"Okay, we're moving again," Conor announced, sounding like a weary schoolteacher at this point. As he was wrangling the prisoners further back into the suite, the sat phone in his pocket began to buzz. Conor whipped it out and glanced at the screen. It was Shani. He thumbed the button to accept the call. "Top of the morning to you."
"Conor!"
"Yeah, it's me. If we get disconnected, it's because I've been killed. Anything you can do to prevent that?"
"Maybe. I'm looking at you right now," said Shani. "From the Yanshuf."
Conor spun to give the chopper a closer look. He'd assumed it was a Saudi Blackhawk but he could see the markings now. It was indeed from the Israeli fleet, the Blackhawks that they nicknamed yanshuf or "owl".
"Bloody good timing, Shani. Anything you can do about this mess we're in? This op has totally gone to shit and Ricardo is missing in action. There are Saudi Marines on the ship and I expect they're going to kick the door in at any minute."
"On it!"
The chopper veered away from the ship and closed on the Saudi destroyer. As the sound of the chopper faded, Conor heard the boots he'd been anticipating. Men were streaming up the hallway now, men Conor could assume were pissed off because they'd lost friends to the charge he'd set on the stairwell door. These men were probably going to break through this door at any minute and kill him, his daughter, and probably Dana too.
There were shouts from the hall, demands for their surrender.
"Come on, Shani," Conor urged. He was sweating now and could hear his heart pounding in his ears. This operation was going to go from bad to fatal any second now.
The Saudis began counting down and Conor knew where that inevitably led. When the countdown stopped, they'd breach the door and begin selectively dropping hostiles. Conor assumed he was at the top of their list because he was about as hostile as it got. Then the voice paused, the countdown halted. Conor was holding his breath when the phone in his hand began to ring again. "Hello?"
"Conor, the Saudis have agreed to let us retrieve your team."
"That fucking simple, was it?"
"No, not really. There were some threats involved. Missiles and drones and that kind of thing. I'm not sure how long the peace will hold. I need your people on the observation deck ASAP."
"That hallway is full of pissed-off Saudi Marines. You really think they're just going to let me waltz through them?"
"They're pulling back," Shani assured him. "I have the captain's word on it."
"If I die out there, I'm haunting you for the rest of your life for fucking this up."
"Well, I'm not sure how that would be any different. I can't seem to get rid of you now."
"We're heading up," Conor said. "Stay on the line."
Conor put the phone on speaker, shoved it in his pocket, and spoke to the room. "We're going up to the observation deck. We're going to take the elevator. The steps aren't safe."
His announcement was met with confusion, no one in the room certain what was taking place. As they were all getting to their feet, Abbas's phone rang again. When he made to answer it, Conor snatched it from him and shoved it in his own pocket.
"You know all you need to know for now. Get up and move your ass."
Abbas frowned. Throughout the whole ordeal, he hadn’t acted scared as much as inconvenienced. Now he'd almost crossed into the territory of slightly miffed. Conor felt a degree of satisfaction at breaking through his calm demeanor.
Conor skirted the group and opened the door, gritting his teeth in anticipation of a barrage of Saudi gunfire. When none came, he opened the door fully and saw that the hallway had been vacated as promised. He held the door open and gestured for everyone to step outside. "All clear. Get to the elevators."
Conor, Barb, and Dana herded the prisoners to the large elevator and crammed them into one carriage. Conor selected the button for the observation deck, hoping they wouldn’t find a team of Saudi Marines waiting on them. There was utter silence in the elevator as it rose. No one was in the mood for conversation.
When the elevator reached the deck Conor had selected, a loud ding marked their arrival. Conor grimaced when the door opened on a team of Saudi Marines. They looked every bit as angry and bloodthirsty as he'd imagined. Despite their menacing posture, they lowered their weapons and backed away. Yet Conor knew that look. Letting him pass was a bitter pill for them to swallow. They wanted him dead.
"Let's move it," Conor ordered. "Weapon down, Barb. Stay alert but don't give them a reason to open fire."
