Punching Tickets: Book Five in The Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  "Go mbeire muid beo ar an am seo aris!" Conor announced in a toast.

  "Which means?" Barb asked. "I'd like to know what I'm toasting to."

  Conor smiled at his daughter. "May we be alive at this time next year."

  Doc raised his eyebrows and his cup. "A grim lot, your Irish. Don't they have any light-hearted toasts?"

  Conor shrugged. "They were practical folk who understood death was always around the corner."

  The others made poor attempts to repeat his toast as they sipped their mead, but no one quite pulled it off. Conor shook his head at the atrocity of it. He wished he'd taught Barb the language when she was growing up, but it never seemed important enough to spend time on.

  As each of them sipped, processing the complex flavor of the mead, Conor tipped his cup to Ricardo. "The floor is yours, my friend."

  Ricardo sat on the edge of the well-worn couch, a man too animated and active to settle in comfortably. "First, what I'm about to tell you is very confidential. You may remember that when I gave you the assignment up north with Shani I mentioned that I had several jobs lined up for you."

  Conor gave a slight nod. "I remember."

  "That's all gone out the window," Ricardo said. "Things have blown wide open."

  Barb raised a curious eyebrow but didn't ask questions.

  Doc Marty didn't feel the same sense of decorum. He knew Ricardo a little better than she did and was fine with blurting out questions. "What exactly blew wide open?"

  "That operation we conducted in Missouri exposed that many of the terrorists involved in the initial attack were holed up in America, wreaking havoc and waging small-scale campaigns against American citizens. Since Conor, Shani, and Barb flushed the terrorists out, the government has taken measures to track down many of the remaining cells and eliminate them. They haven't got everyone yet but they've taken great strides."

  "That's good, right?" Conor asked.

  "Yes, that part is good. They've been using tactical units cobbled together from the military and police so they've not been contracting that work out."

  "That mean the Mad Mick is out of a job?" Conor had a crooked grin on his face. "Am I going to have to start collecting cans off the side of the road to sell for scrap? Go back to exotic dancing?"

  Barb and Doc Marty looked at each other with a mixture of disgust and horror.

  Ricardo didn't laugh. He was dead serious in his presentation. "No, the work isn't over. In fact, the stakes have never been higher. The acting government is pushing for restoration of electrical power to the affected areas of the country. That sounds like a good thing, right? A lot of people are desperate for power. Intent on using the crisis to their full advantage, however, the current government plans to set up what they call Comfort Camps, which will get power first. The requirement for moving into one of these camps is that people give up their guns. All of them."

  Conor smiled bitterly. "Well, I can't imagine that's going to be popular."

  "Maybe not," Ricardo agreed, "but not everyone is set up to survive without modern conveniences like heat, fuel, and grocery stores. The first of these camps have been set up close to active power plants and they've been overrun with people wanting admission. When they start construction on one of these camps, before it's even complete people are migrating there and camping out by the thousands, just waiting for the doors to open. The government plans to open some here in your area soon, once they can get some of these coal-fired plants up and running. Supposedly they have teams of engineers dispatched to them now, trying to figure out what has to be done to make them operational."

  "I get it. I miss grid power too," Conor agreed. "It allows me to run the big three-phase shop machines that my solar can't power. Not sure I'm willing to give up me arsenal for the privilege."

  Ricardo pointed at Conor. "See, that's the thing. This is just the beginning. Now the government is saying you have to give up your guns to move into the camps, but within a few weeks, they're going to start touting the program as a huge success. After that, they're going to put out the word that surrendering your weapons is going to be a nationwide requirement for having power restored to your community."

  Barb looked shocked. "So they won't turn the lights back on unless everyone disarms?"

  Ricardo nodded. "They're making it a law and order issue. They say they need to keep people safe and this is the only way to do it. They'll call it a temporary measure but no one is buying that. You think the government is going to take your guns and then give them back? There's no way. Freedom never comes back after it's been surrendered. It's a one-way street."

  "I'm assuming people have pointed out that this is unconstitutional," Doc Marty said.

  "They don't give a crap," Ricardo said, the word "crap" sounding strange in Ricardo's refined European accent. "They say this is an unprecedented national emergency and requires bold measures. They intend to turn neighbor against neighbor, dropping flyers from the air explaining that no one in the community will get power as long as there are holdouts refusing to turn in guns. You can only imagine how that's going to turn out."

  Conor shook his head. "This is insanity. Dangerous tyranny."

  "I'm afraid it only gets worse from there. There are rumors that the United Nations will be part of the effort and all this will be graciously funded by the Chinese and the Saudi governments. The rumor is that Chinese aid is being granted in exchange for a one hundred year guarantee of unlimited trade with the United States. No tariffs, no complaining about trade imbalances, and no investigations of intellectual property infringement."

  "Wow!" Conor mumbled.

  Ricard nodded. "Wow is right. And as usual, the Saudis are in it for weapons. They want unlimited access to missiles and jets. But who knows what else has gone into this deal? There are some that speculate this entire disaster we're in now was manufactured and that it took place with the blessing of some high-level officials who would benefit from the transition. I don't particularly believe that, but we're certain that there were officials who knew of the attacks in advance and didn't sound the warning. Instead, they protected their own families and let millions die."

