Punching Tickets: Book Five in The Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  When he was done, he spread the fence open and addressed the dogs through it. "You good with this? You're not going to bite me are you?"

  They weren't growling and their posture wasn't particularly aggressive, but they looked uncertain about what was taking place. They knew the area inside the compound belonged to them and their humans. This guy wasn't one of their humans. Then again, he had jerky and their humans weren't around.

  Wombat retrieved his last two pieces of jerky and held them in his hands as he stepped through the opening in the fence. For a moment the dogs appeared torn between duty and food, then they wagged their tails. Wombat held the jerky out and waited patiently for them to come take it from his hands. When they finally did, he grinned at them. "Let's take a look at my new home, boys."

  Wombat had never had any weapons training and his only experience with guns was from hunting, however, he had played a lot of combat video games. Moving as if he was in one of his games, he carried the rifle at high ready and glided from building to building, listening for any activity. At every door he came to, he twisted the knob to see if it was unlocked, but everything was secure, only further convincing him there was no one here. Most people wouldn't lock doors if they were moving around the place during the day.

  When he was fairly certain there was no one on the property, Wombat decided it was time to break into one of the buildings and see what he'd scored. He decided he'd start with the building he assumed to be the main dwelling since that was the one he'd spotted the boy and girl going inside. It was also the one with the covered porch attached to it. As an old office building, the doors were steel and the hardware was stout. Wombat wasn't concerned. He was stout too.

  A few minutes of poking into the scrap piles around the shop building turned up a section of steel I-beam about six feet long. Tipping it up onto his shoulder, Wombat judged it to be around two hundred pounds. Standing about twenty feet from a side door, Wombat got a running go and pitched the beam from his shoulder with all his might. It hit the steel door like a battering ram, bending it enough that the lock sprang open. The door flew inward and bounced off the wall.

  Wombat grinned at his success and went inside. The dogs remained outside, tails down, uncertain of what they should do about this latest development. Wombat didn't want to give them time to second guess their change in allegiance. Stepping into the warm interior of Conor Maguire's home, he gave the dogs a friendly wave. "Come on, boys. You can show me around."

  Recalling the comfort of the fireside, the treats and belly rubs, the dogs joined Wombat in the house, loping through the open door. With the windows covered, the door opening was currently the sole source of light in the dim interior. Wombat stared at the worn furniture. The room was cozy, though nothing fancy, and a wood stove put out plenty of heat to warm the place.

  Spotting a light switch on the wall, Wombat recalled he'd seen these overhead lights working on the night the chopper left. He flicked the switch and sucked in a breath when they came on. Lighting was like a miracle in these dark and powerless times. He wondered if that was how his ancestors had felt seeing an electric light bulb come to life for the first time. He didn't know how any of it worked because he didn't hear a generator. Whatever the power source was, he was going to have to learn to maintain it if he intended to live here.

  With the electric lights allowing him to see further into the dark structure, he ventured into the kitchen. Another switch turned those lights on as well. Wombat threw open a cabinet door and let out a low whistle. It was packed full of food. He threw open a few more doors and found them all in a similar state. There was enough food in those cabinets to last him a year or more.

  Another door off the kitchen led him into what might have once been a conference room but was now a pantry or storage room of some type. He flipped a light switch to his right and several LED lights sprang to life. Wombat couldn't believe his eyes and his knees went weak. He took a seat on a five-gallon bucket of rice.

  The room was lined with steel shelving units and they were packed solid with food and supplies. There was everything from toilet paper to trash bags to hand sanitizer. There were cases of MREs and buckets containing rice, pasta, and grains. There were cans of every type of food Wombat could imagine.

  He shook his head as his eyes roved the hoard. "Great God Almighty, just look at this. I've died and gone to heaven."

