Punching Tickets: Book Five in The Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  Then Terry saw what the man was doing and it didn't make any sense. There was no reason for Siman to be going through the team's gear. Surely he was misinterpreting Siman's actions. He took cover behind a tree and watched for a moment longer. Then he was certain. Siman was definitely going through the dry bags and examining the gear he found there. What Terry couldn't figure out was if this was a case of overactive curiosity and poor boundaries, or was it something more?

  Terry made his decision and crept up on the scene in near silence. "What are you doing?"

  Siman nearly jumped out of his skin. He spun in a panic, then appeared relieved to find it was Terry. "Oh, I was just checking their gear. I have some experience with working at sea. I was just making sure everything was sealed up."

  "If you have experience in this, you should know that you don't touch an operator's gear once it’s prepped for a mission. There could only be a couple of reasons for someone to do that."

  Siman looked confused. "What are you trying to say?"

  "A man might get into another man's gear to steal something, to sabotage something, or just to see what they're up to. Which is it, Siman?"

  Siman got to his feet but kept his eyes downcast. "I'm sorry, my friend. Please don't tell Conor. I don't want him angry with me."

  "He'd be more than angry, Siman. I can assure you of that."

  Siman took a step closer and Terry didn't detect the threat until it was too late. Siman was five steps away and that was too close for a man with a knife concealed in his hand. Terry hadn't seen him draw it and now it was too late.

  He tried to block Siman's wide slashing movement, only realizing too late that it was a feint. By then, he was unable to prevent the knife from sinking between his ribs and slicing into his heart. He opened his mouth to cry out but Siman slapped a hand over it, stifling any sound.

  Siman twisted the knife to bore out the wound channel and accelerate the blood loss. The knife scraped against Terry's ribs as Siman extracted it. There was a trace of a smile in Siman's grimace, the bitter sensation that comes when victory means having taken another's life. That smile turned into an expression of wide-eyed pain when the gun fired between them.

  When Siman covered Terry's mouth, he missed the movement of Terry's free hand. Terry was extracting his handgun from his holster even as he knew the fight was lost, even as he knew he was dying. When he no longer had the energy to aim the weapon, he used his remaining strength to pull the trigger. Maybe if nothing else, the shot would warn Conor and his team. After the shot, the gun dropped from Terry's limp fingers.

  Siman shoved the dying man away from him, staring down in horror at the blood blossoming on his thigh. "Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit!"

  Siman whipped off his belt, dropped to the ground, and struggled to apply a tourniquet. The wound was so high that he had difficulty getting above it. He tightened the belt as tight as he could get it, but blood continued to seep from the wound. He yanked a dirty handkerchief from his pocket, shoving it through the hole in his pants and into the wound itself, hoping it might stem the flow of blood.

  His mind raced, trying to figure out what he should do, then he heard the voices. He looked up just as Conor, the girl, and the doctor ran onto the scene. They were carrying their rifles high, ready to fire, but hesitated when they found him collapsed by Terry, both of them bleeding.

  "We were attacked!" Siman screamed. "They ran onto the beach!"

  Conor and Barb tore off in that direction. Doc rushed toward Siman, propping his rifle against a tree while he worked to extract his personal blowout kit from his web gear. He dropped to his knees beside Siman.

  "Lie back," Doc ordered. "Let me examine the wound."

  As Doc used his shears to open Siman's pant leg, Siman swung the bloody knife, plunging it into Doc's neck. Doc stiffened and gritted his teeth when Siman yanked the knife free. His eyes bulging, Doc tried to apply pressure to the wound but the effort was futile. Siman shoved him over onto his back, climbed on top of him, and plunged the knife into his chest.

  He raised the knife again, ready to sink it into the Doc's chest for a second time, when Barb latched onto his upraised arm with both hands. She deftly twisted the knife free, snapping Siman's forearm and wrist. Siman let out a shrill scream as Barb hauled him off Doc and dragged him across the clearing.

