Punching Tickets: Book Five in The Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  Shani snickered at the image. The information about the drink did nothing to prevent Conor from taking the second glass though. He did approach this one with a bit more reserve, sipping instead of slugging. While he sipped, Shani delivered a glass to Barb and then returned to her seat beside Conor.

  "So what happened with Doc?"

  Conor deflated, his expression going bitter. He launched into the story, from the time they arrived at Cumberland Island until they boarded the Shandong. He related the whole sordid event from the unexpected news they'd be sailing to Saudi Arabia to losing contact with Ricardo.

  "So you had reason to believe that your mission might have been compromised before you even boarded the ship?" Shani confirmed.

  "Yes, but nothing conclusive. Barb and I knew to be on guard but saw no reason to scrub the mission. It was too important."

  "And lucrative."

  "This was about more than money. This was about the people who sold out a nation. In the briefing, Ricardo made it sound as if Congresswoman Shoe was our most important target, though. If that was the case, we could almost call the mission a success due to Dana taking her out with a swan dive. I'm not sure Ricardo or those who hired him understood Prince Abbas's role in this matter though. I think he's a bigger fish than they imagined."

  Shani took a sip of her drink with a noncommittal shrug. "I'm not so sure this conspiracy originated with him, Conor. Our intel always pointed toward the attacks originating in Pakistan."

  "I'm not saying Abbas planned the attacks, I'm just trying to put the pieces together here, Shani. Humor me. I'm an old man. My firmware is outdated and I'm not running the latest chipset. It takes me a while to figure things out."

  Shani laughed.

  "I'm not suggesting the Americans on that ship or Abbas himself set up the attacks from the beginning. I’d bet they all learned of them in advance and did nothing to stop them. They took advantage of the opportunity they knew would be created by the chaos, seeing this as a chance to advance their agenda. I have no proof of this but my gut tells me Abbas learned of the attacks and took that information to Shoe. It's logical because he interacted with her regularly in D.C. circles."

  "Obviously, Saudi Arabia would love to have the opportunity to exert greater control over American politics," Shani agreed. "Then they could have all the weapons they wanted. Their appetite for jets and missiles is insatiable, but sometimes congress cuts off the tap."

  Conor took another sip of his drink. "China would love to have that same influence. They could flood our markets with cheap Chinese goods and not have to worry about consequences. They could loot intellectual properties with no worry of reprisal. There'd be no tariffs and no lectures about trade imbalances or human rights issues. They'd be free to loot America."

  "So what do the American politicians who sold their souls get for this?" Shani asked.

  "They got both an immediate and a long-term benefit. In the short term, all of the politicians on that ship got to send their families to a resort in Jeddah before the attacks took place. While the rest of America is suffering, their families are living in luxury and the Saudi government is picking up the tab. In the long-term, these politicians will grow in power and personal wealth as they control access to the American government. I'm sure each of them will get tens of millions of dollars, if not more. On top of it, the American populace will be disarmed with the assistance of UN peacekeepers and won't be in a position to fight back."

  "Seriously?"

  Conor nodded. "That's what I'm hearing. They're telling the American people the lights won't come back on until they turn in their guns. They can't get food from aid camps until they hand in their weapons. They're tying aid to forcing people to give up their freedoms and that's just wrong."

  "That's insane. How can they do that to their own people?"

  Conor shrugged. "They're bloody evil bastards." He said it as if the answer should have been obvious.

  "Indeed they are."

  Conor slugged the rest of his Tubi 60 and smacked his lips. "That's darn tasty. Can I have another?"

  Shani chuckled. "I'm not carrying you in the house. If you pass out in that chair, you'll spend the night there."

  Conor waved her off. "It's a wee little drink. Don't worry yourself."

  Shani made Conor another drink, then slid it across the glass-topped table. "So what's the move here, Conor? Is your mission over or not?"

