Ultraviolent: Book Six in The Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  While they were gone, Barb stared down at Jim from the high perch of her horse. While she was no doubt taking advantage of the height difference to appear more intimidating, she didn't need the help. Barb was intimidating by sheer force of presence alone. There was something about her that was like an impending storm. You never knew what would be unleashed in terms of lightning, wind, hail, and rain. There was this potential for violence and destruction that flashed just beneath the surface.

  "Your buddy Hugh told me a little about you," she said to him.

  "I'm sure you were charmed, seeing as how we have this natural rapport."

  She smiled at his sarcasm. Now he was speaking her language. "Regardless of what I think, you sound like someone who would benefit from some time in my dad's company. Perhaps he'd even benefit some from yours."

  "And why's that?"

  "My dad takes on the world with a vengeance. He's probably killed more people than I've ever met. He never second-guesses it. He's utterly confident in himself in that arena. His only doubts are about his daughter, about whether he's done me a disservice by raising me to be such a hard-ass. The two of you might complement each other a little. He might benefit from being around another family man. No offense, but you might benefit from being around someone with bigger balls. Someone willing to push back at the world a little harder than you are inclined to do."

  Gary winced, not wanting to be caught in the crossfire of what he assumed was about to be a searing exchange. Rather than take offense at Barb's indelicate words, Jim tried to look at the content of what she was saying. He understood that she was right to an extent. Only recently had he begun to understand that there was no room in his world right now for doubt. This was a time when you had to choose a course of action and roll with it. There was no choice. Whenever he strayed from that certainty, whenever he began to doubt himself, things went to hell all around him.

  "I'll keep that in mind," he replied, keeping it short and sweet.

  Hugh returned to break the awkward silence, folding a sheet of paper and tucking it into his pocket.

  "We good?" Jim asked.

  "Shouldn't be a problem."

  Conor mounted his horse and rode over alongside his daughter. He looked at Jim with a serious expression. "I'm glad this day ended with no bloodshed. I hope it's the beginning of a mutually beneficial alliance. Assuming, of course, that we survive the back-blast for not carrying out our orders."

  Jim nodded in total agreement. "I'm glad too. There are plenty of enemies to kill but few men out there who are worthy of knowing. I'm glad this turned out to be the exception rather than the rule. But speaking of bloodshed, I'll take it as a personal insult if you don't let me have a shot at Browning. I want to be there."

  "You have my word, friend,” Conor promised. “I suspect it won't be long. I have to check back in with him later today. I'm not sure what I'm going to say yet but I can pretty much guarantee he's not going to like it."

  Jim grinned. "Perfect."

  Conor gestured toward Hugh. "I gave your buddy there a map to my place. You might be able to make it in a day with a good horse and an early start."

  "I'll keep that in mind. Give me a day's notice and I'll be there, ready to party."

  Conor waved and spun his horse. Barb gave the group a parting nod, perhaps staring at Hugh just a little longer than the rest of them, and then she was gone too.

  Jim looked from Gary to Hugh and let out a long sigh. "What a fucking day. I need a drink."

  41

  Banks Compound

  West Virginia

  Ricardo was enjoying the privacy and seclusion of the compound Earl Banks operated deep in the scrunched-up mountains of West Virginia. Not since his childhood had he spent so much time in a quiet, rural area. It was beautiful country and it felt safe, insulated from the chaos that wracked most of the country, but it wasn't his world. Ricardo's area of operations was global. It was more metropolitan. Perhaps a little more polished. He was constantly on the move, often getting more sleep in airplanes and choppers than he got in his bed. It was the life he loved and the environment he thrived upon. His business was his life. At least it had been until it was decimated.

