Sometimes he found bodies. At first, he shut those rooms off, avoiding the dead for their smell and ghastly appearance. It was usually the sick or elderly he found, those who'd died of natural causes. Later, curiosity got the best of him and he pushed himself to explore those rooms despite the corpses. He did his best to avoid looking at them as he unceremoniously spread blankets or dusty curtains over the withering flesh of the dead. With each corpse, he became a little less revolted, though he still covered them. He felt weird about the dead watching him loot their houses, as if he might turn around and discover an eyeball open and watching him.
That determination had been rewarded. It was in those rooms with the dead where he often found guns, ammunition, and other valuable items. Though his was a poor community in a poor region he still found the odd coin collection, gold rings, or cash hidden beneath mattresses. He took it all, hoping there might be a day when some of those things became valuable again.
He'd also killed folks. The first had been someone who caught him stealing from their house. There had been a surge of terror when he was first discovered, but Wombat soon realized there were few people around who enjoyed fighting as he did. If it went to hands, most people didn't stand a chance against his fists or his ax handle. If the other man had a gun, Wombat did his best to get off the first shot.
He'd felt bad about killing at first but soon accepted that it was like the stealing. It was survival of the fittest. It was screwing them before they could screw you. After those first few killings, Wombat didn't hesitate to swing the ax handle any longer. If someone had something he wanted, he killed them and took it.
Months of scouring, killing, and accumulating had grown his personal stockpile to the point where he felt a little more comfortable with his situation. He wasn't exactly eating steak every day but he was eating. He was also warm, had a roof over his head, and a dry bed to sleep in. He'd grown up to understand that all of those things should be appreciated because there might be a day when you no longer had them.
His growing hoard of supplies was creating a new issue for him, which was that the old mountain cabin wasn't the safest place to store such valuable loot. Anytime he was out gathering more stuff, he was concerned that other folks could be taking notice of his activities. Were they following him home? Were they going to raid his house while he was out? Would they break into the cabin while he was asleep and kill him for his gear?
While the cabin had been an excellent first step, the place he needed in order to get away from the buzzards at Doran Bottom, it might not be the best place to wait out the return of normal life. He needed a place more like the fenced camp he'd seen tonight. Without the ability to convert his hillside property into something more substantial and secure, he was left with few options. One was to try and talk his way into the good graces of those folks behind the wire and see if he might join up with them. Maybe they could be a gang, like in the old Western movies.
The other, much more appealing option, was to see if he could take their place from them. Then there was no need to share and no need to tiptoe around feelings. There was no need to even be nice if he didn't feel like it. He could continue to do whatever the hell he wanted to do, whenever he wanted to do it. That option held much more appeal for him.
Wombat had no concerns about the morality of driving those people out of their homes. He'd been raised to abide by a simple set of core values. Since his grandparents weren't religious folks, their morality had developed around the concept that things which advanced them in this world were right. Things which harmed them or held them back were wrong. It was a pretty simple moral compass, established by a line of people who had too often found themselves on the bottom of the pecking order.
While their values may have seemed selfish, there was something about their beliefs that held a universal truth. Politicians passed laws they had no intention of ever following themselves. Honest people bent the rules on their taxes, hoping to garner deductions that would benefit them. Most people saw no issue with taking steps to advance their own interests. Everyone was out for themselves in this world. Some were simply willing to take more risks than others.
In an apocalyptic collapse scenario, the things a person might do to benefit themselves took on more significance. The line between right and wrong became more fluid. People who had never before stepped afoul of the law might be willing to kill to protect their families or to improve their chances of survival. The difference was that Wombat was willing to take it even further. For him, plundering wasn't even about subsistence anymore. It wasn't about getting by. Looting and plundering, accumulating beyond his needs, had become an addiction.
He was taking back from the world to make up for all the wrongs his family had suffered for generations. He deserved to prosper because of the way his parents had abandoned him like an empty beer can on the side of the road. The world owed him because the mines had taken his grandfather's leg and made him watch his grandmother die a miserable, agonizing death.
The world owed him and Wombat planned to collect. He and his ax handle were going to take their pound of flesh to atone for every wrong he'd ever suffered. If people were hurt, he was fine with that. If people died, that was their own shitty luck.
He had no grand vision that the things he stole would make him rich one day. This wasn't about starting an empire. It was simply about the moment, about the satisfaction of prosperity and the long-overdue arrival of his just desserts. The rules of the world had changed and now Wombat found himself in a better position than he'd ever been in before. The playing field had been leveled.
Trying to take that camp on the ridge would be a big move and he needed more information first. He was going to have to spend time in those woods watching them. He needed to know who was there and if they were dangerous or not. He certainly had no interest in getting himself killed or wounded. If it was easy, though? If that place was ripe for the picking? If he could do it without risking his life?
He'd do it.