  Conor, several steps behind Barb, dropped to Doc's side. He grimaced at the amount of blood. He wanted to see the wound, wanted to see if he could seal it, but knew even without putting eyes on it that the gesture was futile. With each pump of his heart, blood seeped between Doc's loosening fingers. His eyes became glassy, his breathing shallow and unsteady.

  "Hold on, Doc," Conor whispered. "We got this. I'll get help."

  Doc Marty opened his mouth but there were no words. It didn't matter because Conor knew them anyway. They were the same words he'd say if the situation were reversed.

  Conor nodded, his eyes filling with tears. "I'll tell her, buddy. Shannon knows you love her. And I'll take care of her. Don't you worry about a fucking thing."

  With those words in his ears, that last bit of business settled, Doc's head slumped to the side and his breath stopped. His hand fell away from the wound on his neck and the bleeding slowed to a trickle. Conor spun, his eyes on fire with rage. Barb stood by Siman, holding him pinned beneath her boot.

  With a roar of fury, Conor got to his feet and glared down at the terrified Siman. Though his eyes were glowing glassy from shock and blood loss, there was no mistaking the fear in them. Conor grabbed Siman's good arm and wrapped his leg around the bicep. With it pinned securely, Conor applied leverage until the elbow joint gave way with a sound like a chicken leg being wrenched from the carcass.

  Siman screamed as the limp appendage hung at an odd angle. He stared at it in horror, paralyzed by the sight of it. Conor dropped to his knees and began searching him, coming up with nothing out of the ordinary.

  "Why did you kill Terry?"

  Siman didn't answer, his jaw quivering and perhaps unable to move in speech.

  Conor whipped his knife from its sheath and held it before Siman's eyes. "I'll peel you like a fucking grape, boy," he hissed.

  Before Siman could reply, before Conor could carry out his promise, Siman quit breathing. Conor grabbed him by the collar and shook him violently.

  "No! No! No!" he repeated, a mantra of hate and frustration that soon boiled over into punching. Conor pounded a fist into the dead man's face twice before Barb seized his wrist. Conor spun on her, the hate in his eyes undiminished by the man's passing.

  "You'll just break your hand, Father," she said calmly. "We're already down a man. If you break your hand, we'll have to scrub the op."

  Conor got to his feet and wrapped his arms around his head. He stomped around in a fury, wanting badly to make someone pay for Doc's death, but there was no one left to kill. When his pace slowed, he sank into the sand, resting his head in his hands.

  "I'm sorry you lost your friend," Barb said.

  Conor shook his head. "It's not that. Doc understood the risks, as I do. What I can't bear is the thought that I'm going to be having the talk with Shannon that I feared someone would be having with you one day. I'm going to tell her that her father died a patriot. I'm going to tell her that his last thoughts were of her. And you know what? None of that's going to mean a damn thing because her daddy's dead. The one person she had left in the world."

  "Maybe I should tell her."

  "I'd not wish that on you, Barb."

  "Do you think he compromised us?"

  Conor threw a glance at Siman's body. "No fucking clue. We'll need to go through his gear but he could have stuff hidden in the woods anywhere. He's obviously working for someone, but we may never know who."

  "Do we radio Ricardo and ask for a ride home or do we keep going? If we're compromised, we may be walking into a trap. Siman knew our plans."

  "We bury the bodies and clean up the camp. I'll call Ricardo when we're done, then we la
unch our mission as planned. If anything feels off, we turn around and return to shore."

  Barb nodded slowly. "I don't think we should bury the bastard. We leave him on the beach for the crabs. Let them dine on his rotting corpse."

  16

  Cumberland Island

  Coast of Georgia

  After burying Terry and Doc Marty in a somber undertaking, Conor and Barb took down the camp. All of the important gear got packed into the Hardigg cases and buried. This included Doc's gear and weapons, his spare ammo, and Terry's gear. The rest was wrapped into the nylon tents and buried alongside the plastic cases. Conor couldn't guarantee he'd ever be able to return and retrieve Doc's gear so he took his watch to give to Shannon. It was the only bit of personal gear Doc carried with him on an operation.