"Roger that," Barb said.
Though her voice was cool, Conor could hear the uncertainty. He was right there with her. He had no clue how this was going to go. While the prisoners filed off the elevator, Conor brought up the sat phone again. "We're on the observation deck, Shani. What now?"
"How many in your team?"
"Three including me."
"We've got a single hoist and harness, Conor. I'll have to bring you up one at a time."
"Got it. Start dropping the line and I'll tell my people."
The helicopter changed position until it was overtop them. As it moved, a hoist line began lowering from the open door. Conor saw the operator above him, the pendant control in his hand. He gathered Barb and Dana close.
"This is where we get off. They're going to lift us aboard the chopper and we're done here. This mission is scrubbed for now, but we'll live to fight another day."
Barb nodded. It was too soon to be relieved, but it was the best news she'd heard in a while. She wasn't going to die today.
Dana was less enthused. "No."
Conor looked at her with confusion. "No? This is our only play here, Dana. You did an excellent job in getting us this far, but there's a time to pack it up and go home. This is the time. There's no other option."
"I want her to pay!" Dana shouted, jabbing a finger at Congresswoman Shoe.
Shoe was taken aback at the hostility and vitriol. She looked weary and ready for this to all be over. She'd been up all night and had nothing left in the tank.
"Conor, the harness is down," Shani said in his ear.
Conor put a hand on Dana's shoulder. "Let's get you on the chopper."
"No, dammit."
Conor turned to Barb. "You go. Give a minute with her."
Barb hustled off toward the waiting hoist line and stepped into the rescue harness. Conor watched that she was properly secured before turning his attention back to Dana.
"There will be another chance," he said. "That's something you learn in this business. You return to fight another day, but only if you keep yourself alive. You die and it's game over."
"And what reason do I have to stay alive?" Dana spat, tears streaming down her face. "I don't have anyone left. Am I going to survive just to be eaten alive by loss and hatred each day? What kind of life is that?"
Conor had no answer for her. He'd been there. There had been dark moments in his life that were filled with only those two emotions—loss and hatred. That was where he'd been when he'd killed the drunk driver who’d taken his wife. Conor understood the desire for revenge. It had been all that saved him. He needed to convince Dana to turn her hate into strength, but he wasn't getting through to her.
Dana's eyes were locked onto Shoe's, her mouth set in a determined grimace. Conor glanced away to confirm that Barb was still being safely lifted toward the chopper. When he turned back to Dana, she wasn't where he expected. Shoe released a scream when Dana wrapped her into a bear hug and lifted her off the ground. Dana unleashed her own cry now, but it wasn't a scream of terror—it was a war cry. Dana charged toward the railing with the smaller Shoe bundled in her arms.
The Saudi Marines were uncertain of what to do. Their weapons were raised but any rounds they sent in Dana's direction might miss and hit the congresswoman. Then it was too late and there was no stopping it. Dana crashed into the railing and threw herself over, a screaming Shoe clutched in her grip. The pair dropped several stories, bouncing off multiple
pipe railings before they hit the deck below.
Conor didn't rush to look over the rail. He didn't need to see the bodies to know what had taken place. They'd dropped too far to survive. Now the Saudis turned those raised weapons on Conor. They were clearly rethinking their orders. Fingers were curled around triggers and selector switches were no longer in the Safe position. They were ready to take their revenge.
Conor's eyes shifted to Abbas and the man was smiling at him. He could sense the changing of the tides and smell the blood in the water. He was certain someone would open fire on Conor at any moment and he couldn't wait to see it.
"Barb's on board," Shani said into his ear. "Coming down."
Conor backed toward the descending harness. The chopper dipped slightly, dropping the harness closer. When it reached him, Conor stepped into the webbing without taking his eyes or his weapon off the Saudi Marines. He'd never felt so vulnerable as when he was lifted into the air, hanging there like a piñata surrounded by a swarm of bloodthirsty, bat-wielding children.