  "I thought Shani said that some American congressmen and government officials were in bed with the Saudis, not the Chinese," Conor said. "How is it that the Saudis and Chinese are working together?"

  "China has been selling arms to the Saudis since the 1980s. America sells missiles to Saudi Arabia because the government sees those missile installations as a defense against Iran, but America is fickle. Depending on which party is in power, the sale of missiles to Saudi Arabia can dry up with no warning. The Chinese need oil and they have no issue with selling missiles to the Saudis. Unlike the U.S., the Chinese aren't concerned about any bad press that they're doing business with people who commit human rights violations. That means nothing to them since they commit those same human rights violations. So let's just say that China and the Saudis have an uneasy alliance, but it's functional and it's definitely aimed toward America."

  "So what can be done about it?" Conor asked. "How can anyone counter such a massive effort? This is basically a conspiracy between the Chinese, the Saudis, traitors within the American government, and the United Nations. That's a formidable enemy with deep pockets."

  Ricardo grinned at his favorite operator. "Funny you should ask what can be done about it."

  "Oh shit," Doc Marty mumbled, knowing this couldn't be good.

  "I've been approached by a group called Saint Macallan Collective. It's a group of elected officials, military, and intelligence folks who are basically against everything that I've outlined to you. Many of them are men I've known and worked with for over a decade. They don't believe Americans should have to surrender arms for aid. They don't believe we should allow the United Nations to police American citizens. Above all, they're tired of arrogant politicians who somehow manage to amass large family fortunes on a politician's salary."

  "I've always wondered about that myself,"
Barb mused. "Not sure why laws allow that."

  "Something wrong, Conor?" Ricardo asked, noting Conor's confused look.

  "I'm wracking my brain here, Ricardo. I was raised a good Irish Catholic lad and I don't recall a Saint Macallan."

  Ricardo smiled. "I asked the same thing. The group toasted their formation with a nice bottle of scotch but wanted a name with a bit more class. They decided that throwing the word 'Saint' in front of Macallan instantly made it sound more benevolent."

  Conor chuckled at that. "So, what does this Saint Macallan Collective propose?"

  "To cut off the head of the snake. A dozen assassinations at one million dollars per hit."

  Barb's eyes went wide, as did Doc Marty's. While Conor understood the money was significant, it was also significant that Ricardo was disclosing this information to them. Conor was always well-paid, but he didn't always know what the contract was worth to Ricardo's company.

  "Why so much?" Conor asked.

  Ricardo looked serious. "Because it's going to be a hard job. Perhaps the toughest we've ever taken on."

  "We've done hard jobs before," Conor pointed out.

  "You might assume that our targets, being government officials, were living within the walls of hardened government facilities but that's not the case. In the briefing I received, I learned that the Chinese have a massive cruise ship called the Shandong that's anchored somewhere off the East Coast. Our targets are living aboard this cruise ship, staying in luxury accommodations while the people who put them in office are suffering. If the American people knew this, they'd be swimming out there to drown them personally."

  "What about security?" Doc Marty asked. "How protected are the targets?"

  "We have a mole on the inside, a congressional staffer. In the days immediately after the attack, before communications ceased, the staffer made contact with an intelligence official who happened to be part of Saint Macallan Collective. The staffer was convinced her boss had prior knowledge of the attacks and she agreed to act as an informant. The intelligence official provided the mole with a communication device that allowed her to do burst transmissions and report back to them. That's how the Saint Macallan Collective learned about the cruise ship. Since that time, the asset has been providing intel to a surveillance team onshore."

  "Onshore where?" Conor asked.

  "I'm told the team is somewhere north of Jacksonville, Florida," Ricardo said. "I don't have the exact details yet."

  "How nice that they're in a pleasant climate." Conor sneered. "Wouldn't want the traitors to get cold this winter, would we?"

  "No, we wouldn't," said Ricardo. "But back to your question about security, Doc, our asset says that the group on the Shandong is afraid an American security detail might have mixed allegiances so the Chinese are providing security. It's not a large team because the assumption is that the open ocean around them provides a degree of insulation. In fact, our surveillance team on the shore has poked the bear a few times, straying close to the Shandong with a kayak to see what happened. Warning shots were fired in their direction both times."

  "Do we know how many guards?" Doc asked.

  "The staffer says there's maybe two dozen but mentioned that some of the Shandong crew look as if they might be military. We shouldn't assume there would only be a dozen combatants if things went hot."

  "This is sheer arrogance," said Barb. "They feel too powerful to be touched. Too elite to suffer with the rest of the nation."

  "Oh, they could certainly be touched, but it will be a complex job," Conor said. "Things will go fine if we have stealth on our side, but if things go loud it will get tough to hit all the targets at once. They might hole up and that's a large ship with a lot of places to hide. Plus we don't know if they have other resources at hand. Do they have backup they can radio if they come under attack?"

  "I don't know," Ricardo said.