  He walked onto the beach with the satellite phone Ricardo had given him and powered it up. After the phone had acquired a signal, Conor brought up the stored numbers and found only one. He clicked on it and listened to the phone ringing on the other end.

  "Yes?" came Ricardo's cautious voice.

  "It's Conor."

  "Is everything okay? I didn't expect to hear from you this soon."

  "Things have already gone a little sideways. The asset aboard the ship said we needed to act immediately because there was a rumor the ship was setting sail. Terry was supposed to notify you about that, but I didn't know if he had a chance or not."

  "I've not heard from him today."

  Conor understood that meant Siman must have killed Terry before he had the opportunity. "Terry had some new guy named Siman working with him and the guy was crooked. While we were grabbing some sleep before the op, the guy killed Terry for some reason. Terry got off a shot and it woke us. Siman said that they'd been attacked, so Barb and I ran off looking for the attackers while Doc tended to Siman's wounds. While we were gone, Siman stuck a knife in Doc's neck and killed him too. Bastard died before we could get any information from him."

  "Oh my God," Ricardo breathed. "Doc's dead?"

  "Yeah. And I haven't figured out how I'm going to tell his daughter yet."

  "What did you do with the bodies?"

  "We buried everything. Bodies and gear. You should get someone down here and see if you can ID this Siman guy."

  "I'll do that. Just to be clear, Terry and Siman were not working for me this time. Supposedly their operation was under the control of the Saint Macallan Collective, but it appears they were compromised. Do you have any reason to think Siman compromised your op?"

  "I couldn't find anything on him," Conor said. "No radio, no notes, nothing. I suspect he has a radio or satphone hidden in the woods, but it could be anywhere. I have no way of knowing if he communicated anything or not."

  "Well, assume you're compromised. Proceed cautiously."

  "Agreed. And Ricardo, will you do me a favor?"

  "What is, Conor?"

  "Can you retrieve Doc's body and have it cremated for me? I'd like to return him to his daughter."

  "I'll make it happen, old friend. You two stay safe. Update me when you can."

  After the call, Conor made ready for the operation. At a little after midnight, he and Barb towed their paddleboards to the edge of the surf. Though they were uncertain how well it would work, Conor decided to tow Doc's board behind his. Even without Doc along, there was more gear than they could carry on their own boards. If the effort failed, Conor would have to cut Doc's board loose and deal with any equipment shortcomings later.

  They wore black fatigues but the same OD green web gear they always used. They were not carrying plates in the armor, aware the plates would sink them like a rock if they fell into the water. The only adjustment they made to their normal mode of carry was to move their handguns to a position on the chest, which would make them easier to reach when breaching the ship.

  They both wore bump helmets with the ENVG goggles, which worked as both thermal and nightvision. Conor had a nightvision-compatible GPS strapped to his chest, the coordinates of the ship programmed in as a waypoint. At a glance, the unit would tell him if they were on course or needed to alter their heading.

  Escaping the breakers was the worst part, both of them getting thoroughly drenched in the process. Though they'd expected it, the cool night air made it unpleasant until they began paddling. They both paddled from a kneeling position instead of standing, to minimize the risk of falling overboard. Each was tethered to their board by a Velcro strap fastened around their ankle.

  "This isn't so bad," Barb whispered once they were further out into the ocean.

  If it weren't for the day they'd had, Conor might have been inclined to agree with her. The waves were gentle and the world mostly dark around them. Soon though, as the distant shoreline vanished from sight, the Shandong appeared in the distance like some monument to all that was wrong in government. The American government officials aboard that ship were living in luxury while their countrymen suffered. They'd sold their allegiance for personal gain. Worse yet, most of them had been crooked for so long they'd probably convinced themselves that their intentions were noble.

