Punching Tickets: Book Five in The Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  Conor stared at Wayne in shock. "Beaten to death? Any clue why? Or who?"

  "No idea. We haven’t had any threats or trouble with anyone lately. We couldn't tell anything from the...scene. It just looked like someone came in with a baseball bat and took them all out."

  Conor locked onto that piece of information. "Someone? You think it was one man?"

  Wayne sighed, then nodded. "One set of boot tracks in the blood."

  "Was anything stolen?"

  "The attacker took their guns and ammo. Their pockets were turned out. They didn't have any food up there. Nothing of value besides their weapons."

  Barb tipped her head toward the stacks of gear. "Why does it look like folks are packing up?"

  Wayne let out a long sigh. "Because they are. They're leaving."

  Conor looked confused. "I thought you all were going to winter here at the firehouse. Wait for the worst of the weather to pass and then continue on south to wherever you were going."

  Wayne threw a bitter look at his people. "We had a plan, Conor. Most of them deferred to my judgment because I was the one who organized the evacuation from Detroit. I was the one who told them what to pack and when to go. I've kept them safe all this time so they trusted me."

  "Something happened to change that?" Barb asked.

  "Six dead boys happened," Wayne said, struggling to even form the words. "Our plan was to continue south in the spring. Some of the folks have family in Louisiana and Texas. Big farms where they say we can all live and work until things get back to normal. Now I guess no one has the stomach to wait any longer. After the funeral this morning, one family started packing and it spread like wildfire. Next thing you know they're tearing the entire camp down."

  "Are they all going?" Conor asked. "Or just some of them?"

  "I guess we're all going. They're divvying up the food and supplies. Everyone gets a fair share of food, gear, and ammo. If they want to remain part of the group or go off on their own, that's their prerogative. It wasn't my plan, but that's what they came up with."

  Conor watched the folks somberly sorting and stacking gear. "Sorry, mate. People are going to do what they're going to do and you have to let them. People have the freedom to make bad decisions."

  Wayne shifted, crossed his arms. "I know. This whole experience has been eye-opening in a way. I worked construction for years in some miserable conditions. Sometimes it sucked. Folks who have been in the military, in construction, athletes, people who like to hunt and backpack—they all know suffering. They've sweated, bled, froze, and shared misery. A lot of people haven't though. They've never really hurt and that's what I've learned from this. How little most folks have suffered in their lives and how poorly they handle it when they do."

  Conor understood. People were softer. "Well, we've enjoyed having you around. You've always got a friend in the neighborhood if you come back through. I can't believe you lost six people. I promise you I'll try and get to the bottom of it as soon as I can. I'll find the bastard responsible for it and make him pay."

  "I appreciate that," Wayne said. "Make it hurt."

  "I will," Conor promised.

  Wayne nodded, satisfied that Conor would do as he promised. "But what brings you guys here?"

  Conor tipped his head toward the horses. "That's meat wrapped in those bundles. Over two hundred and fifty pounds of it."

  Wayne raised an eyebrow. "Beef?"

  Conor shook his head. "It's horse, Wayne. Johnny had to put one down this morning. It's fresh. He couldn't bring himself to eat one of his own animals, so we agreed to split it between you and the pastor's folks. If you want it, that is."

  "I may get some weird looks when I offer it up." Wayne chuckled. "They'll take it though."

  "People will get over their reservations when they smell it cooking," Conor smirked. "Smells like beef. Tastes like beef."

  "I won't turn it down. Folks will be glad to have it."

  Wayne called over a few men and they worked together to untie and haul the heavy cuts of meat to the nearest tarp.

  "I wish I could convince these people to stay, but people have to make their own decisions," Wayne said when he returned.

  "They do," Conor agreed. "Try to take that away from them and they'll resent you. They'll lay the blame for every future misfortune at your feet."

  "They're already doing that, Conor. Some blame me for choosing to stop here for the winter. They blame me for the deaths of those six young men."

  "That's ridiculous," said Barb. "People die. Sometimes it's just bad luck."

  Wayne understood that but the accusations, the looks from people he'd considered to be his friends, still stung. "I appreciate you coming all this way to deliver that meat. It was kind of you."

  "Well, that wasn't the only intention," Conor admitted. "I guess it makes no difference since you're leaving town, but I wanted to let you know that Barb, Doc, and I would be leaving for a few weeks. Shannon and Ragus will be keeping an eye on things back at the compound."

  Wayne raised an eyebrow. "More secret squirrel shit? Running off to make the world a safer place?"

  Conor smiled. "You know the answer to that question, Wayne."

  "If you told me, you'd have to kill me?"

  Conor nodded. "Afraid so. But if this is goodbye, it was good to meet you. I enjoyed having you as a friend and neighbor. You're always welcome here."

  Wayne extended a hand. "Same here, brother. It was an honor to fight at your side."

  9

  Conor's Compound

  Jewell Ridge, Virginia

  The tension was thick on the night Conor's team was to depart the compound. Conor had made extensive lists detailing everything that needed to be done in his absence. He'd gone over them with Shannon and Ragus to the point that they could nearly recite them from memory. Doc Marty had done the same, trying to anticipate any medical situations that might arise.