  When Ricardo stepped outside of his quarters and into the near-tropical darkness of the West Virginia night, it was a very alien environment to him. The residents of the compound moved around the facility at night with no issues, navigating with only the faintest glimmer of moonlight. Ricardo was never comfortable with that, always afraid he'd step on a snake, walk into a bear, or fall into a ditch. Those who lived at the compound on a full-time basis ribbed him over his need to use a flashlight, especially when his beam hit them and the flashlight impaired their natural night vision. He'd found a compromise in walking around at night with a red LED flashlight. It still allowed him to see but didn't wreck the eyes of the people he crossed paths with at the camp.

  With his red flashlight in hand, Ricardo left his cabin and headed for the shooting range further up the mountain. At this time of evening Banks was usually at the range. Sometimes other residents went with him but often he was alone. The range had one of the few open fields on the property and sometimes game would wander across it. While Banks didn't care about the bear and deer that moved around the place, he wasn't so fond of the raccoons and coyotes. Both of those pests did nothing but wreak havoc on the poultry and livestock he kept.

  As expected, Ricardo found Banks seated at one of the shooting benches. He had a .300 blackout with a suppressor and thermal scope laid out on the bench, waiting for a predator to make an appearance. He was sipping from a thermos and Ricardo could only speculate on the contents, though he suspected it was bourbon and water.

  "What you know, Ricardo?" Banks asked as Ricardo approached.

  "How did you know it was me?"

  Banks chuckled. "That red aura that follows you around. It's like a damn beacon."

  Ricardo turned the flashlight off and stuck it in his pocket. "I wanted to talk to you about Browning."

  Banks swung his legs over the bench, turning around to face Ricardo, though neither man could see much more than a vague outline of the other. The pale moonlight offered no help beneath the covered shooting position. Banks placed his thermos on the seat beside him. "Yeah, I'm not sure what you're going to do about that asshole. You can't hit him in McLean. The Catalyst facility is too well-protected for you to get inside. If you hit him long-range, they'll immediately swarm you with a thermal-equipped chopper or drone. You won't have a chance of getting away."

  Ricardo felt around for another of the shooting benches and took a seat. "I realize that and I'm not willing to sacrifice myself in order to kill him. That would kind of defeat the point. Revenge isn't very satisfying if you're not alive to enjoy it."

  "Exactly."

  "What do you think of the idea of infiltrating the Catalyst facility? Going in undercover and trying to get close to him? I suspect there's a lot of people in and out of that place daily, including Browning himself. Surely I could find a way to get close to him without getting spotted."

  Banks sipped from his thermos. "Still too risky. You have to be able to get away in the end or they win. Some of the people running the country probably feel that sacrificing Browning to take you out of the picture would be an acceptable trade, so I wouldn't give them the satisfaction."

  "Then how would you take him out? I'm not one to go off half-cocked, but this matter has gone on too long. I'm ready to take action on it."

  "Hell, Ricardo, your leg was wrecked and you were stabbed. You're lucky to be alive. It wasn't like you were sitting on your butt procrastinating. You were healing, getting your strength back."

  "I get that but I'm healed now and ready to get back to business. Browning got six more months of life than my people got. He didn't deserve those months. Every day that man sucks in breath is one more day than he deserves. I have an obligation to my team."

  Banks' voice was warm, almost paternal in the darkness. "
I get it, my friend. There's no stronger drive than the need to avenge the death of lost teammates. No greater satisfaction than making some lowlife pay for taking a friend's life. I've been thinking about your problem, though, and I might have an idea."

  "Then please share it. I'm coming up blank."

  "If you can't get to him, you need to make him come to you. You need to lure him out of his lair. Get him to some place where you can even the odds."

  Ricardo chuckled sarcastically. "It's hard to even the odds when the man has an army at his disposal."

  "You get him far enough out of the beltway and he can't bring his army with him," said Banks. "Choppers are in high demand. He might have one at his disposal but I doubt he's got access to a half-dozen for a single mission. That's a lot of fuel to account for. He'd need a powerful justification to request it."

  "You have someplace particular in mind?"