  "Just ahead of the lifeboats there’s a section of deck with no railing," Conor said, pausing his paddling for a moment. "The area is blocked by some kind of white storage containers. That's where we should go up. The layout of the area should prevent any foot patrol from walking up on us."

  "Roger that," Barb replied softly.

  The distances on the open water were deceptive and they imagined they were closer than they actually were. It took them another hour to close in on the ship. Conor stopped to scan the deck before they approached. "I'm getting all kinds of heat signatures but nothing readily-identifiable as a person. Let's just continue moving slowly and try not to bang anything noisy."

  They closed in on the ship, aiming for an area between the lifeboats and the boarding platform. Only as they floated alongside the massive ship did the full magnitude reveal itself. It was like standing at the base of a building and contemplating climbing the side of it.

  "You sure you got this, Barb?" Conor whispered.

  "No problem."

  "Then let's do this one move at a time. First, fasten one of the magnetic handholds to the hull of the ship. Make sure you're clipped into the harness. That will hold us alongside the ship until you're ready to climb."

  Barb did as she was told, then unfastened the tether around her ankle. She passed it to Conor and he fastened it to his own gear. He now had all three boards connected to him. He double-checked that Barb's rifle was slung across her back and that her handgun was in a position where she could reach it.

  Barb fastened the magnetic boots over her own boots, then stood carefully. Her balance was excellent and she had no problem compensating for the ocean swells. As gently as she could, trying to be quiet, she pressed one of the magnetic boots against the hull and shifted her foot position so that the magnet engaged. She smiled at the odd sensation of her foot stuck firmly against the ship.

  Acting quickly, before her board floated out of position, she engaged two magnetic handholds. "Here goes nothing." She pulled her body entirely into the air, placing her second foot, and then raising one of the handholds higher. It was an awkward effort, but her natural athleticism helped her rise to the challenge. Soon she was spanning long stretches of hull, trying to gain maximum distance with each climbing pitch.

  Conor watched in awe, both at the unusual mode of climbing and at the speed with which his daughter mastered the skill. He was proud and jealous at the same time. In a matter of minutes, she transitioned from the sheer vertical wall to the deck high above the water. As they'd discussed, she removed a length of cord from her cargo pocket, a rubberized carabiner already clipped onto the end. She attached one of the magnetic handholds to the carabiner and lowered it to Conor.

  In their earlier plan, Conor was supposed to join her on the deck and haul up the gear with his more powerful upper body. That wasn't an option now that they didn't have a third set of ha
nds to stay below and clip on the gear. Barb's arms were already smoked from the difficult climb but there was no choice. Below her, Conor caught the line, removed the magnetic handhold, and fastened it to the hull of the ship. He gathered the tethers to all three paddleboards and anchored the boards to the magnet. He'd need both hands for tying on gear and didn't want to struggle with his boards floating away while he worked.

  When Conor tugged the rope to indicate that the first of the dry bags was attached, Barb started hauling. She varied the muscle groups, trying to use her back and shoulders since her biceps and forearms were still recovering from the climb. The hauling took longer than expected, requiring nearly twenty minutes before they had all the gear on the deck.

  The rope ladder was the last bundle that Barb raised, a sign that they were done. Barb fastened the ladder to a steel post and dropped it over the side, hoping it didn't hit her father on the way down. When she looked over the edge to verify he was still standing, she saw him using his knife to puncture and sink her paddleboard, then Doc Marty's. When he had a foot on the ladder, he sank his own and began the long, strenuous climb to the deck.

  Barb alternated between watching her father struggle up the ladder and watching her own six for any approaching threats. So far she'd seen nothing, but that didn't mean they weren't out there. Leaning over the rail to check on her father again, she wished he'd hurry up. She saw he was taking a break, pausing to let the lactic acid dissipate from his gassed out muscles. Despite the novelty of it, the magnetic climbing system might have been easier than the rope ladder, since climbing the ladder was akin to shimmying up a cooked strand of spaghetti.