23
The Valley
Russell County, Virginia
For several days, Conor and Barb did nothing but conduct surveillance on the folks in the valley. They became convinced pretty quickly that Jim Powell was alive and well after locating a man matching his description moving around his property. At the highest magnification their spotting scopes allowed, his appearance matched the grainy security camera image taken at the flooded power plant. It wasn't definitive though. Once Conor had a better overall picture of the rhythm of this community, he intended to get closer and get a positive visual confirmation. Only then would he reach out to Browning and take this to the next level.
He and Barb began their data collection with each of them focusing their spotting scope on a particular house and trying to build a census of who lived there. In cases where they knew the name of the family, they assigned them numbers, such as Bird One, Bird Two, and Bird Three, until each resident of the home had a designation.
For homes where they had no information on the surname of the family they assigned them a random code name, such as Brick House, with each resident of the home then assigned a name like Brick House One, Brick House Two, and so on. It was tricky work. Some of the residents of the homes looked alike. If a resident changed clothes midday it might take a little while for Conor or Barb to determine if they were looking at a new person or someone to whom they'd already assigned a number.
Conor insisted on monitoring Jim Powell's house himself since he was their primary target. Barb started with the large extended family in the brick house at the extreme eastern end of the valley since the notes indicated they were positively allied with the Powell family. They were the group designated as Brick House and the number of children they had made this a difficult group to monitor. Barb had a constant profane monologue running as she tried to keep track of who was who.
With fewer occupants in the home he was focused on, Conor had an easier go of it. He figured out there was a core family of three living in the home—Jim Powell, his wife, and a daughter. There was an elderly couple living in the home with them, which he assumed to be the parents of either Jim Powell or his wife. The older couple didn't carry weapons and were more involved in the gardening and food preservation efforts of the family.
The family had frequent visitors, which helped Conor document the relationships between homes. This could be a critical factor if things got ugly. It would help Conor and Barb figure out which groups might come to Jim Powell's aid if he needed help.
The most frequent visitors were two young men who lived together in the house closest to the Wimmers. This was the house marked as originally belonging to someone named Buddy Baisden, now occupied by a man named Lloyd. Conor couldn't determine their age at this distance but they looked like young men. They did carry weapons and often returned to the Powell residence with game they'd hunted or trapped. They joined the Powell family for meals most days but also spent time at the home nearest to Jim Powell, which appeared to be occupied by a grandmother, her daughters, and her grandchildren.
On a daily basis, there was contact between the young men's home, Jim Powell's home, the grandmother's home, and the group at the brick house in the eastern end of the valley. They appeared to be bonded together as a unit. The Wimmers didn't mix with anyone, except for a few folks who visited from outside the valley. The same could be said of the Weatherman and the Bird families. For the most part, those two groups stayed to themselves, though they did appear to have friendly interactions with Jim Powell's group if they randomly encountered each other on the road.
The one wildcard in all of the activity they monitored was a lone figure who usually showed up on horseback at the homes allied with Jim Powell. Sometimes he was carrying an AK, but he'd also been spotted with an M4 and once with an MP5. He wore a floppy Vietnam-era boonie hat with camo pants most days. In the hot weather he was usually shirtless or wearing a chest rig over his bare skin.
Even while carefully tracking his moves, neither Conor nor Barb had been able to figure out where this guy lived. He showed up nearly every day, riding out of the woods near Jim's house. Conor wondered if this was intentional. Did the woods just happen to be the best route from wherever he was coming from or was he using the woods to intentionally obfuscate his route? If so, that might indicate a higher level of training, or at least paranoia, than Conor had been expecting from this bunch.
After several days of this, Conor backed off the spotting scope, let out a long sigh, and rubbed his tired eyes. "I think it's time to make the call."
"Browning?"
Conor nodded. "I dread it. My guess is that he'll say we've wasted enough time already. If we're sure we've located Jim Powell then we need to move on him and do as we were ordered. I'd like to buy us more time."
"How can you do that?"
"We need to throw out something that will intrigue Browning enough that he won't press us into action."
Barb considered this for a moment. "The dude in the boonie hat had an MP5 the other day. Why don't we tell Browning that this 'insurgent' he's looking for isn't isolated? He appears to have a network and is able to procure military-grade, fully automatic weapons. Maybe that would buy us some time?"
Conor looked frustrated and disgusted by his predicament. "Yeah, that's a good thought, but what if we do buy ourselves more time? What do we do with that time? Sure, we can hang out here another week and poke around. We can do some sneak-and-peek operations and learn more about these people, but what do we hope to gain from that? Inevitably the conclusion is going to be the same. If we don't produce any evidence of a greater conspiracy, Browning is going to want us to go ahead with killing them. And even if we do connect them to some network of rebels working behind the scenes, Browning is still going to want them dead."
Now Barb felt the gravity of her father's conclusions. Inevitably they either had to carry out Browning's orders or admit they had no intention of doing so. "So you're trying to decide if it's better to tell him to fuck off now or to wait and tell him to fuck off later."
"That's it," Conor admitted. "Part of me just wants to get it over with."