  "Damn right I do," Banks replied. "You need to lure Browning to Conor's place. That might rub enough salt in the wound to force him into action. We need to spread a rumor that you survived and you're hiding out there. If he hears that rumor, he'll want to come investigate. Since it's nothing more than a rumor at this point, he probably won't want to make a big deal of it. He might sneak out with a small team and make some excuse about where he's going. You surviving is a failure on his part. It's a slap in the face. His pride will make him want to keep that a secret."

  "Interesting," Ricardo said, mulling it over. "I think you might be onto something."

  "By God, I am. Let's make it happen," Banks crowed excitedly. "There's nothing that I love more than launching some devious scheme to take out an asshole."

  "Unfortunately all we can do is provide the bait. We can't make him take it."

  "Oh, he'll take it. I'm sure of that. But you'll need to move into Conor's compound full-time. Since we won't know Browning's timetable, the only way this works is if you're there when he shows up."

  "I'm fine with staying there," Ricardo said. "I appreciate all you've done for me, but I constantly worry about someone seeing me here. We've done well to keep my use of the compound private, but all it takes is one person recognizing me and carrying word back to Washington."

  "I was glad to help, Ricardo. We've had an excellent working relationship and hopefully it can continue."

  "I expect it will. Both of us have continued to make money in the collapse, my friend. In some ways, business has never been better."

  "Until they tried to kill you." Banks took another sip from his thermos.

  "Yes, until then."

  "What about Valeria?"

  "I assumed she'd go with me," Ricardo said. "She's not your responsibility. I'm the one who took her on and you've got enough people to take care of already."

  Banks shifted on his bench. "She ain't no trouble, Ricardo. She's green, though. She's not ready to throw into a firefight. I'd hate to see her get hurt. I've kind of got attached to the little weirdo, and I say that with the utmost affection."

  Ricardo laughed. "She likes it here too. You have my word that I won't put her in danger."

  "So, I'm assuming you want the first flight I can get you?"

  "That would be perfect. What about getting a rumor back to Browning? Do I need to take care of that or is that something you can whip up?"

  "I don't expect it will be much of a problem," Banks said. "Catalyst Security teams pass through here all the time. Once they touch down, everyone wants to get out of those choppers and stretch their legs, smoke a cigarette, and bullshit. I'll have an opening where I can plant that seed."

  "Any idea what you'll say?"

  "I might warn them to be careful, that I saw a guy passing through here recently who said someone shot his chopper out of the air over Washington and raided his offices. I think that's the kind of story that even a grunt security contractor is going to pass on up the chain when he gets back to base. It's bound to reach Browning. He hears that story, he's bound to know exactly who it's about."

  Ricardo got up from the uncomfortable wooden bench and stretched. "I think you're right. That's the kind of story people would gossip about, wondering if it impacted anyone they knew."

  "Exactly," Banks replied, the grin on his face evident in his voice.

  Ricardo passed by and patted Banks on the shoulder. "Thanks for your help, Earl. I'm in your debt and I mean that. Anything I can ever do for you, just let me know."

  "I appreciate it, buddy. You have a good night."

  Ricardo tried walking in the dark but tripped over a railroad tie that acted as a step. After a few stumbling steps, he cried out, "I'm good!" and dug his light out of his pocket. In the darkness, he could hear Banks laughing his ass off.

  42

  Russell County, Virginia

  The ride out of Jim Powell's valley proved exhausting for Conor and Barb. They'd had a very physically active morning and each had taken a beating. Conor's nose had probably been broken when Jim hit him in the face with the radio. His sinus passages were swollen and he was constantly spitting out clotted blood. His nose had been smashed flat more times than he could count and he knew he'd survive, but the pain and headache made the hot ride even more unpleasant.

  Barb appeared to be in worse pain. She'd taken a long-range bullet to her armor and been knocked on her ass. She'd been lucky to survive. The armor had saved her life but left her with bruised ribs. Conor didn't know if they were broken or not because she wouldn't let anyone check the injury. She got that way sometimes, preferring to suffer alone and in silence. From the corner of his eye, he caught her wincing every time her horse made an unexpected lurch.

