Conor scurried up against the warm animal, feeling the shudder in its muscles as it heaved its last breath and died. Conor had never owned a horse until the last year, but he'd developed a kinship with this one. Its loss stung. He threw his rifle over the horse's back and blindly laid down a burst of suppressive fire.
When he finally chanced a peek over the animal's girth, the shooter who had been standing in the middle of the road was gone. Conor scanned his surroundings but didn't locate him. He could be hidden somewhere down over the edge of the road or he could be scrambling up the bank, ready to ambush Conor from the side.
Conor decided that some provocation might be the best way to switch up the situation. "That you, Browning?"
The tactic worked.
"Well, as I live and breathe, it's Conor Maguire! The Mad Mick!"
"Don't act like you didn't know that, Browning. I suspect you did or you wouldn't have tried to turn me into Swiss cheese just now."
Browning laughed. "Okay, I admit it, Conor. I knew it was you."
"I thought you were waiting on my report? I thought I had more time before you went off the rails and tried to blow me up."
"You know as well as I do that there wasn't ever going to be a report, Conor. You weren't going to kill Jim Powell. It was a mistake to send you on that mission. It was a mistake to leave you alive. I should have killed you and your daughter when you showed up at Oceana."
"Maybe next time," Conor replied cheerily. "We all live and we learn."
"There won't be a next time, Conor. This ends now."
Despite the ominous tone of Browning's voice, Conor wanted to badger him into acting irrationally. Badgering people to the point of distraction was one of his superpowers. "How do you suppose that's going to happen? We're kind of at a standoff here. It's almost sunrise. I can sit here all day and I suspect you can do the same. Is this how it ends? We sit here staring each other down until we die of old age?"
"I have a team, Conor. You'll be surrounded before long."
Conor brayed with laughter. "I doubt you have any team left, Browning. I suspect you're down to a couple of men, if any are left at all."
Conor didn't hear anything out of Browning for a moment. He suspected the man was trying to raise his team on the radio. Even if there were any of them alive, radio communication was a hit-and-miss affair due to the lay of the land.
"You might as well give it up, Browning. I'm not letting you leave here. Like you said, this is where it ends. I suspect you've lost your chopper and your entire team. It's just you and me now."
Browning rose from the low shoulder of the road, perhaps sixty feet from Conor. As the night lightened with the arrival of dawn, Conor could make him out in gray silhouette. Browning tossed his rifle to the ground, then tossed his bump helmet on top of it. He removed his handgun from its holster and placed that on the ground too. He unfastened his armor, tugged it over his head, and let it fall.
"You gonna keep going?" Conor asked. "Do I need to whistle and toss dollars?"
Ignoring the jab, Browning fired back, "You man enough to do this right, Conor?"
Conor slowly unfolded from behind the body of his horse. His pants stuck to him, damp with the warm blood running from the animal. He dropped his rifle and handgun onto the horse, then draped his body armor across it. His bump helmet was last. He stepped over the dead horse and stared at his old enemy.
Browning unleased a scream of rage, lowered his head, and barreled in Conor's direction. Conor charged too, getting his momentum up to meet Browning's. Conor saw the takedown coming just before they hit, Browning's arms dropping with the intention of wrapping them around Conor's legs. Conor tried to counter with a sidestep just before they collided, but Browning was quick. He missed the takedown but still managed to hook Conor's left leg.
Browning heaved on the leg, trying to flip Conor onto his back, his lowered head shoving against Conor's gut. Determined not to go down, Conor looped a hand around Browning's head and grabbed at his face. He grabbed Browning's jaw and twisted hard. Browning grunted as his neck was wrenched sideways, his grip immediately loosening on Conor's leg.
With that much pressure applied to his neck, Browning's body had no choice but to follow. Conor managed to squeeze his other arm beneath Browning's neck and latch on with an iron grip. He twisted again with all his strength. Browning grunted, lost his footing, and went down.
