. He would do what needed to be done. "It'll be fine, Conor."

  Conor moved on to hug Shannon and then Ragus before mounting his horse. All anyone got from Barb was a toss of her head once she was sitting astride her horse. If she wrapped her arms around someone it wasn't for a hug—she was going in for the takedown and, inevitably, the submission. They all understood that. If she'd approached any one of them with her arms spread wide they'd have scattered like a flock of birds.

  "Stay safe." Conor spun his horse around and headed for the gate.

  Barb winked. "What he said." She fell in behind her dad and they rode from the compound.

  They turned left on the paved road, heading toward town, and didn't look back. As always, there were nerves and uneasiness at setting out on a new mission. Even though they were in their home territory they could face the same dangers as they'd faced up north, on the cruise ship, or in Saudi Arabia. There could be ambushes, roadblocks, or snipers. There could be the hazards one might expect, as well as any number of unpleasant surprises that neither could imagine.

  They didn't speak until they passed Ragus's homeplace, the site of the mine. They both looked for the same thing, any sign of their efforts to stash gear there. They'd intentionally tried to vary their route through the woods and high weeds so as not to beat a path to their cache.

  "See anything?" Conor asked.

  Barb shook her head.

  "Good," Conor muttered.

  Further down the mountain they passed the house where Barb's one local friend, JoAnn, had lived. Barb had been visiting her when the two of them had been kidnapped by the group from Douthat State Park. Despite their numbers, Conor caught them on a foggy riverbank in West Virginia and slaughtered them without shame or mercy. There were some things a man simply couldn't tolerate and kidnapping his daughter was one of them.

  "Whatever happened to JoAnn?" Conor asked.

  "I can't remember if I ever told you. You may have been gone when it happened, but she showed up one day to tell me she was moving away. Met some guy. With her parents dead, she was afraid of living out here by herself after we were kidnapped. She never got over it."

  Conor winced. "I'm sure it was traumatic."

  "Eh, she turned the experience into fear. I turned it into hate. That's how I roll."

  "Yeah, I've noticed. You're doing better, though. You're more tolerant of your fellow humans than you used to be."

  Barb cut him a sidelong glance. "Really? I need to get over that."

  Conor laughed. "That was supposed to be a compliment. A comment on your maturity."

  Barb did some fake sniffles. "A girl grows up fast when her dad throws her out of the house."

  "I didn't throw you out of the house, smartass. I expanded your role in the community. You got to do some patrols and go on operations. You even got to do some jobs for Ricardo. I think the experience has been good for you."

  "I'd agree with that, although I'm still undecided as to whether that's what I want to do with myself."

  "You have all the time in the world, Barb. No rush. Besides, with Ricardo dead, I'm not sure who the players in the business are. I certainly wouldn't want you w
orking for anyone like Browning."

  "You miss Ricardo, don't you?"

  "I do. I gave him shit sometimes. Made him put in the work if he wanted me to take a job. I always liked him though. I think he cared about his people. He took care of us."

  "So you think you're done with the business?"

  "A lot depends on this mission, I guess. Browning acts like he wants me to be part of his team, but that offer will certainly be retracted if I don't carry out this order. That's fine because I really have no interest in working for the guy. He's an asshole. Besides, he might do more than retract that job offer once he sees I'm not going to play along. He might just have me killed. Browning doesn't like to be trifled with."

  Though Conor made that statement in a nonchalant fashion, it weighed on Barb. She didn't want to die over this op and she certainly didn't want to lose her father either. She wanted to do the right thing and not kill innocent people, but like most people, she'd choose family over strangers in a heartbeat. In her mind, if it came down to her father or this Jim Powell character, she'd choose her dad every time. She knew and loved her dad. Jim Powell was nobody to her.

  They followed the road from Jewell Ridge to the outskirts of Richlands, then headed south through Cedar Bluff to Claypool Hill. Where they could, they stuck to side roads and less populated routes. At the Claypool Hill intersection they turned southwest on Route 19.

  "This is the way I went when I took me bicycle to Damascus to help out that Grace Hardwick," Conor said. "There were a lot more people out on the road then. That big intersection back there had a manned police checkpoint. That's gone now."

  "A lot of the people you saw on that trip are probably gone now. It's been a year since it happened. You said that first year was supposed to result in a big die-off from illness, starvation, and crime."

  "I think it's true, but we won't know until there's another census taken. I doubt we'll be shocked to hear the numbers when that happens."

  They traveled a long, straight section of four-lane highway for a good distance. Open fields flanked them on both sides, providing no good places for taking cover if something ugly happened. The exposure made them both a little nervous and they kept their eyes moving, scanning for any signs of activity in the seas of green grass to both sides of them.