  "That's what I'm trying to figure out here, Shani. I don't think it's over. I need to kill Abbas. He may not have planned the attacks, but I suspect he's the very one who masterminded the idea that they be used as a springboard for taking control of the American government. He's the real head of the snake here, not Shoe. As an ambassador, he spent enough time in Washington to know the people who'd go for the plan. When he caught wind of the attacks, I bet he reached out. Dana was Shoe's aide and she told us the congresswoman went into a flurry of activity before the attacks. She was one hundred percent confident that Shoe knew what was coming."

  "It's a good thought, Conor, but it may be too late. Regardless of who set up this plot, it obviously took a lot of people and a lot of planning. The conspiracy may be so far along now that it runs on its own, without either Shoe or Abbas. If U.N. troops are to be used, they've very likely already been put on alert, if not actually mobilized. I'm sure the effort toward restoring power is already underway. You may not be able to turn the tides."

  "That may be true," Conor conceded. "But the people who hired Ricardo called themselves the Saint Macallan Collective and their goal was to send a message that traitors to the US would be dealt with. That message needs to include people like Abbas, Saudi prince or not. No matter who they are, no matter where they are, we will find them and we will kill them."

  "Is that the Tubi 60 talking?" Shani teased. "The drink loosening your tongue?"

  "No, that's the bloody Mad Mick talking. Losing Doc on this mission has made me more determined to see it through. I've got to go home when this is over and explain to Shannon why her father is dead. I'd like to be able to tell her that he didn't die in vain."

  Shani bobbed her head in a slow nod. She understood vengeance. She understood taking scalps in the name of a fallen comrade. "What can I do?"

  "We're a long way from home with no papers and no gear. I got nothing to my name."

  "Israel has quietly agreed to assist the Saint Macallan Collective," Shani said. "We have common interests. I would think the resources of the Mossad would be available to you as long as there's no public connection."

  "Then let's make it happen, Shani. Set up a meeting with your people. Make it as soon as possible."

  Shani stood. "I'll make the call now. Stay out of the Tubi 60 while I'm gone."

  "No promises!"

  Barb wandered over in a few minutes to refill her glass. "That's an interesting flavor. I think I like it."

  "Eh, not me," Conor lied. "Haven't finished me first glass yet."

  "Oh, is that right? Did you forget I was sitting right over there, dear father? I've been counting."

  Conor frowned. "I'm the Mad Mick and I answer to no one."

  Barb cracked up, unused to seeing her father this way. She poured herself another glass and took a sip. "You know what else I like?"

  "No idea."

  She leaned toward him, whispering so Abela couldn't hear. "I think I like having a little sister. Seeing the world through the eyes of a child rather than through those of a paranoid old man is a bit refreshing."

  Barb patted him on the arm and went back to sit with Abela. Conor mulled over her words while he finished his drink. He sought to refill his glass but found someone had moved the bottle. He laid back to rest his eyes until Shani got back and soon he was snoring.

  40

  Johnny Jacks' House

  The smoke rolling from Johnny's chimney was the only sign of life when Wayne rode up to the gate. The sound of his horse on the road was enough to stir Johnny's dog into action. The animal bar
ked and charged the gate, then settled down when it detected Wayne's familiar scent and heard his voice. It wagged its tail as Wayne opened the gate and led his horse through.

  By the time he reached the house, Johnny was waiting on him, standing on his porch in the cold morning air, resting awkwardly against the porch railing. He wore a flannel shirt and suspenders. Wayne knew that look, the posture of a man aching and weary.

  "Morning to ya," Johnny called.

  "Morning, Johnny,” Wayne said back with a smile. “How's it going?"

  "I'm on the right side of the dirt, but I'm feeling my age.”

  Wayne dismounted and tied his horse off to a porch post. "Then let's get inside. I need to talk to you about a few things."

  Johnny led the way, limping back inside and settling into a recliner by the fire. He gestured for Wayne to take a seat. "I'm wore slap out today. I'd have to feel better just to die. I got old pains and new pains all mixed together, you know? But you're not here to listen to me complain. What brings you out on this cold morning?"