  Barb had been simpler in her instructions. "Try not to get your dumb asses killed and don't burn down my house. Also, don't go into my room or touch any of my shit."

  While Shannon and Ragus had been left alone at the compound under similar circumstances just a few short weeks ago, this time was different. Conor, Barb, and Doc didn't know when they'd be coming back.

  On the way home from Wayne's yesterday, Conor had secured Johnny Jacks' promise to visit the kids twice a week and spend the night at the compound when he did. No one had any doubt that the kids were capable of taking care of themselves and the compound, but Conor knew they'd be hesitant to ask for help even if it was needed. Having a more mature figure show up to spend some time with them twice a week would give them ample opportunity to discuss any situations that might come up.

  Johnny seemed excited about the prospect. Age had been a factor in healing from the injuries he sustained in the attack that killed his wife. He didn't get around as well and didn't have the stamina he'd once had. His eyes lit up at the request to visit the compound. Everyone liked to be needed and to have a purpose in the world.

  The folks at the compound were nervous as they awaited the arrival of the chopper. Shannon and Ragus were nervous because the adults were nervous. Barb was nervous because this was only her second operation and it was significantly more complex than the last. Conor and Doc Marty were worried for the kids they were leaving behind, hoping they were making the right decision in entrusting them with this much responsibility.

  The only person in attendance who wasn't nervous that night was someone who wasn't even supposed to be there. It was Wombat, watching the still compound from behind a downed tree, positioned just up the road from the fenced complex. It had taken him two days to locate the place after seeing the chopper two days ago. His cabin was in the woods near the bottom of the ridge and he'd been outside when the last chopper flew over. Even without lights, he was fairly certain he'd seen the helicopter land on top of the ridge, the silhouette of the aircraft just slightly darker than that of the late evening sky.

 
He couldn't imagine there was anyone up on the ridge with a chopper and the means to keep it fueled. He'd seen private helicopters before but they didn't look or sound anything like this one. Was there a military base up there or something? A National Guard camp? For as much as he'd wandered the trails and riverbanks of this area, he'd never followed the road over the mountain and there was still a lot about the community he didn't know.

  It had taken Wombat a long time to walk the ridge and narrow down the spot where he thought the chopper might have landed. He carried his AR with him, trying to look like a hunter in his camouflage clothing. The AR's rounds had previously been illegal to use for deer in Virginia because they were too small, but Wombat doubted anyone would call him out on it now. If they did, he'd shoot them and let them judge the effectiveness of the round for themselves.

  When he located the compound on top of the mountain, he knew that had to be the place. It was the only thing up there so high on the ridge and there were plenty of flat parking lots where a helicopter could set down. No one was outside though and he couldn't see anything that gave away the purpose of the property. It didn't look like a military base; it looked like an old industrial building, a mining office and shop complex. He'd seen plenty like it while working in the gas industry. What was it now?

  He wondered if the property housed a company that was still operational or if some of the employees had taken over the facility as a good place to wait out the collapse. In some ways that made sense because of the homey covered porch built onto the side of one of the main buildings. That was an odd touch that lent to the idea people were living there full-time. None of what he saw explained the chopper though. If regular folks couldn't gas up a car, how the hell did they gas up a helicopter?

  He must have walked by too slowly when he made his first pass on the road a couple of hours ago. The dogs caught his scent. He heard them barking before he ever saw them and took off running, uncertain if the compound kept them secured or if they could get out and chase him. As he ran, he heard them slam against the chain-link behind him. They stopped, either from the fence or their training, so he never got a look at them. They sounded big though, heavy and mean.

  After that first pass, it took Wombat a long time to work his way back around the ridge. Assuming that the barking had alerted the residents of the compound to the presence of a stranger, he didn't want to use the road. He wanted them to assume he was long gone so he could return and snoop around again later. The maneuver required an extensive amount of bushwhacking and ridge-running, but that was okay. Wombat loved the woods and had nothing else to fill his days.

  On one of his rest breaks, Wombat was scrounging through the bottom of his pack for a baggie of dried squirrel meat. The pack was one he'd bought for hunting with his friends in Ohio and still held a lot of his hunting gear. There were camo gloves, a net face mask, a cheap green rope for dragging a deer out of the woods, and a couple of chemical hand warmer packets. There was also a small spray bottle of human scent eliminator that was supposed to keep deer from smelling hunters. He wondered if it worked on dogs too. He spritzed some onto his clothes just in case.

  It took him nearly two hours to circle back around through the woods and approach the compound again. On this trip, he held back a good distance, hiding behind a downed tree. He pinched off a clump of dry grass and sprinkled it into the air, noting the direction in which it blew. Perfect. Even if the scent blocker didn't do its job, the wind should carry his scent away from the compound and those snarling dogs.

  He grabbed the cheap binoculars from his pack and steadied them on the fallen tree. He'd lost most of the light, the sun past setting and the night falling quickly. He spotted flickers of shadowy movement within the compound this time. Between the structures on the property, the chain link fencing, and the dense brush, it was difficult to get a good view of what was going on. It was like trying to glass a deer through the woods and determine if it was worth shooting or not.