When they hit the ground, Conor threw himself across Browning's chest. With his left hand, he latched onto Browning's collar at the right shoulder and used his arm as a lever. He forced his forearm down across Browning's throat in a cross choke. The move made Browning struggle furiously, trying to escape Conor's grasp. When Browning nearly wriggled from his grip, Conor unleashed a hard right, delivering a powerful blow to Browning's face.
There was a crunch and Browning's nose exploded, the sensation reminding Conor of his own broken nose. Rather than subduing Browning, the punch energized him and he spun hard. He broke the cross choke and rolled his body over until he was facedown on the pavement. Browning got his hands under him and shoved up until he was on all fours.
Conor grinned at the rookie move. He wrapped an arm around Browning's throat and took the control position. He latched on with a rear naked choke, one of his favorite jujitsu moves. He liked that a slight adjustment of grip and pressure could turn a choke into a broken neck.
A grin split Browning's bloody face. He knew that going to his stomach was a vulnerable position and had guessed correctly that a man with Conor's training would go for the choke. Conor had fallen right into his trap. Browning slid a hand down to the nylon sheath on his belt and extracted the Benchmade out-the-front automatic knife. He groped for the side trigger and the blade fired out the front.
Browning slashed upward, the knife slicing across Conor's upper arm. Conor cried out, having no choice but to release his chokehold. He shoved himself off Browning and put some distance between them, heaving with exertion. Browning rose to his knees, glowering at Conor with his blood-stained face. In the gray light of dawn, he looked like a zombie rising to attack.
"I should have known you weren't a man of honor," Conor gasped. "You asked for a clean fight but couldn't keep to it. I shouldn't be surprised. You always were lazy. Always looking for shortcuts."
Browning sneered as he got to his feet. He shook his head, his blood dripping to the pavement. "You're the lazy one Conor. I always had my eyes open for opportunities. For growing my business. You never wanted to be more than a hired gun. A two-bit hood. Look at what I became, while you never became anything more than you were all those years ago in Honduras. You're no Mad Mick. You're the Sad Mick, as in a pathetic loser."
“Eh, I lived with honor."
Browning forced a laugh. "You're delusional."
Conor extended both of his bloodstained hands and waved Browning on. "You gonna kill me or bloody talk me to death, ye bastard?"
Browning stepped toward Conor. He feinted a slash through the air with the bloody knife. "Didn't anyone ever teach you to not take your fists to a knife fight, Conor?"
Conor grinned as he raised a leg, tugged up his pants, and drew the tiny .380 from his calf holster in a single, practiced motion. "And didn't anyone ever tell you not to take a knife to a gunfight?"
He didn't wait on a reply, sending a single round into Browning's face. The knife clattered to the pavement and Browning tipped over. His eyes were still open and his body jerked as the severed connections in his brain short-circuited. Conor stepped closer and put two more rounds in his heart at point-blank range. The movements slowed and Browning wound down for the final time.
"You okay, Dad?"
Conor keyed his radio. "I'm fine. Browning is dead. Get your butt up here."
"Those shots were close. I'm almost to you."
Conor picked up the nice switchblade that Browning had dropped, thumbed the trigger to retract the blade, and shoved it in his pocket. It didn't take long for Barb to reach his side. She
was exuberant at the sight of the dead Browning but lamented the loss of Conor's horse. She also threw a disapproving look at Conor's knife wound.
"Tis a flesh wound," Conor said, wrapping it with a hasty dressing.
Barb refrained from further comment. She couldn't exactly chastise her dad for his hands-on approach when she'd taken out her targets in the same manner. "What can I do?"
"There's still a gunfight going on further up the mountain. Start working the radio while I get my gear back on. See if you can raise any of our people."
Barb walked around and tried the radio. When Conor was geared up and preparing to mount Barb's horse, he recalled the grenades he'd seen dangling from Browning's web gear. He retrieved a few before climbing onto Barb's horse.
He extended a hand to his daughter. "Climb on."
Barb patted her horse. "I'm sorry, mate. I know this is going to hurt."
"Enough with the theatrics,” Conor grunted. “Let's go."