  38

  Israel

  There was little conversation between Shani, Barb, and Conor on the flight to Haifa. They made a refueling stop at Palermo, during which no one left the chopper. When they finally landed in Israel, they were greeted by a friend of Shani's, a member of Israel's elite Sayeret Matkal. They were a top-tier unit, equivalent to the U.S. Army's Delta Force. Conor was uncertain if Shani's ability to gather such resources was due to her relationships within the Israeli intelligence community or because the Saint Macallan Collective had worked to secure Israel's cooperation in their attempt to retake the U.S. government.

  After handing over their weapons, Shani found each of them some civilian clothing. They'd only escaped from the Shandong with the items they carried in their pockets and Conor's suppressed Ruger. Everything else had been left behind. Their packs and the weapons they'd brought from home, and their explosives and high-tech nightvision gear. Fortunately, Conor still had the watch he'd taken from Doc's body to give to Shannon. With the emotional blow of that loss hitting him yet again, Conor felt more tired than he'd felt in a long time. He was exhausted on all levels and wanted nothing more than to take some pill that would induce a long, dreamless sleep and erase the failure of this mission.

  Shani herded them into a four-door Jeep Wrangler and they headed out of the city. Conor stared out the window, watching the farmland of the Northern District pass by. With it being her first time in Israel, Barb looked around with curiosity but the mood was subdued. Shani knew her passengers weren't ready to talk right now. They were in the post-operation crash, coming down off days of running on adrenaline. They'd gone through a lot and had just as many questions as she did.

  After a little more than thirty minutes of driving, Shani slowed the Jeep and pulled through a stone gate on the side of the road. She pulled into a parking lot and killed the engine. "Let's get out a moment."

  While Conor was beat and not in the mood for sightseeing, he didn't have the energy to argue.

  "What is this place?" Barb asked.

  "This is Megiddo National Park, home to the ancient city of Megiddo," Shani replied. "The Greek name is Armageddon."

  Barb wrinkled her brow. "The end of the world?"

  "Armageddon means that now, but that's because of this place. The Greek name was Har Megiddo, meaning Mount of Megiddo. In the Book of Revelation, when they speak of the final battle between good and evil, this is the spot where that is supposed to play out. Would you like to see it?"

  Barb was anxious; Conor said nothing but followed along. They climbed the trail from the parking lot and explored the ruins, walking among the rubble of the ancient city. The Mount rose above the fertile farmlands that surrounded it, fields of cotton, wheat, corn, and tobacco.

  "Why did you bring us here, Shani?" Conor finally asked. "Is this supposed to be some gesture about the magnitude of the battle that we're facing? Are you trying to inspire us?"

  Shani stopped and leaned against a railing, her hands behind her back. "Not at all, Conor. I needed a moment to speak with you before we arrive at our destination. This felt like an appropriate place."

  "About what?" Conor asked.

  "Megiddo is in the Jezreel Valley. This is where I live when I'm not working, on a moshav a short distance from here. I live beside my sister, which makes it easier for me to leave Abela behind when I'm working."

  In Conor's state, he barely had the ability to comprehend the surge of emotion that hit him. In the chaos of the operation, in the cloud of failure that came with losing Doc and pulling the plug on the op, he'd forgotten how close he was to seeing the
child he'd never met. He hadn’t prepared himself emotionally because he'd been uncertain if this day would ever come. Although he certainly wanted to meet her, it had been a very farfetched idea given the current circumstances. Now here he was.

  Conor held tightly to the handrail and wandered over to a bench. He sagged down and dropped his face into his hands. Barb was at his side immediately, a hand on his shoulder.

  "Are you okay, Dad?"

  Conor took a deep breath and let it out. "This came out of nowhere. I don't know if I'm ready for this. I'm a fucking basket case at the moment."

  "It will be fine. Here's what's going to happen, Conor. I'll ask your cooperation, okay?"

  Uncertain of how else to respond, Conor met Shani's eyes and gave a slow nod of agreement.

  "I'm going to introduce you to Abela as a very good friend. Same with you, Barb. Let's start there before we throw things at the child she wouldn’t understand. Are you good with that?"

  "I'm just happy to meet her," Conor said. "I'm good with your terms."