  After thirty minutes of miserable riding, they stopped in the shade of an oak tree beside the scenic Elk Garden Methodist Church. A sign said the church had been established in 1788. Conor swished the water around in his mouth, spat the pink froth into the grass, and dug into his trauma kit. Barb didn't even get off her horse, not wanting to experience the pain of having to remount. She might have played it tough there at Jim Powell's place, but now that it was just the two of them, the pain showed.

  Conor carried the latest CWMP, or combat wound medication packs, for the normal injuries that he ran into in the field. He also carried Fentanyl lozenges for the more serious stuff but had been fortunate enough to never need those. He dug one of the CWMP packs out of his trauma kit and ripped it open, holding it out to Barb.

  "What is it?"

  "There's acetaminophen or meloxicam. Pick your poison."

  She didn't ask any questions about the effectiveness or his preferences. She randomly selected the meloxicam and washed the pills down with a drink from her water bottle. Conor took the acetaminophen, wincing when the act of swallowing made his sinuses ache. The pill pack also came with an antibiotic, Moxifloxacin, which Conor shoved into a pocket since he didn't think either of them needed it at the moment.

  He climbed back onto his horse and they continued onto Route 19, the main four-lane highway through the area. They made it around ten miles before Conor waved Barb toward a side road.

  "I'm done. Between the pain and the adrenaline dump this morning, I'm about to fall off my horse. I need some food and a good night's sleep."

  Barb was just as exhausted but hesitant about stopping so early. She studied the horizon. "There's probably two hours of daylight left. If we push into the night, we could reach home."

  Conor gave a weary shake of his head, closing his eyes when the motion only aggravated his misery. "There are times you have no choice, and this isn't one of them. I don't like traveling when I'm too punchy to defend myself. Let's find a spot and hole up for the night. It'll be safer."

  Barb gave in, knowing he was right.

  It turned out that Conor had an idea of where he was going. He'd studied the satellite maps on his GPS as they rode and located an isolated valley with a water source and no houses nearby. It took them nearly twenty minutes to reach the spot, but he pointed out that they'd be able to leave by way of a shortcut i
n the morning, which would cut miles off their ride.

  They unsaddled their horses and let them drink from a fast-flowing stream. Barb filtered water to fill both their bottles while Conor dug through the food. He picked two freeze-dried backpacking meals, then set a pot of water boiling on the gas stove.

  "What's for dinner?"

  "Pasta or pasta," Conor mumbled.

  Barb frowned at her dad but didn't respond. It was the kind of answer he gave when he was exhausted. She hadn't realized he was this tired when they were riding along, but seeing his condition made her glad she'd agreed to stop for the night.

  Conor sat down and leaned back against an exposed slab of limestone, a rib of the eroding earth protruding through the soil. He took his hat off and fanned himself with it. "I'm feeling too old for this today, Barb. Some days I wouldn't trade my life for any other. Days like today, I'm ready to throw in my hat."

  "You'll feel better tomorrow. You'll be a new man and ready to take on the world again. I've seen you like this before. You'll get over it."

  Conor shook his head. "I don't think so. On that last mission, when we were in Saudi Arabia, I thought I'd lost you when that bastard shoved you over the balcony rail and you dropped into the pool. Today it was the same thing. When that kid shot you, I went through the same thing all over again. I can't keep doing this."

  Barb took a long pull off her water bottle. "I can't promise you I won't be exposed to danger again, Dad. That's an impossible promise to make."

  "I'm not asking for a promise, Barb. You're entitled to live your life. I'm just saying that I don't want to be there to see it next time. I don't want to feel that ever again."

  While Barb was trying to find the words to reply to her father, the phone in his pocket chirped.

  Conor rolled his neck and groaned. "Jeeeeezus, just what I need."

  "You might as well answer it."

  "I don't have the energy for this," Conor grumbled.