Barb swung on behind the saddle and they trotted off, Barb working the radio. Several switchbacks later she got a response.
"Barb?"
"Who's this?" she asked. "Wayne?"
"Yes ma'am. Where are you two?"
"We're coming up the mountain."
"Bad timing."
"We know all about it. Who's still shooting?"
"That's me, I'm afraid. I have someone pinned down in that log yard below Ragus's place. They're dug in like a gopher and I can't flush them out."
Conor keyed his mic. "Wayne, this is Conor. We got you covered, buddy. Give us a few minutes."
57
Jewell Ridge, Virginia
Conor knew the location of the log yard Wayne was referring to. He'd passed it hundreds of times. Just before they reached it, he and Barb dismounted.
"I'll be back shortly," Conor announced, tossing a grenade into the air and catching it like it was a tennis ball. "You might want to warn Wayne of the impending boom."
Around three minutes later, a well-placed grenade ended the standoff at the log yard.
"All clear, Barb," Conor said into his radio. "Come forward."
Conor was confirming that the man in the logs was dead when Wayne reached his side.
"Welcome back, Conor."
"Are there more?"
"I'm not certain," Wayne said. "There were three originally and this makes two. Did you find the one that got away?"
"Dealt with. It was Browning."
Wayne processed that. "Good. I think the chopper blew up when it reached the compound, but there were two people already staying up there. I don't know who they are. Ragus, Shannon, and I were going to take them prisoner this morning when the chopper showed up and everything went to hell. I sent those two up the mountain to keep an eye on things while I dealt with these folks, but I can't raise them on the radio from here."
"I'm going to ride up with Barb. Meet us up there."
"Got it."
As soon as Barb arrived, Conor awkwardly climbed onto the back of her horse, and they hurried up the mountain. As they rode, Conor explained what Wayne had told him. By the time they reached Ragus's property, the smell of smoke was strong. There was also enough light that they could now see a tall column of smoke rising into the sky. Neither of them spoke about it, the sight ominous and sickening at the same time. It was a portent of their worst imaginings.
"Conor for Ragus," he barked into his radio. "Conor for Shannon."
They never got a reply on the radio so they stopped short of the compound. Conor took off running while Barb tied her horse to a roadside bush. A faster runner, Barb soon caught up with him and they were together when they topped the ridge. The sight that lay before them was almost too much to take in.
The compound gate stood open and there were people in the road ahead of them. Shannon and Ragus were rendering aid to someone lying flat on their back on the road. Conor didn't recognize the person on the ground. At the sound of pounding feet, heads looked up. Everyone turned toward Conor and Barb, including the taller man who stood alongside the scene, watching Shannon and Ragus as they worked.
Conor's footsteps faltered as he recognized the man. It was Ricardo. "Bloody hell. He's alive!"
Ricardo stepped toward Conor with his arms open wide and a sad smile on his face. An amazed Conor gave the man a hearty hug.
"I thought you were dead," Conor said.
"I almost was. Several times. It's a long story."
When they separated, Conor studied the young woman on the ground. Her eyes were open, staring at him, but she was in pain. "What's going on here?"
"This brave young lady is Valeria," Ricardo explained. "She's my employee."
"One of your employees," Conor corrected.
Ricardo shook his head. "My only remaining employee. Sadly, they were all murdered by Browning."
"Then you'll be glad to know that Browning is dead. I just killed him." Conor knelt alongside Shannon. "Is she injured?"
Shannon gave Conor a worried look. "She's got a piece of metal in her back. I don't think it's deep but she won't let me pull it out. She's in a lot of pain."
"Have you given her anything?"
Shannon shook her head. "I don't have anything with me. We were just discussing the options."
"Barb, you with me?" Conor said. He turned around and found her engrossed by the sight of the burning compound.
"Yeah," she said, snapping around, eyes glazed.
"I need you to ride to the mine. Grab the advanced trauma kit and bring it back with you."
"Got it," Barb said, running back to her horse.