"Maybe you should go ahead and call Browning and play it by ear. See what he says. Tell him you need a few days to explore something of interest, but don't go into too much detail. See if he'll buy that."
Conor raised an eyebrow. "He won't be happy about it. I can guarantee that."
"Hopefully we'll have the opportunity to make him even less happy in the future. That man is on my list."
"Your To Do list?"
Barb grinned. "My To Die list."
Conor shook his head. "You're truly the fruit of me loins, daughter."
She grimaced. "When you put it that way it makes me want to vomit."
Conor didn't respond. He was fooling with Browning's satellite phone, waiting for it to gain enough signal to make the call. When he was satisfied, he punched the single contact programmed in the phone and leaned back against a nearby log. Since the call was most certainly going to be unpleasant, he might as well be comfortable.
"Browning," came the gravelly voice.
"Hey beautiful, it's the Mad Mick."
Barb threw him a curious glance, then went back to her spotting scope.
"Asshole," Browning muttered. "You better be calling with some progress."
"I said I'd call and I'm calling. We're in position above the community housing the insurgents. We've been observing them for a few days now, collecting intelligence and mapping relationships."
"Skip the recon bullshit. Have you confirmed the ID on the man I sent you there to find?"
"We have a possible," Conor replied. "I need to take a closer look but I wanted to observe the patterns of movement in the area of operations before I got any closer. Didn't want to be seen and make them suspicious."
"I'm not buying that. All the places you've worked over the years and you're telling me you can't creep around a farming community without being spotte
d? Sounds like the real Mad Mick doesn't live up to the legend."
Conor bristled. "I didn't live this long by being reckless. Maybe you should have taken some notes back in the day."
"I hope you fuck this up, Conor. I'm going to enjoy sending the drones your way. I may even have to be on hand to watch the fireworks in person."
Conor tried to rein himself in. Angering Browning may have been satisfying but it accomplished nothing. "Don't get ahead of yourself. I just need a couple more days. Besides locking down that ID, there's another angle I need to explore."
"Which is?"
"Based on what I'm seeing from a distance, these guys have access to good weapons."
"Eh, I'd guess every civilian out there who's still alive at this point has an AR-15 in the house."
"I'm not talking about civilian weapons. I've seen an MP5."
Browning still wasn't impressed. "Not worth wasting time on, Conor. It could have come from law enforcement, a private collection, or the black market. Every military asshole running choppers into Indian Country is stealing supplies from their bases and selling them outside the wire. Don't let this angle delay you taking action."
"I have serious concerns about the way you're wanting this to go down. I'm pretty certain I could take this guy out with no issues. I've mapped his alliances and I'm pretty sure I could hit the heads of the families supporting him too. I'm not certain, though, that I can march Jim Powell into town and hang him. There could be as many as forty people in this community who are in some way aligned with him. I suspect I'm not going to be able to take him anywhere while those forty people are still alive. And if I kill all of these women and children how do you think the community is going to react? Even if they don't like Jim Powell, they're going to like me a whole lot less."
"Oh, suddenly the Mad Mick is concerned he might be getting bad press?"
Conor let out a long breath. "You know what I'm saying here, Browning. This is a suicide mission as you've planned it. If I try to do things your way, there's a pretty big chance I'm the one getting killed and your guy is going to get away. How you going to explain that one?"
"You've got a week, Conor!" Browning barked. "There better be a body swinging from the traffic light by then. If there's not, it may well be your ass blowing in the wind. You get what I'm saying?" He hung up.
Conor frowned at the phone. "I think he's coming around."
Barb rolled her eyes. "Practically had him eating out of your hand, you did. So what's next?"
"Tonight we'll get a little closer."
"To Jim Powell's house?"
Conor shook his head. "Not yet."
"Then who?"
"Another of the families in the valley," Conor replied. "Our intel says that this Wimmer family isn't aligned with the Jim Powell group. Maybe they know a little something that might be of use to us."
Barb looked doubtful. "What if our intel is wrong and they're tight with him? What if they run straight to his house and warn him that there's some bloody Irish nutcase running around the community asking about him?"
Conor smiled. "There's some reason that note about the Wimmers made it into our briefing packet. There's got to be some bad blood between them."
"You're just going to waltz in there and ask them about it?"
"I am."
"And I suppose you need me to come along and bail you out if your plan goes south?"
"I was hoping you might."
"Then let's get on with it."
24
The Valley
Russell County, Virginia
It took Conor and Barb nearly an hour to traverse the ridgetop until they were directly behind the Wimmer farm. There they dropped down the steep slope, zigzagging because it was the only way to negotiate such steep terrain. Still, their feet frequently slid out beneath them in the deep layer of leaves and forest humus. It happened so often they'd given up cursing in surprise and quietly laughing at each other. After the twentieth occurrence, it was no longer funny or surprising.