  "I'm assuming you're here because you want me involved in this operation, Ricardo, but you have teams of heavy hitters working all over the world. Dozens of them. You could drop a team of Thai mercenaries on the deck of that ship and take it in two hours. So why me?" Conor asked. "What special contribution do I bring to the party?"

  Ricardo smiled. "Aside from your charming personality, you're colorful, Conor. Your work makes a splash. The Saint Macallan Collective isn't after discreet assassinations. They want to send a message that will be heard throughout the world. They want everyone assisting these traitors to know what will happen to them if they persist in their treason. They'll be hunted down and die a gory death. The Saint Macallan Collective wants to leave no doubt that this is a purge of those who work against the American people."

  "So do I take all that bluster to mean that you don't have anyone else you can send at the moment?" Conor asked.

  Ricardo hesitated. "Maybe, but that's not the only reason, Conor. You're good at what you do and you think on your feet. That's important in a job like this."

  Conor grinned. "Yeah, all that flattery made me suspicious."

  "So who are you here for?" Barb asked. She looked at Conor for approval. "It's alright for me to ask that, isn't it? I'm not sure if he's here for you or for all of us. Maybe I was just a one-hit-wonder, brought in on the last job because you were short-handed."

  Ricardo looked at Barb seriously. "You weren't a one-hit-wonder, as you put it, unless that's your preference. I'd like the three of you. You worked well together on that last job and it's sometimes hard to find people who work well with your father. He's kind of...contrary."

  Conor frowned. "I beg to differ."

  Barb flashed Ricardo a sympathetic smile. "You're preaching to the choir, Ricardo. I know all about that."

  "I'm not familiar with that expression," Ricardo said, "but I'll take it as a vote of agreement."

  Conor ignored them all. "I'll accept the mission, but I can only speak for myself. While Barb has my blessing if she wants to go, she'll have to make that decision. I can't speak for Doc, either. I will say that my condition for going, besides the customary payment, is that I'd like to see if you can make arrangements for me to meet my daughter when the job is over."

  Ricardo appeared confused and glanced at Barb. "You can see your daughter now. What do you mean?"

  Conor had never considered that Ricardo might not know about the child. He leaned forward and picked up the clear bottle of poitin, pouring them all another round.

  "The child I have with Shani. I've never met her and I'd like to. I understand that it all depends on Shani's agreement, of course."

  Ricardo looked floored. "I had no idea you and Shani had a child together. I thought you hated each other."

  "It's complicated and a long, unflattering story, but we have a daughter."

  Ricardo held up a hand. "No need for details. I'll see if I can make that happen, Conor. It won't be easy but I'll try."

  3

  Dismal River Valley

  Conditions at the firehouse on the Dismal River had been challenging for the folks who had come south with Wayne. There were too many people crammed into too little space and tempers frequently flared as the cold weather kept everyone inside for days at a time. When a second group arrived from the north with Wayne's friend Pepe, most of them moved into another house in the community. Many of them visited the firehouse on a daily basis and the presence of even more bodies in the tight space increased the tension.

  A group of older teenage boys and young men offered to move out when they discovered there was an empty house a half-mile up the road. Wayne was against it, feeling like spreading the group out created a security risk. In addition to Pepe's house, this would be yet another position they would have to defend.

  However, Wayne was outnumbered. Anxious for more space within the walls of the firehouse, most in the group supported the idea as long as the young men continued to take their meals at the firehouse. No one wanted to split the supply of food, afraid the ravenous young men would go through it too fast.

  With t
he new "men's house" positioned between the firehouse and Pastor White's camp, most felt the location was fairly safe. Any group approaching by road would be seen by Wayne's sentries or the pastor's sentries before they ever reached the men's house. At least that had been the assumption.

  The man hiding in the woods outside the home was proof that the assumption was invalid. With no horse to ride and no desire to own one, he moved through the woods with stealth and avoided the roads in this community. He knew of the sentries who watched the roads so he walked forest trails high above the watchful eyes of armed guards. They didn't see or hear him, which was how he wanted it.

  He'd have preferred not to even venture into this more actively protected area of the community but the pickings were good here. Many of the empty homes on his side of the mountain had been looted before he ever got to them. The occupied homes he'd ventured into had little to speak of, many of the residents living on a fixed income that limited the size of their pantries. Of course, that didn't stop him from knocking them in the head and taking what little they had. It was survival of the fittest and the old, the infirm, and the slow got taken out. That was only natural.

  The man in the woods had been studying the men in the men's house for nearly a week. He'd already figured out it was some kind of dormitory arrangement for the larger group living in the firehouse down the road. The young men slept here but worked and took their meals with the larger group up the road. He took that to mean that they probably didn't have a lot of food in the house, but they had some damn nice weapons.

  He saw several AR-15s and shotguns. He owned an AR-15 and a twelve-gauge himself but was short on ammunition. Back in his old life he'd owned both weapons because they were popular. He'd bought them when his friends bought them. As a pipeliner living a fairly transient lifestyle, he didn't have the space for storing much so he didn't own much. He shared a camper with a friend of his, paying rent on a space that was smaller than the bathrooms in most homes. He loved the pipeliner lifestyle but it wasn't for people fond of hoarding a lot of possessions.