  "Barb?" Shani pressed.

  "A little sister.” Barb grinned. “How cool is that?"

  Shani smiled. "She'll be just as excited to have a big sister, but it may be a while before we can tell her about it."

  Barb nodded. "I understand."

  With the revelation that they were about to meet Abela, the scene of Armageddon was slightly less interesting to Conor and Barb. Their thoughts were going in another direction entirely, toward this new member of their family they'd only learned of recently. They piled into the Jeep and got back on the road.

  The moshav itself was interesting, laid out in a circle with homes in the center and cultivated fields along the outer perimeter. There was a mix of new and old homes, many of them painted the same white with red clay tiles on the roof. Shani wove the Jeep along tree-lined streets, tall palms standing above everything else. Then she slowed and turned into the driveway of a long, low home. It looked like a mix between an American ranch-style home and the Mediterranean style.

  Shani killed the engine and Conor stared at the house, almost panicked. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this nervous. Picking up on his state, Shani touched his forearm.

  "It's okay, Conor. She's just a little girl."

  Conor flared his eyebrows. "Yeah, that's what they used to say about Barb and look at her now."

  Barb reached out and smacked Conor on the back of the head. "Getting your ass kicked by your daughter won't make a good impression on Abela. You should probably get out while you still can."

  Conor took the hint, climbing out the door and standing around awkwardly with his hands in his pockets. Shani couldn't help but laugh when she caught sight of him.

  "Come on," she said, dragging him along by the arm.

  Barb followed behind them, snickering at Conor's awkwardness. Inside, the home had concrete floors and an open floor plan. It was well-decorated and comfortable. Shani might be a badass but she had a bit of the homemaker in her too.

  "I'm home!" Shani called out.

  "In the kitchen!" came a woman's voice.

  "That's my sister, Tamar," Shani explained. "She knows the truth, Conor, and I'll warn you in advance that she's not going to like you."

  Barb snickered. "He's used to that from women."

  "I'm sure." Shani smirked.

  They entered the large, bright kitchen and Conor saw her for the first time, an eight-year-old girl seated at a long wooden table, coloring with her head cocked to the side in concentration. She had her mother's long, dark hair but there was a trace of Barb in there too. Conor's heart melted. He was gobsmacked.

  Abela looked up and smiled at her mother. "Mommy! Come hug me!" Abela turned in her seat and extended her arms to Shani, beckoning her with tiny hands and fingers.

  Shani was still stiff from the injuries she'd sustained on their last operation, but awkwardly crouched by her daughter. She gestured for Conor and Barb to take the seat across the table from Abela.

  Tamar was a few years older than Shani, more gray in her hair. She was drying a frying pan at the sink and regarding Conor with a raised eyebrow. It was the look a mature and experienced woman gave a man when she wanted to let him know that she wasn't fooled by him.

  "Nice to meet you," Barb said.

  "And you too," Tamar replied, giving Barb a wide smile.

  Conor gave his most charming smile. "Yes, nice to meet you, Tamar."

  The dour woman narrowed her eyes at Conor. "Don't be so certain about that. You haven't spent much time with me yet."

  Conor turned back to Abela and found himself unable to take his eyes off the child. Something about her forehead reminded him of his mother, dead now for so many years. Seeing that physical trait brought his mother back to life in some way that was both magical and disorienting at the same time. There was a piece of her alive in this child he'd not even known about until a few weeks ago.

  "Abela, I'd like you to meet Conor. He's an old friend of Mommy's. A dear friend, and he's going to be a friend of yours too. I just know it."

  Abela looked at Conor in a way that was both sweet and polite, yet also contained that brutal, assessing honesty of a child. She was looking at Conor and wondering why on Earth her mother thought she'd be friends with this funny-looking old man.

  "It's very nice to meet you, Abela," Conor said, extending a hand and smiling.

  Amused by the novelty of the gesture, Abela took Conor's hand and shook it. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Conor."

  "No, you just call me Conor, dearie. Like your mother said, I think we're going to be good friends. That's a beautiful picture you're coloring."