21
The Shandong
The Atlantic
Neither Conor nor Barb was the patient type but they had no choice in this particular situation. Typically Conor was of the mindset that delaying the action gave the enemy more time to discover your presence and thwart your plans. Conor's GPS already told him that the ship had moved away from the shore and was underway at cruising speed. Was it better to wait and gain more insight into his targets or just rush in and start lopping off heads?
Then there was the issue of escaping after the work was done. If they did the hits now, how would they exfil? Would they jump into a lifeboat and row away? Would they swim? There was no way a chopper could pick them up off the deck with an angry Chinese security force firing on them. As much as he hated delays, the logical course of action was that they should sit still for the next couple of days. Lay low, plan, and collect more intel.
They could launch the op when they reached the Mediterranean. Conor could call Ricardo at that point and arrange pickup. His handler had hundreds of associates in that part of the world. He could easily arrange for a speedboat to pull alongside and rush them off to safety. That seemed the most prudent course.
Barb took full advantage of the uniform Dana found for her. Conor passed on a useful bit of tradecraft, which was that Barb should always carry a prop and hurry like she was on an urgent assignment. She utilized that exact strategy, frequently carrying a sealed manila envelope full of blank papers, a serving tray with a covered dish, or a pitcher of water. She smiled and walked by hundreds of faces that did nothing but smile in return. She hid in plain sight, which was the best cover of all.
Conor was not so lucky. He didn't look like the sort of hospitality staff you'd see anywhere unless you were a guest of the corrections system. With his choppy haircut, his stubble of a beard, and his generally banged-up appearance, he looked exactly like what he was—hired muscle, an assassin, and a killer for hire.
It didn't matter what kind of monke
y suit Conor Maguire was crammed into. He was always going to be the kind of man nobody wanted to step into an elevator with. If he was walking down the street, he would always be scanning, assessing threats. The intensity of his gaze might make one cross to the other side of the street, or at least reconsider the importance of wherever they were headed. Conor had accepted that about himself. While some men had a million-dollar smile or movie star good looks, he had the weather-beaten mug of a man who stacked bodies for a living.
For that very reason, his exploration of the ship was limited to the witching hour. When the last of the cocktails were left unfinished on the bar and the last traitor staggered unsteadily toward their penthouse stateroom, Conor was already out skulking around dark corridors and learning the layout of the ship. He'd studied it on the blueprint, but there were things blueprints didn't reveal, like lighting patterns, furniture, and what doors might be open or locked.
The first element he surveilled was the security team. Between him and Barb, they determined that the initial estimate they'd been given was incorrect. Instead of two dozen men, there were more like fifteen, with only three or four being on duty at night. Conor was pleased to find they had a rather lax attitude toward their duties. At night, the sentries adopted a static position and remained there for much of their watch, usually engaged in some distracting activity that kept them from paying one hundred percent attention to their job. Some played video games, read magazines, or watched DVD movies. Some watched porn while others worked out in the gym.
From what Barb reported, the day shift wasn't much better. No one was acting as if they were on a personal protective detail. They didn't follow their charges around or do security sweeps. They seemed to do very little except strut around with their weapons, trying to impress the women who worked on the ship. Conor was pretty certain he and Barb could decimate the entire force in one night, but that wasn't the assignment. Although they'd been given the latitude to kill guards as needed, the plan didn't include wiping out the entire team.
Once Conor was confident about the security situation on the ship, he set about exploring the other places where he might be able to take down his targets. On a night that no security guard was working out, Conor examined the gym and familiarized himself with the layout. He made a pass through the dining room, checking out the large table where Congresswoman Shoe hosted her evening dinner parties. He examined the spa and the beauty salon.
All of those locations were suitable for taking out individual targets but in a ship this crowded someone would sound the alarm. The more he looked around, Conor only saw two options. One, they visited every target's stateroom, gained entry, and terminated the target in the privacy of their room. Two, they took advantage of the one time each day that everyone was together, which was at the working lunch held in a private meeting room.
Using the notes provided by their asset, Dana, Conor located the private meeting space and slipped inside. He was pleased to find the room unlocked. Inside was a whiteboard with various cryptic notes and abbreviations representing what Conor assumed to be various aspects of the alliance's ongoing "project". There was a wide video monitor on the wall for mirroring a laptop or videoconferencing. Conor wondered who, if anyone, might be attending these meetings by videoconference. If there was anything of the laptops remaining when he was done, he'd have to try and salvage them. There might be intel within those devices the Saint Macallan Collective could retrieve.
Conor examined the table and the chairs. He pulled one of the chairs out from the table and took a seat, kicking back and crossing his feet on the table. There was a public entrance into the room from the corridor and a private entrance that allowed the hospitality staff to come in with refreshments. He slid out of his chair and got on the floor, using a penlight to examine the bottom of the table.
