He needed a place where he could comfortably sit in concealment, yet could escape quickly if things went ballistic. He found a gap between two high piles of plastic totes and wedged himself in there. An upturned five-gallon bucket provided a comfortable seat. Having a place to sit down seemed like a trivial thing, but a long wait without moving required at least moderate comfort or he'd be shifting constantly.
There was a crackle in his headset and Barb's voice followed. "You okay in there, old man?"
Conor keyed his mic a single time, an affirmative response.
"Are you in position?" she asked.
Again, Conor responded with a single click of his mic.
"Just so you know, I lost track of you once you went inside the barn. If you need assistance you're going to have to give me a heads-up. Otherwise, I'll keep my mouth shut unless I see someone heading for the barn."
Conor clicked in acknowledgment, then settled in for the wait.
29
The Valley
Russell County, Virginia
Barb quickly grew bored with babysitting her father. It was one thing to watch the back of someone she could actually see, yet entirely another to stare at the empty, yawning mouth of the dark barn. To her right, a short distance away, the target's house blocked her from seeing the bonfire and the group enjoying it, but she could see evidence of the festivities. In her nightvision, the tall trees in the backyard practically glowed as the fire underlit their canopies. Flickering light spilled around the edge of the house. Shapes moved within that light, the shadows of people moving around the backyard. Men, women, children. A family. A tribe.
A curiosity rose within Barb. From what she'd seen of these people over these past few days, they were different from so many of the groups she'd encountered since the collapse. There had been the looting slavers from the north who'd kidnapped her and her friend JoAnn last fall. There had been The Bond, those militaristic scavengers who'd combed the countryside on a never-ending quest to feed their multi-fuel trucks. There had been other groups and countless individuals, all with a similar feel to them. Each group felt entitled to take the things they wanted, and none felt any remorse at the violence required to accomplish their goals.
She'd seen the way the members of such groups interacted among themselves and how they responded with fear, supplication, and deference to the men in charge. She'd seen none of that in the interactions here. While appearances could be deceiving, especially from a distance, the atmosphere was different among this group.
Yet it was hard to tell when she couldn't see faces. From a distance, they'd been unable to see the expressions as people of this group interacted with each other. That prevented them from understanding the subtlety of their relationships. Were their smiles genuine? Did they laugh together or were people only laughing with Jim Powell to prevent his wrath? How did people look at him when his back was turned? What did they say between themselves when he wasn't around?
If she knew he was a despicable man it would make it easier for her to pull the trigger on him, but she knew she could probably do it anyway. Her father was attempting to understand if Jim Powell was an enemy or an ally. He needed to know if the man was truly an insurgent working against America or if he was a patriot representing the same ideals that Conor himself stood for.
Barb's dilemma was much simpler. She wanted to protect the people she cared about. She could kill Jim Powell to keep her dad safe, but she didn't think she'd kill him just to keep their compound from being destroyed. She could. She was certainly capable of it, but she suspected her father's disapproval would be profound, and she didn't want to bring that down upon herself. He'd struggle with the morality of it more than she would.
She wanted to see the faces of these people, wanted to understand the connection among them. She needed to get a sense of their energy and feel the vibe that surrounded them. That would tell her things. A sense of who they were would guide her in the right direction. She knew it.
Barb left her post and made a lateral move to the right. She passed behind a cargo trailer, then moved to another tree. The light became brighter as she got closer to being able to see around the house. She flipped her nightvision up and out of the way. With no more good cover, she dropped to her belly and crawled through the high grass. She was still a good hundred and fifty feet away from the house but close enough to be seen if she stood up.
She crawled and froze, then moved again. She paused, watched, and listened. No one came, nor did any dogs begin barking. If the family had any pets, they were loafers and not carrying their weight. Several more minutes of painfully slow movement revealed the scene in the backyard. There must have been two dozen people there. The area was illuminated by candles, inflatable lanterns, and the bonfire itself. There were two plastic tables heaped with various types of food.
Somehow Barb hadn't smelled the food until she laid eyes on it, but now the aroma of it taunted her. She could smell roasted meat, grilled vegetables, and spices. Parents helped children eat from kabobs. Adults and older children ate hungrily, laughing and talking in small groups. These were families enjoying the company of others with whom they had a kinship. She saw kindness and consideration. There was none of the oppressive, overbearing presence so common in the camps of tyrants.
She couldn't see the faces in detail from this distance and was afraid to bring out her spotting scope. Still, she easily spotted Jim Powell among the group. He sat with two young men who might have been his sons, she couldn't tell. A young girl stood beside him, picking food off his plate. She didn't know who Jim Powell was or what motivated him, beyond what she'd heard secondhand.
Barb laid there in the damp grass for a very long time considering whether she should just shoot the man and be done with it. From that distance, there was no way she'd have missed the shot with her rifle. If she did it, this could be over. Browning wouldn't be satisfied and he'd certainly come back with more demands in the future, but she and her father could go home. The compound would be safe.