  Abela regarded him. "I've never heard anyone who talked like you before. Are you from America?"

  "Well, I live in America now but my accent is because I'm from Ireland originally. It's a country—"

  "I know where Ireland is," Abela interrupted, doing everything but rolling her eyes at him.

  "I'm sure you do," Conor corrected. "I bet you're a very smart girl. This is my daughter, Barb. She's a very smart girl as well."

  Barb gave the child a warm smile. "Hello, Abela. I think you and I can be friends too. I'm more fun than my dad."

  "Do you like to play?" Abela asked.

  "I don't know," Barb said. "I haven't played in a long time."

  Hearing those words from Barb gave Conor an odd surge of guilt. When Barb had been Abela's age, had he played with her enough? He'd been a single dad, traveling the world for work. He was always training for an operation, packing his gear for an op, or choppering off to some obscure corner of the world.

  He'd often been forced to leave Barb for days at a time, in the hands of childcare provided by his employer. Barb had a good time on these extended sleepovers, looking at the experience as something like a summer camp, but had Conor raised a daughter who knew how to play with another child? There were a lot of things he'd do differently if he could go back in time, but there was no fixing it. There was no re-doing the mistakes he’d made that long ago.

  But would he change the past even if he could?

  What if one innocent correction made it to where he never met his wife? To where Barb was never born? To where this moment he was experiencing right then never happened?

  No, life was about the mistakes as well as the successes. It was about the losses as well as the gains. There were moments when one embraced the blessed simplicity of existence and others where one cursed the pain the world brought to their doorstep, but all those moments together made a life. They made a person. Without the bad, the good didn't exist.

  39

  The Moshav

  Jezreel Valley, Israel

  After dinner at Shani's home that night, they walked around the neighborhood and she caught them up on life in Israel. Conor listened mostly, his body exhausted and his mind reeling after the experiences of the last week. Still, the winding down was helpful and he could feel himself relaxing. When they returned to Shani's place, sh
e took them out back to a patio shaded by eucalyptus trees.

  "Barb, would you like to see the fishies in the fountain?" Abela asked.

  "Of course I would."

  Abela grabbed Barb's hand and towed her toward the decorative pond with a waterfall and concrete bench. Conor and Shani watched them go, each lost in their own thoughts about the moment they were witnessing.

  "Do you have anything to drink?" Conor asked.

  Shani gave him a curious look. "Like a real drink? Not sure I've ever seen you drink before."

  "Some days merit a sip of the devil's brew. This is one of them."

  "I can understand that. Something to wash away the things you've been through. I have beer, vodka, and Japanese whiskey. I've also got some Israeli liquors you might want to try—Tubi 60, Arak, and even Arak with khat leaves."

  "What would you recommend?"

  "How about Tubi 60?" Shani suggested. "It's the bomb."

  Conor wasn't hip enough to catch Shani's dated expression. "Good enough. I need a bomb."

  Shani was back in a moment with the bottle and several glasses with ice. She poured three fingers of the liquor for herself, Conor, and Barb, then topped it off with soda.

  Conor raised his glass and took a tentative sniff, then sipped it. Finding the taste to his liking, he drained it in a single sip. "Guess I'm still a mite parched from all the activity. Can I have another?"

  "Go easy there, Conor," she warned. "No one is quite sure what's in this drink. It's lemon, ginger, some herbs, and grain alcohol, but a lot of people say it has a drug-like effect."

  "What drug?" Conor asked, trying to take stock of his sensations and see if he felt anything weirder than usual going on within his body.

  "They say ecstasy, but it's more likely khat," Shani replied, referring to the leaf that was chewed in Africa as a stimulant. The tradition was similar to that of chewing coca leaves in South America.

  Conor rolled his eyes. "Bloody hell. Ecstasy is the last fucking thing I need. Can you see the Mad Mick running around like a hippie, hugging everyone? That would be absolutely terrifying, both to me and everyone else."