  Wayne sighed. "I don't even know where to start, Johnny. A lot has happened."

  "Conor told me about those young men. Such a shame. He said your people had soured on the place and were heading south. They change their mind?"

  Wayne shook his head. "They went on. I'm all that's left."

  Johnny stared at Wayne while he turned this over in his head. "Your people left without you?"

  "I chose to stay behind," Wayne clarified. "There's nothing for me down south. I knew I needed to get out of Detroit when things got bad, but I didn't have a destination in mind like some of my people. I guess I'm as at home here as I'd be anywhere. Plus I kind of feel like I have unfinished business. I'd like to find out who killed those boys and make it right."

  "Any leads on that?"

  "Not at this point. I stopped by the house again, the one where it happened. There are bloody fingerprints everywhere but that doesn't help me. I'm fairly certain the guy used a stick or a bat or something. That's what the wounds looked like. Plus there was blood slung up on the ceiling, like a man might do when he's beating someone to death."

  Johnny shook his head to clear the horrific image. "You talked to Pastor White's folks about it?"

  "I did. They said Conor told them about the attack when he passed through the other day. They've been on the lookout, but they said they hadn't seen any strangers, just the same local folks they see all the time. They said they hadn't noticed anyone with a stick or a bat."

  "Hard to say who might do such a thing," Johnny mused. "These hills are full of solitary mountain folk who don't mix with others. Some might be capable of a crime like that. There's criminals and violent mentally-ill folks out there too. Might even be a stranger passing through who saw a light and acted on an impulse. You never know what motivates people."

  "I'll tell you what motivates me—revenge," Wayne said. "I want to find the guy responsible for this and make him pay. I want to beat him to death from the feet up and give him time to think about what he did to those boys."

  "Don't do anything you can't live with," Johnny warned. "Heat of the moment, a man might do something that haunts him forever."

  "I'll take that into account."

  "So you living by yourself now? That firehouse is a lot for one man to keep up with."

  "Now that you mention it, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about."

  "We'd be glad to have you," Johnny blurted out, saving Wayne from having to state his case. "We could use the help. I'm about broke-down these days. Sam and Jason are having to pick up the slack."

  Wayne grinned. "I appreciate that, Johnny. I had a whole sales pitch prepared."

  "Save it. I already know what I need to know. I trust my gut."

  "Great," Wayne said. "I'll ride back and get my stuff. While I'm gone you can figure out where you want me to get started. I've never farmed before but I'm good with my hands. You tell me where you need me."

  "I already know where I'm going to start you," Johnny said. "That is if you're okay with it."

  "Anything, Johnny. You name it."

  Johnny's face turned serious. "I assume Conor told you he had to be gone for a few weeks?"

  “He did, yes.”

  "I'm supposed to go check on Ragus and Shannon. I promised Conor I'd keep an eye on them a couple of days a week. Show up there and spend the night, make sure they were staying on top of things. Problem is, the cold weather has me aching pretty bad. It's torture right now to ride a horse. If you could go check in on those kids, I'd appreciate it."

  "I'd be glad to. Let me get my gear moved today and I'll head over there first thing in the morning."

  "Good enough," Johnny said. "Welcome aboard."

  41

  Ragus's Home

  The sound of Shannon crying woke Ragus. His eyes fluttered open, only a faint light reaching them from the gaps around the door. He was disoriented and in pain. The cold concrete floor beneath him had sucked the heat from his body, leaving him stiff and chilled.

  "Shannon?" he groaned. Forming the words caused him more pain. His face was crusted with dried blood. He could taste it in his mouth, feel it thick in his nose and throat.

  "Ragus?" she sobbed. "Oh my God! I was afraid you were going to die!"

  "Where are we?"

  "Some block building by your trailer," she said, pausing to sniffle loudly. "I remember bits and pieces. He dragged us over here and dumped us."

  "The pump house. Shit."