For how long, though? How long before Browning laid down that same threat again to make them do the next task he came up with?
Barb released a long sigh. She felt stress and tension leaving her body. She needed to get back to her position. If her dad showed up and she was gone, she'd never hear the end of it.
30
The Valley
Russell County, Virginia
Conor sat in the dark barn for over an hour, watching from his lair in the stacks of gear. He spotted several people approaching the outhouse during that time, but it was always one of the women or girls. They always came in pairs, sometimes escorting one of the smaller children. He learned two things from this observation. One, these people were safety conscious to the point that no one moved around in the darkness alone. Two, in the time-honored tradition of men comfortable in the outdoors, the males were using the bushes rather than the outhouse.
He reluctantly decided that this passive approach wasn't going to work. He sat there for a moment pondering his next steps, then decided he should retreat and talk to Barb first. He couldn't change tactics without letting her in on the plan. He extricated himself from the maze of stacked totes, careful not to knock anything over. Once free, he paused for a moment, trying to decide if it might be better to leave through the back entrance of the barn and loop around to Barb's position. He'd be less likely to run into one of the outhouse visitors that way.
Conor turned in that direction and found a figure standing in the open doors of the barn. Moonlight silhouetted him against the darkness. Conor saw a rifle in his hands and a nightvision device much like his own resting on the man's face.
Conor shot out an arm. "No!"
The man was already raising his rifle.
"No!" Conor hissed, backpedaling.
The man didn't hesitate, but neither did Conor. Everything moved in slow motion. The man shouted something at Conor as he shouldered his rifle. Conor couldn't process the words, blinded by the v
ision of his own death. Was this how it ended after all these years? After all those close calls?
There was a shot and wood splintered over Conor's head. He knew it wasn't the man in front of him because there'd been no flash from his weapon. Conor's rifle was up but he hadn’t fired either. Then there were more shots, semi-automatic, coming as fast as the shooter could pull the trigger.
Debris flew in all directions as the rounds hit wood and plastic totes. The man in front of Conor ducked and launched himself to the side in a desperate bid for cover. Praying that it was Barb sending cover fire in his direction, Conor lunged from the barn and into the exposed yard.
Screams rose from behind the house as desperate parents rushed to protect their children. Someone barked orders. Conor heard the man in the barn shouting into a radio and ran backward as fast he could, trying to put space between himself and the barn but afraid to turn his back to it.
"Run!" Barb shouted into his earpiece. "I've got you covered. Get to the drainpipe."
Conor did as he was told, spinning in the direction of his retreat and sprinting for safety. The sounds of chaos and terror followed him as people tried to get their families to safety and to find the intruder.
Conor reached the tree where he'd left Barb. He grabbed her by the arm and tugged her from cover. "We gotta go. They've got nightvision too. They'll see us."
Barb didn't ask questions. With no incoming fire, they both ran as fast as they could, reaching the drainpipe and scrambling under the road. They jogged up the same ravine they'd descended earlier, their breathing labored from the effort. When Conor slacked off, Barb berated him in her usual manner, squeezing a little more effort from him.
When they finally reached the high barn, Conor dug out his spotting scope and threw himself to the ground. Barb stood behind him, leaned over with her hands on her knees, sucking in air.
"They coming for us?" she asked. There was no fear in her voice, no panic. It was simply information she needed to know.
"I don't think so, but I wouldn't expect it of them. Anyone who's survived this long is smart enough to know they shouldn't go chasing attackers into the night."
"They'll come for us tomorrow," Barb said.
"Exactly."
"What's our play?" she asked. "We pack up and boogie on out of here?"
"No. I'm going to meet them halfway."
Barb looked at her father like he was crazy. Conor couldn't see the expression but could feel her eyes burning holes in his back.
"Excuse me? You're going to do what?"
"I'm going to surrender to them. After what just happened down there, I think it's the only way to arrange a sit-down."
"What if they decide to shoot first and ask questions later? Some thug like you shows up on my doorstep I'm not wasting time jawing with you. I'll ask my questions when you're flat on your back and bleeding into the dirt."
Conor got to his knees and packed up the spotting scope. "Let's hope they're nicer people than you or me. I'm going to assume they are."
Barb sighed. "That's an easy assumption to make."
They continued up the slope, anxious for the sheltering forest. They moved slower as the distance passed, the steep climb draining the energy from them as the adrenaline of the encounter subsided. Both were sweaty and tired when they finally staggered into their high camp.
"I think we keep a watch tonight," Conor breathed. "Just in case I'm wrong about them waiting until morning to look for us."
Barb bobbed her head as she drained a water bottle. "Good with me. I'm going to refill our water before bed. I don't want to wake up howling and dancing from a cramp in the middle of the night."
She was back in about ten minutes with enough water for both of them. She topped off Conor's bottles and dumped a pack of powdered electrolyte solution in each of them. That would help soothe their dehydrated and twitchy muscles.
"What shift you want, daughter?"
"I'll take first. I'm too wound up to sleep."