Another hour of that put them at the edge of the woods above the Wimmer house. They watched the property with their spotting scopes, trying to get a count of how many people were at the home. When the sun finally dropped below the horizon it was like a whistle sounding the end of the shift at a factory. Wherever they were, whatever they were doing, each member of the family lay down their chores for the day. Hoes were leaned against garden fences. Axes were sunk into logs. Watering buckets were hung over fence posts.
With the long, loose strides of the weary, the clan convened on the back porch of their large white farmhouse. Some sat on the porch and leaned back against support posts, while others took seats in sheet metal chairs with clamshell backs. The woman Conor assumed to be the matriarch, the oldest of the folks they could see, sat in a metal glider with a teenager, the two of them stringing beans into a metal pot.
"Let's go," Conor said. "We'll descend to the west of the house. There's no one on that side to see us coming. Once we're there, we'll split up. You come around one side of the house and I'll come around the other. Once I have them covered, you can search the house and make sure there's no one inside."
"Got it."
They remained in the woods until they'd gone far enough west that a rise in the convoluted slope of the mountain hid their movement. They jogged across the cattle pasture at double-time, wanting to reach the house before the group broke up and went on about their evening. When they were even with the house, Conor and Barb jogged toward the side yard and took cover behind a barn.
"Turn your headset on," Conor whispered. "You go around the far side of the house. I'll take the near side. When you're ready, give me a mic click. When I double-click, we swing around the house and hold them at gunpoint. Once they're disarmed and on their best behavior, you can search the house. Let's try to keep this civil, okay?"
She nodded in acknowledgment. "Let's do it."
Conor gave her a pat on the back to send her off. Once she was running toward the house, he fell in behind her and flattened himself against the wooden siding, thick with layers of white paint. With his rifle shouldered, he crept toward the rear corner of the house and paused there until he heard Barb's click in his earpiece. He replied with a double-click, then swung around the corner.
The relaxed occupants of the porch were apparently unused to threats and conflicts. They had no weapons at hand, nor did they make an effort to defend themselves. At the sudden appearance of the two armed visitors, they recoiled in fear. From youngest to oldest, from men to women, they froze and surrendered without a fight.
Only the matriarch appeared unfazed. Conor understood this. She'd likely seen more and experienced more than any of the younger folks at her side. She carried on stringing beans, snapping them into smaller segments before dropping them with a faint thunk into the metal pot.
The old woman cast the unwanted guests an unwelcoming glance, then directed her frown back down to her beans. "What ya'll want?"
"I just need a word with you," Conor said, his voice polite and conversational. "If you mind your manners, we'll mind ours, and we'll all live to work another day. How's that?"
"Don't reckon we have much choice in the matter," she replied, tossing her beans into the pot with perhaps a bit more venom than was required.
"Aye, you don't. Glad you see it that way." He gestured at Barb and she headed back around to the front of the house. She was going to enter from that side and clear the house from top to bottom.
"Where's she going?" the old lady asked.
"She's going to step into the house and make sure there's no one ready to break the peace of our little visit. I'd hate for the evening to be spoiled by someone taking a shot at me from a window."
She raised an eyebrow, her reply oozing with sarcasm. "Yeah, I'd hate that too."
Conor winked at her. "You're a hellcat, aren't you? Can I assume you're Mrs. Wimmer?"
She regarded him differently now that she saw this stranger knew he
r name. "I might be. Who might you be and why the hell might you be asking?"
"You're probably safer not knowing my name, dearie. It provokes a wrath among certain circles. As to why I'd like to know who you are, I wanted to talk to you about one of your neighbors."
Mrs. Wimmer sighed dramatically and tightened her mouth. "Let me guess. Mr. Jim Powell?"
Conor grinned. "Oh, you're not just a charmer, Mrs. Wimmer, you're practically a bloody psychic. Now tell me, why would you jump to that conclusion?"
"Cause anything bad that happens back in here can usually be tracked directly to that man. Any misery that befalls us, any blood that gets spilled, always goes back to him. He's a boil on the devil's ass."
"Mother!" snapped one of the younger women on the porch.
Mrs. Wimmer cut her a sharp look. "It's true. Those people of his killed your brother."
The young woman who'd rebuked her mother glanced at Conor but didn't reply. Conor saw a lot in that glance, including the admission that there might be more to this story.
"I hope it doesn't spoil your evening, but it's that particular boil on the devil's arse that I'd like to speak to you about. There seems to be some confusion as to whether he's alive or dead."
Mrs. Wimmer shook her head. "Ain't no confusion about it. A while back we thought we were shed of him. There was a price on his head and people were trying hard to collect on it. My own son got killed trying to get him, but that bunch of his is thick as thieves. They stick with Jim Powell no matter what he does."
Before Conor could voice his next question, Barb came walking back around the house. "All clear." She resumed her position, her gun trained on the Wimmers.
Conor acknowledged Barb, then returned to questioning Mrs. Wimmer. "So why did you think you were shed of him? Did someone finally haul him in?"
"That was the rumor. There was some big ruckus in town. Explosions, shootings, and I don't know what all. There was a helicopter landed on the football field and they hauled his ass out of here. Didn't see him for over a month."
Ultraviolent: Book Six in The Mad Mick Series Page 22