Conor reached down and squeezed Valeria's hand. "I've got medication I can give you as soon as she gets back. It's a shot that will make all that pain go away. Once you're good and numb we can deal with your back, okay?"
She gave a nervous nod. Conor released her hand and got to his feet, turning to take in the sight that had so mesmerized Barb. Much of the far regions of the compound had been destroyed by the fire. Including the garden into which they'd put so much work, the various sheds and shops, and the cabins where guests had stayed. The main living quarters had lost most of the front-facing windows but had not yet caught fire. Perhaps it might be spared.
Ragus appeared at Conor's side. "I opened the water tank and put the hose on the roof of the house. I was hoping that might keep the house from catching fire."
Conor threw an arm over Ragus's shoulders and squeezed. "Good thinking, lad. I appreciate it. The goats?"
"I saw them when I was helping Ricardo. The goats and chickens are hiding on the backside of the compound. They’re safe so I just left them."
Conor’s eyes roved across his burning compound. He thought of the unfinished projects that might never be finished now. There were a lot of memories in that place.
His expression made Ragus tear up. "I'm sorry, Conor. I'm sorry this happened. I know what this place meant to you."
The sun broke over the distant horizon and the bright orange light hit Conor's face, illuminating him to nearly the same color as the flames that engulfed half the compound. "It was just a place. A good place, but just a place. The important thing is that we're all here and we're safe. Browning is dead and we won't have to worry about him any longer."
"What about the people that he sent you after?" Ragus struggled to find the words, not wanting to come out and ask Conor if he'd killed Jim Powell while he'd been gone. "Are you done with them?"
"We got along fabulously, son. I think we formed an alliance of sorts. This old Irish gangster once told me that it's always good to have a few friends who are just as crazy as you are. I think I made one over there."
"Really?"
"Pretty darn close."
Shortly, Barb was back with the advanced trauma kit. It was in an orange Pelican case the size of a suitcase. Conor guided Shannon through the process of administering an intramuscular Ketamine injection. Within seconds, Valeria was relaxing.
When she was comfortable, they moved h
er onto an emergency blanket and examined her wound. The metal embedded in her back was a fragment of the chopper's airframe, a jagged scrap of aluminum that had sliced into her back just below the shoulder blade. They were able to work it free and clean the wound. It nicked the rib but appeared to have missed anything vital.
"Am I going to be okay?" Valeria asked.
"You'll be fine, dear," Conor replied. "I think you and I will be able to get stitched up together. I need a few in my arm."
"He tried to take on a knife with his fists," Barb said.
Valeria smiled. "You must have won."
Conor shrugged. "We both cheated, I just cheated a little better than he did."
Shannon gave Conor an injection of Lidocaine in the arm. She cleaned his knife wound and stitched him up. More comfortable now, Valeria allowed Shannon to do the same with her back.
Ragus pointed at Conor's face. "I didn't want to say anything, but what happened to your nose? You have black eyes and your nose looks funny. Did the guy with the knife do that?"
Conor shook his head. "No, that was my new mate, Jim Powell. The guy Browning sent me to kill."
"Oh." Ragus had learned a while ago that Conor sometimes talked in circles, his answers providing no real answers at all.
Conor didn't elaborate further, instead clapping his hands and rubbing them together. "Well, folks, it's been a long morning. Who's up for some breakfast?"
They all looked at him like he was crazy at first, then each of them realized that they were indeed hungry.
"I guess I could go for something to eat," Barb said. "It was a long night."
"Good. Let's get Valeria down to the camp and make her comfortable. She can ride with you, Barb, but you may need to hang onto her in case she's woozy.” Conor clapped the boy on the back. “Ragus you can get a fire going. Let's make one hell of a breakfast because we've got a long day ahead of us. Not to be grim but we have some bodies to bury and some gear to haul back to the mine."
The rest of the group helped Conor clean up the medical supplies and they started the walk down the mountain to Ragus's place.
Ultraviolent: Book Six in The Mad Mick Series Page 38