He wasn't certain he breathed at all until the hoist operator swung him onto the chopper deck and slid the door shut. Conor dragged a sleeve across his sweaty forehead. "Bloody hell," was all he could say. "Get me out of here."
35
Conor's Compound
Jewell Ridge, Virginia
Ragus woke up on the couch, his arm wrapped around Shannon. The fire had burned down to embers and the room had gone cold. He also had to pee like crazy, but he didn't want to get up and break the spell. He'd never slept like that before, curled up with someone he cared about. It was different. If he were to get used to something like that, how would he ever adjust when the others returned to the compound? No way Doc would allow that beneath his watchful eye. Ragus dismissed the thought, wondering why he couldn't just enjoy the moment. Why did he have to follow it to some negative end?
He laid there for about thirty more minutes until the pressure of his responsibilities and his bladder outweighed the magic of the moment. He needed to get a fire going and get the house warmed up. The crisp sunlight cutting through the kitchen window with the intensity of a laser told him that it was probably around 8 AM. They'd planned on visiting his old home today and they needed to get moving if they were going to do so.
Ragus worked carefully to extract his arm from beneath the sleeping Shannon, but he wasn't careful enough. Her eyes fluttered open and she looked at him, smiling and trying to hold him there. The effort pleased him but he couldn't give in to it.
"I need to get the fire going before the house gets too cold," he said. "And if we're wanting to take that trip, we need to get up and moving."
She yawned, rolling from his arms and letting him escape with a sigh. He visited the stove first, grabbing the ash pan from the door beneath the grate and dumping them outside. While he was out there he answered the call of nature. Without a jacket, the cold morning air was nearly as good as a cup of coffee for perking a man up.
Back inside, he got the fire going but it took him a little longer to get Shannon going. She hadn’t gotten drunk but she had two glasses of the mead and it apparently made her sleep a little deeper than normal. He used the Coleman stove to get some water boiling, hoping a cup of tea would get her moving.
"Get up, Shannon," he said, placing the tea in front of her when it was done. "I'm going to feed the dogs. When I get back we need to get rolling."
Ragus pulled on his jacket, gloves, and a knit cap. He grabbed his rifle from the rack by the door and stepped outside, chambering a round. He called the dogs and stood there for a moment, taking in his surroundings. There was a thick frost, the air probably around twenty degrees. When he called the dogs a second time, there was a thump within one of the doghouses, a thick tail smacking against the side of the house.
"Breakfast, boys," Ragus announced.
The dogs knew the routine. They stepped out of their houses, stretching, then wagging their tails at what they knew was coming. They followed Ragus to a nearby shed, where he opened the door to a deer carcass hanging from an industrial chain hoist. Ragus snatched a machete from where it was sunk into a log and used it to hack two sections of lower leg from the carcass. He tossed one to each of the dogs.
They sniffed them, then picked them up when they decided the meal met with their approval. Both trotted off wagging their tails. The dogs got along well, the best of friends, but preferred dining alone. Every friendship had its limits.
Ragus made a quick sweep of the main buildings and nothing appeared disturbed. When he got back in the main living quarters Shannon was up and moving, sipping her tea in front of the fire.
"Good morning, sleepyhead."
"Morning," she said.
"I'm going to go around and rebuild the fires in all the buildings," Ragus announced. "It may take an hour to get everything caught up. We can head out after that."
"We taking horses or walking?"
"I think I'd rather walk," Ragus said. "I'm feeling a little cooped up and stretching my legs would be nice."
"Fine by me." She yawned and it turned into a nod. "I'll get us a lunch together."
"Great. I'll have twenty nuggets and two large orders of fries."
"Sorry. We have chickens and potatoes, but that's more work than I'm up for. How about MREs and candy bars?"
"I guess that will have to do," Ragus sighed.
He headed back out with his rifle, visiting each of the structures where they kept a low fire. He emptied ashes and rekindled each stove so the temperature would stay above freezing. As he moved around the compound, he made certain he locked each building behind him since they'd be leaving the property. When he got back to the main living quarters, Shannon was waiting on him just as she'd promised. She was dressed in warm clothing, her pack and rifle sitting by the door.