He tried lifting up on it and found the tabletop extremely heavy. That was something he might be able to utilize. Heavy objects or thick materials could be used to direct an explosive charge in a particular way. That was something he'd worked with in the past. That might be especially useful if he could shape the charge in a way that rendered maximum lethality, yet spared any electronics that might be sitting on the table. He'd have to think on that one.
He crept out of the conference room and headed back toward his stateroom. He'd seen everything he needed to see tonight. As he walked along a section of railing, he reached out and touched the steel cable that ran through the support posts. He had some folding bolt cutters in his gear. If he could cut a section of that into short lengths and pack it around a charge, the explosion would send it out like dozens of swinging machetes. Throw in a few ball bearings and it would make nasty, irreparable wounds, which was the goal. In the ensuing chaos, Barb could sweep into the room in her uniform, collect the laptops, and they could call for exfil.
Back at the room, Conor tapped on the door. He didn't carry the key in case he was intercepted. He didn't want the crew to know he had access to a stateroom, which might lead them to Barb. He could feel her gaze through the peephole, then the door opened. He checked that the corridor was empty before stepping into the room.
"How'd it go?" Barb asked.
Conor propped his rifle beside his bed and started removing his gear. "I think I got a plan."
"Is it mayhem and carnage?"
"Of course. You know who you're dealing with. Would you expect anything different?"
"I suppose not. When do you plan on doing this?"
Conor let out a tired sigh. "I can build the devices tomorrow. I'm thinking that I build two of them concealed in insulated water pitchers. You could carry them to the conference room, then use duct tape to conceal them underneath the conference table. Orient them exactly as I tell you and it should leave any items on the table undamaged. Then you can retrieve the laptops and we bug out."
Barb grimaced. "So I have to go into this blood-spattered room where every body is missing the lower half?"
"That was my plan."
Barb considered this distasteful task for a moment. "You ever going to teach me that side of the business, Dad?"
Conor shook his head adamantly, as if trying to push the image of such a thing from his mind. "No. It's nasty business that I often wish I'd never been party to. The only bombing I ever relished was your mother's killer. That one was satisfying. The rest were strictly work. Ugly and unpleasant work."
"Then why don't you quit? Sounds like you've lost the appetite for it."
"Eh, I don't know. You reach a point where your row is hoed. You are what you are and there's no changing it. It's an odd thing, this business of getting older. For most of your life you live as if you have your whole life ahead of you, then suddenly you don't. You crest that hill without even realizing it and without warning everything is behind you. It's disorienting and sobering at the same time."
Barb threw an arm around her father. "I love you, Dad. I appreciate everything you've ever done for me. I know you have doubts sometimes, that you're afraid you hardened me too much, but don't worry. The only regret I have in my life is that we lost Mother so early. The rest I'm good with. You were a good father to me."
Conor hugged his daughter tightly. "I love you too, girl."
"I've already had a nap. Anything I can do while you're sleeping?"
"Yeah. Don't let me get murdered in my sleep."
"Sounds like a reasonable request," said Barb. "I'll do my best."
22
Conor's Compound
Jewell Ridge, Virginia
Despite being adults for all practical purposes, Shannon and Ragus felt like the "grown-ups" were gone as they ran the compound by themselves. Besides the months of experience they had living there, they also had written lists and Conor's extensive lectures to guide them through the daily routine. Most of it dealt with security, staying on top of the firewood situation, and making sure the livestock were tended to. God forbid they neglect one of Conor's goats.
They did foot patrols of the f
enced areas of the compound, making sure no trees had dropped and damaged the fence. They had plenty of downed trees already dragged into the compound so most of their firewood processing efforts consisted of sawing that wood to length and splitting what needed to be split. They collected eggs from the chickens and made certain the goats were all accounted for. With no supplemental feed to give them, the goats mostly wandered the compound, grazing and foraging.
Ragus and Shannon worked as a team, enjoying each other's company as they accepted whatever was developing and growing between them. They explored the relationship without trying to define or overthink it. These were not conventional times and that awareness discouraged the tendency to make long-term plans. There was no need to waste time thinking about what the future held for them when there was absolutely no way of predicting what the future held for anyone.
There was no room in their world for "dating" or speculating as to what "dating" might lead to. It was simply a waste of time and brainpower. It wasn't just Shannon and Ragus experiencing this but all people who might be exploring relationships and personal connections. There was a sense of immediacy about every interaction now, the idea that the moment was all they were guaranteed. Any delay, any postponement, any second thoughts might make the moment irrecoverable and lost forever. People had to act now because now was all they had.
The one disagreement they'd had was around Conor's dogs. Conor had a German shepherd and an Australian cattle dog that roamed the place. Initially, Ragus had a contentious relationship with these animals. It had been those dogs that caught him breaking into Conor's chicken house when the two had first met. Being discovered by those dogs, and subsequently by Conor, had probably saved Ragus' life. It was certainly what led him to moving onto the compound and to the life he had now.
Punching Tickets: Book Five in The Mad Mick Series Page 12