  Emboldened by the growing darkness, Wombat changed positions and moved even closer. He was more concerned with sound and scent than being seen. The sound of a twig snapping traveled long distances with no leaves on the trees to muffle it. He couldn't tell much more from his second position, catching occasional glimpses of movement as an unknown number of people moved in and out of his sight. He couldn't even tell what they were doing.

  Then he heard the chopper.

  I'll be damned. He grinned. Guess I'm fixing to find out if I'm in the right spot or not.

  The sound of the approaching helicopter grew louder until it drowned out everything else. Knowing there was no way anyone in the compound would be able to hear the sound of a breaking twig now, Wombat broke cover and loped forward. He ran short distances, pausing to see if he'd been detected before continuing. Logic told him that no one would be paying any attention to the road at the moment. All eyes would be on that helicopter.

  There was a flare of light and a glow from a part of the fenced facility that Wombat couldn't clearly see. He didn't understand what was going on until the chopper dropped into sight and landed at the point from which the lights originated. Wombat scurried closer with no regard for how much noise he made. The chopper hadn't killed its engines and there was no way anyone could hear him, even if he shouted at the top of his lungs. He finally found a vantage point on a high bank above the road that afforded him the best view he'd gotten yet.

  In the stark glow of the landing lights, Wombat watched three figures with backpacks climb into the open door of a chopper that looked straight out of one of the military video games he played with his buddies. When the three were onboard, the door slid shut and the chopper throttled up. Unable to see inside the interior of the chopper, Wombat scanned the illuminated area to see if anyone was left at the compound. Before he caught sight of anyone, the landing pad went dark.

  He frowned. It was now too dark to see anything with those lights turned off. Plus the bright lights had destroyed any night vision he had. He was going to have to sit tight for a little while and wait for it to return since he didn't dare use a flashlight. He continued watching the scene through his binoculars, wondering if someone had turned off the landing lights manually or if they'd been on some kind of timer.

  Then, as the sound of the departing chopper faded into the night, two headlamps bobbed into view within the fenced compound. Wombat wondered if these were the only two people remaining at the facility or if they were the only two people outside. Determining that would take some more surveillance.

  One of the figures stopped to grab a few pieces of firewood before entering one of the buildings. As the door swung open, Wombat noticed several things. He saw that both figures carried similar rifles to his. He also saw that the interior of the building was illuminated with what looked like electric lights. He didn't hear a generator going, but somehow these folks had power.

  Wombat didn't feel it was right that they had power and he didn't. As a man who'd spent his entire life feeling like he was on the bottom trying to dig his way to the top, he wondered what might be involved in taking this camp for himself. He wasn't like those lowlife buzzards his grandmother railed against, but he knew that the world only gave a man so much. If you wanted anything beyond that you had to go out and take it. Sometimes that taking could be done nicely. Other times it couldn't.

  10

  Somewhere Over Virginia

  "Where do you think we're going?" Barb asked.

  The chopper pilots hadn't offered headsets to connect them into the comms system so Conor, Barb, and Doc Marty had to shout to hold a conversation over the thrum of the engines.

  Conor checked the dime-sized compass fastened to his watchband. "East instead of northeast. I don't think we're headed for the compound in West Virginia this time. Ricardo must have something else up his sleeve."

  Indeed he did. In a little more than an hour, they were closing in on a brightly lit facility standing in stark contrast to the dark city surrounding it.

>   "I've been here," Doc Marty said. "That's Oceana Naval Air Station."

  "And for the less experienced of us, that's where?" Barb asked.

  "Coastal Virginia," Conor clarified.

  The pilot spoke into his radio and obtained clearance to land. He deftly banked the aircraft and leveled off, dropping from the sky with a practiced efficiency.

  "What do we do now?" Barb asked.

  Conor gave his daughter an encouraging smile. "You unbuckle your harness and sit tight until someone comes for us or tells us what to do."

  It didn't take long. Before the rotors were done spinning down, an Oshkosh 6x6 with a covered cargo bed pulled up. The driver set the brake and hopped out while the pilots slid open the chopper door.

  "I'm here to provide transportation to your next stop," the man said. He wore a standard Navy working uniform but the cloth badge above his name tape identified him as a master-at-arms. "If you're carrying weapons, I need to see empty chambers before you board my vehicle. Please keep those chambers empty while you're on the base."

  "Roger that, MA One. Go ahead, Barb. Clear the chamber in your rifle and show it to this fine gentleman. Do the same with your handgun. You can leave the mags seated. They prefer we stay in Condition 3 on their base."

  Barb did as Conor asked, clearing her weapons and holding them up one at a time so the master-at-arms could shine a penlight into the open chamber.

  "Thank you for your cooperation," the MA One said when he'd checked each weapon. "You can chuck your gear in the truck and grab a seat. I'll ask that you please hold on tight. The drive around Oceana can be quite sporty."

  The team tossed in their gear and clambered aboard the truck. Conor tried to help Barb up but she took offense at his attempts.

  "Excuse me, old man, but it's probably me who should be helping you," she snapped.