  "I thought we were going to die, Ragus. He beat us with some kind of stick. There was blood everywhere. My head hurt so bad."

  "I feel like I've been beat with a stick," Ragus admitted. "My face feels all jacked up and swollen."

  "He tied us up. I've been trying to get loose but the knots are tight. Are yours any looser? Can you get free?"

  "Have you tried to reach your kit?" Ragus asked.

  Her silence answered his question. She hadn't. Conor insisted they all carry kits embedded in their hats, belts, and clothing that would help them escape if they were captured. The kits were small, designed to be undetectable in a casual search, which also made it easy to forget they were carrying them.

  "I forgot about it," Shannon admitted, embarrassment in her voice. "I'm so stupid."

  "No big deal. Let's just work together to get loose. I'm fairly certain I can reach my belt."

  Ragus bent his wrist to an acute angle and raised one shoulder to bring his hand closer to his belt. He snaked a finger beneath the nylon webbing just above his back right pocket. Running a finger along the underside of his belt, he located the ceramic razor blade affixed there with hot glue. Conor plasti-dipped them before securing them to the belt, encasing the blade in a rubberized coating that prevented it from wearing a hole in the pants or cutting them by accident.

  Ragus dug at the blade with a fingernail, then felt the glue release. He groaned, his shoulder spasming painfully as he fought to pinch the blade between his fingers. When he'd successfully extracted it, he sat there a moment, letting the pain recede before continuing.

  "Did you get it?" Shannon asked.

  "Yeah, I just need to peel the coating off." Ragus rolled until he could press one edge of the razor blade against the concrete floor. A few strokes against the abrasive concrete loosened the plastic coating, allowing Ragus to peel it completely free. "It’ll be easier to cut you loose first. Spread your hands as far apart as you can."

  "Okay. Just be careful."

  "I will." Ragus scooted until they were back to back. He held the razor blade in one hand while he used the other to explore her bonds. When he found the section he wanted to cut, he pinched the rope and stretched it as far from her flesh as he could. "Don't move."

  He pressed the ceramic blade against the rope and used gentle sawing motions to gnaw through it. The last thing he wanted to do was accidentally slit her wrist. When he felt the blade pull free, he let out a small sigh of relief. "I got it. See if you can get loose."r />
  She was already on it, wriggling her hands and shoulders to loosen the rope. In less than a minute, she was free. "What do you need me to do?" she asked.

  "Don't waste time on the knots. Follow my arms down to the razor blade. Take it from my hands and use it to cut me free."

  "Got it."

  Shannon ran her fingers down his arms, then to his hands. She plucked the razor blade from his fingers and began sawing at a section of his rope. Ragus felt it give and then she was helping tug him free of the rope. He pushed himself upright, perhaps a bit too quickly because he swooned, feeling as if he might pass out. At that very moment, Shannon came in for a well-timed hug, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing tightly. It was all that kept him from toppling over.

  "I feel a little...out of it," he mumbled.

  Her reply came close to his ear, her warm breath comforting. "You might have a concussion. I've wondered the same thing. I'm a little nauseous and have a headache."

  His fingers slid down his legs of their own accord, needing free from the last of the bonds. "Do you still have the razor blade?"

  "I dropped it."

  Ragus groped around until he found the simple knot securing the rope and had it loose in no time. He helped Shannon with hers and they both stood carefully.

  "God, my head is pounding," Ragus groaned. "I've got all my teeth but a few of them may be loose." He moved a step closer to the door, toward the light. He put his hands on the door and gave it a tentative push.

  "Can we get out of here?" Shannon asked.

  Ragus let out a long sigh. "Not easily. We hung meat in here sometimes. A deer quarter, if someone gave us one, or a side of bacon. The meat drew bears so we had someone build us a door out of 2x4s. The hinges and latch are all sturdy too. I'm not saying we can't get through it, but it won't be easy."

  Panic in her voice, Shannon asked, "Is there another way?"