She grinned. "About time."
With a roll of his eyes, Ragus grabbed the rest of his gear and they headed out, locking the main gate behind them. From inside the gate, the dogs watched them curiously. Ragus couldn't help but feel they were trying to remind him this wasn't what he was supposed to be doing. It was all he could do to not snap at them. Yes, he knew he was breaking the rules. He'd be back in a couple of hours and hopefully they could all put this behind them. For once he was glad the dogs couldn't talk because he knew they'd rat him out in a heartbeat once Conor got home. Unlike Shannon, he hadn’t bought their loyalty with treats and naps by the fire.
They turned left outside the compound gate, the road heading in the direction of town. The morning was quiet. Any animal with good sense was hiding in its burrow against the cold temperatures. His cheeks stinging from the air, Ragus had a moment of wishing he was in his own warm burrow, huddled again with Shannon. Only the crows braved the cold, cawing in a manner that was almost accusatory. Like the dogs, he felt they were chiding him for his weakness, for giving in to a pretty face. For being swayed by his feelings for Shannon. He wanted to curse them too.
Homes were sparse this high on the ridge. A lot of what was there sat empty. Some of these people Ragus knew the fate of, but others he didn't. As they walked, they occasionally caught the smell of wood smoke in the air, a reminder that there were other people out there who'd survived the cold night and hard times.
Some of these neighbors had fought with Conor in defense of the community. Others had benefited from Conor's generosity when he had food he was able to distribute. However, the cold weather of late had encouraged nesting and they hadn't seen much of their neighbors during these short days of winter. Despite having grown up in this community, Ragus didn't know any of the people this high on the ridge. Except for an odd face here or there, most were strangers to him.
He and Shannon walked quickly, the cold morning urging them forward as a means of keeping warm. They talked some, Ragus pointing out the few landmarks he knew. Most were only of local significance. The home of someone who'd committed murder over a woman; a curve that had been the scene of a particularly spectacular wrec
k; the road leading to a hollow known for moonshine.
Before he knew it, before he'd had a chance to prepare himself, they turned a bend in the road and his home—his old home—stood just off the road ahead of them. Overgrown and absent any signs of life, the mobile home sat dark and lifeless on a shelf cut into the steep hillside. In the manner that it bespoke a life once lived but no longer, it reminded him of the husk of a dead insect or a pale straight bone jutting from the soil, discarded and without context.
The sight of it stopped Ragus in his tracks and he saw his old home as he'd never seen it before. With the passage of time, having experienced so much since leaving the place, he saw it now with both the assessing eye of a stranger and the sentimental eye of someone bound inextricably to the place. It was an odd, disorienting sensation.
Sensing that he was overwhelmed by the sight of it, Shannon placed a hand on his shoulder. "Ragus, are you alright?"
He dipped his head but his eyes stayed glued to the sight. "That's it. That's the place."
When Shannon turned back to it, Ragus's eyes flickered to her for a moment. He briefly wondered what she thought, how she was probably filtering through all the possible responses to sift out the negative comments. All the words that would sound derogatory, judgmental, and insensitive.
Yet Shannon's feelings were little more than a blip on Ragus's radar. He was being bombarded with sensations of his own—memories, fragments, emotions—that were immensely more concerning to him than anything Shannon might be experiencing. He remembered the sense of futility at watching his mother struggle with her illness while he was unable to do anything to help. He remembered the powerful sense of loneliness that came with losing the only person he had in the world.
He couldn't look at those rotting porch steps without seeing himself sitting at the base of them, sagged back against the house, crying with the anguish of someone who has lost everything. He couldn't imagine ever experiencing such agony again. He could still feel the weight of his mother in his arms, shockingly light, as he carried her to her grave. He remembered the sting of his hands—rubbed raw from digging the hole—when they wiped at the tears that just wouldn't stop pouring from his eyes that day.
Punching Tickets: Book Five in The Mad Mick Series Page 18