"Go for it. Wake me up about 2 AM, daughter. Earlier if you need it. Stay alert."
31
The Valley
Russell County, Virginia
As Conor had expected, the night was uneventful. Jim Powell's people were too experienced to charge out into the night after an enemy with nightvision. Although they had their own night optics and weapons, night combat was risky. It wasn't worth it if there was any choice at all.
When the sun drove the darkness from the sky, Conor woke his daughter with a song he'd sung to her as a child. He wasn't sure what made him do it. Sentimentality? A sense of his own mortality stirred by the task that lay ahead of him that day? An understanding that their life was about to change around them regardless of their best efforts?
Barb stirred in her sleeping bag, throwing the topmost flap to the side and sitting up. "Are you daft? What the hell has gotten into you? I can't remember the last time you sang that song to me."
Conor shrugged. "I don't know. I was sitting here and it came to mind. Not sure where it came from. I saw no reason to ignore the impulse. Maybe it was the world that needed to hear it, or the morning itself."
Barb raised an eyebrow. "If the world is that desperate for your singing voice then we're in troubled times indeed."
Conor ignored her. "I made you breakfast."
She looked to the side of her hammock and saw a wrapped protein bar sitting atop her grubby water bottle. "You really shouldn't have gone to such trouble, Father."
He smiled. "It was nothing really. Just a little something I threw together."
Barb took a long drink from her bottle before tearing into the protein bar. Conor had already enjoyed his, for as much as he could enjoy something that tasted like mulch coated in a thin layer of chocolate.
"You still planning on putting your precious carcass in the line of fire today?" Barb asked.
"I see no other way. We need to force this and get on with things. Not sure how else to make it happen. Putting myself at their mercy is a show of good faith."
Barb tore off a chunk of her protein bar, speaking as she chewed. "What if you learn that they're really what Browning says they are? What if they do turn out to be a group of brutal terrorists? They'll likely execute your ass. How am I supposed to swoop in and rescue you against numbers like that?"
"I don't expect you to do that, Barb."
"Oh, you expect me to sit back and watch them kill you? You think I'm going to let that happen?"
Conor shifted on the log he was resting against. He stretched his sore legs out in front of them, rubbing his knotted quads. "I don't know what to tell you, Barb. I have to go with my gut here, and my gut tells me that these are probably decent people. You'll just have to sit this out and use your best judgment. Don't do anything rash. Let me work my magic."
Barb made retching sounds. "You and your charm, again?"
"Don't be underestimating it. It's one of the finest tools in me arsenal."
"I cannot roll my eyes far enough back in my head to adequately address that remark."
Conor got a chuckle out of that. "As long as you're in a listening mood let me tell you my plan."
She listened as patiently as she could, which was not to imply that she listened without comment. Conor's testament was frequently punctuated by eye-rolling, coughs, and exclamations. Still, Barb let him talk. She didn't protest because she'd been around her father long enough to understand the futility of it. Conor would do what he thought he needed to do.
So would she. As her father spoke, Barb came up with her own plan. She had no intention of letting any harm befall the only person she had in the world. Let Conor do his thing and she'd do hers. She'd watch it all play out, with a rifle focused on the scene. Should things start to go south for him, should the scene go contrary to his expectation, she'd intervene. She'd inject her own strategy in the form of well-placed 7.62 rounds. She'd drop Jim Powell, his family, and everyone else on the scene before she’d let them harm her father.
For the entire time he spoke, Barb ranged from listening to him to planning her counter-strike. It wasn't until Conor got to his feet and stripped off his shirt that she snapped fully back to the moment.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Conor waved the dirty white t-shirt over his head. "I'll tie this onto a stick. A flag of surrender. Maybe they won't be so quick to shoot."
Barb cocked an eyebrow. "Well, maybe without that shirt on, your glowing white belly would serve the same purpose."
Conor didn't miss a beat. "Can't get me belly as high up in the air. I can wave it around, though, with a little hula dancing."
Barb threw a hand up in the air to stop him but it was too late. He'd already started.
"You keep hula dancing and Jim Powell will be the least of your problems. I'll kill you myself."
Conor extracted a spare shirt from his pack, this one a grubby brown color. He yanked it over his head, then pulled on his gear. "Let's pack up the camp before we move out. This comes to a head today. No more hiding in the bushes."
After some discussion, they gathered all their gear, dropped their hammocks, and assembled their packs. They collected and saddled the horses, loading them with all their gear. When they'd cleared their campsite, they climbed onto their horses and descended the mountain, taking the longer route along the logging road. Their tired legs were grateful for the horses on this trip down.
They exited the forest near the hay barn that sat alone in the high pasture. They scanned the area with their scopes, hoping no one had eyes on them. When they were as certain as they could be that no one was watching, they stashed their horses in the barn. They'd be loaded, saddled, and ready for a quick escape. Of course, even making it to the point of a quick escape depended on a lot of variables, such as Conor surviving long enough at the hands of the valley people.
Ultraviolent: Book Six in The Mad Mick Series Page 26
