Punching Tickets: Book Five in The Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  She didn't run. Sitting atop Wombat's chest, she dropped an elbow to his face, shattering his nose. Blood poured onto his beard.

  Wombat let out a roar, the sound of a wounded bear ready to make anyone and everyone pay for the pain he was feeling. He raised a heavy boot and lashed out, shoving Ragus away from his legs. Shannon had his arms pinned beneath her knees but she was no match for his strength. Wombat lifted heavier loads than her every day. With a grunt, he arched his back and launched her over his head.

  Free of both the attacking kids, Wombat rolled onto his stomach and searched for his rifle. He spotted it about six feet away and scrambled in that direction. Seeing his intention, Ragus and Shannon acted out of pure instinct. Ragus again tried to latch onto Wombat's leg and halt his progress, but the effort was futile. The big man was simply too strong.

  Stunned from being tossed onto her head and neck, Shannon knew she couldn't beat Wombat to his gun. She scrabbled backward in an awkward crabwalk, trying to put distance between her and Wombat. She didn't want to be shot. She didn't want to die.

  Wombat was on his knees now, crawling and closing in on the weapon. Shannon's coordination failed and she stumbled, falling onto her back. She rolled and got to her feet, running full speed now, trying to get away. Her synapses still scrambled, she lurched and veered, disoriented.

  Knowing that Wombat would have his gun in seconds, Ragus got to his feet and dove toward the man. This time he caught a boot in the face, his neck bending so acutely that he thought it would break. "Run, Shannon!" he screamed. "I can't stop him."

  She was trying, steadily putting distance between them. Then through bleary eyes Ragus saw Wombat's hand close on the grip of his rifle. The big man dropped onto his belly and tried to line up a shot on Shannon, but the weeds in front of him were too high in that position. He got to his knees and struggled to align his iron sights on Shannon's back. The position was awkward, rushed, but he managed to get off a shot. The blast shattered the stillness of the cold morning.

  Ragus couldn't see Shannon, couldn't see if the shooter had hit his mark or not. Wombat struggled to his feet, still trying to position himself for a better shot. Ragus couldn't let him take it. He launched himself from the ground like a lineman when the football is snapped. He dove onto Wombat's back, knocking the man facedown onto the ground. In the distance, he heard Shannon screaming, then an elbow hit him in the face like a sledgehammer. One, twice, three times, then the world went dark.

  48

  Ragus's Home

  Jewell Ridge, Virginia

  When Wayne left Conor's compound he headed in the direction of town. There were only two directions to go and he'd approached the compound from one of them. He was halfway down the mountain when he heard the gunshot in the distance. Wayne knew it could be a hunter, but it could also be something else. It could be related to the people he was looking for. He kicked his horse into a trot, fully aware that the shod horse could easily wipe out on the slick pavement and kill them both if he went too fast.

  Seconds later he heard a woman scream and he charged ahead. Coming around a bend in the road, he saw a mobile home in the distance. Movement in the driveway caught his eye, a woman running toward him. Shannon, sobbing and unsteady.

  Wayne galloped up the drive. "Shannon!"

  "Ragus!" she screamed. "Help Ragus!"

  Wayne scanned his surroundings but didn't see the boy. Didn't see anyone beyond Shannon. "Where?"

  Shannon pointed toward a small cinderblock building. "Over there! Toward the pump house!"

  Wayne was looking in that direction when a hulking figure in camouflage clothing stood from the high grass like a bear rearing to its hind legs. Wayne raised his rifle, uncertain if this stranger was the threat he was supposed to be defending Ragus against.

  "Shoot him!" Shannon screamed. "Kill him!"

  The man staggered a second then reached his full height, drawing an ax handle from his belt. Wayne was stunned at the sight of it, and the pieces fell into place. What were the odds that there were two men running around this community with a wooden bludgeon? The man raised the ax handle over his head, two hands wrapped around the grip.

  "Shoot hiiiim!" Shannon screamed again, her face red and twisted, spittle flying from her lips.

  BOOM!

  The big man lurched to the side, dropping the ax handle. Blood darkened his camouflage sleeve but he didn't fall. Wayne shot again and missed. The man staggered backward and ran in a jagged line toward the concealment of the nearby woods.

  Wayne took up his reins and kicked his horse into a gallop. When he reached Ragus, he leaped from his horse and picked up the ax handle from the ground. There were spatters of dry, crusted blood. Wayne knew some of that likely belonged to the young men from his camp.

  "You stay here.” He handed his rifle off to Ragus. “Watch Shannon."

  The stunned young man, his face bruised and bloody, managed an unsteady nod.

  Wayne ran full-tilt into the woods. Bright splatters of oxygenated blood formed a trail behind the wounded man. Wayne didn't have to rely on that to track Wombat though. The big man was crashing through the woods like an ox, snapping any branches in his path.

  Puffing hard from the pain and the exertion, Wombat remembered he had the .38 snubbie in his pocket. He extracted the gun, leaned back against a tree, and fired two rounds at his distant pursuer. With the short barrel and bump of a sight, aiming only consisted of pointing and praying. Wombat did neither well enough and his shots missed.

  Wombat's arm was soaked in his blood. Rivulets ran down his wrist and onto the leaves at his feet. He wasn't too worried. He was a tough bastard. If he could shake the guy chasing him, he'd extract the bullet with pliers, then cauterize the wound with a hot poker like he'd seen in the movies. With a course of antibiotics and pain pills, he'd eventually get back to normal. He couldn't even take the time to wrap the wound now; the pounding steps just kept coming for him.

  Wayne ran from tree-to-tree, not letting his quarry rest. He didn't want to expose himself to gunfire now that he knew the man was armed. Wayne had a pistol of his own on his belt, but he wasn't interested in dueling with the guy. A quick death wasn't appropriate payment for what this big monster had done. There would be no satisfaction in that. He kept on his tail, pushing him.

  The trees began to thin ahead and Wayne saw the big man lurch into a clearing and dodge to the right. Wayne sprinted through the remaining trees ahead of him, bursting out of the forest and onto the shoulder of the paved mountain road. In the distance he saw Wombat running in an awkward lope, trying to apply pressure to his bleeding shoulder. Wayne took off after him.

  At the sound of pounding feet on the pavement behind him, Wombat spun around and pointed the pistol. Wayne veered toward the shoulder again, diving into the wide ditch as Wombat loosed rounds in his direction.

  After two shots, Wombat started running again. Exertion and blood loss were taking their toll. His heart was pounding and he was getting lightheaded. He couldn't feel his tongue. His gait became erratic and he stumbled when he tried to look back over his shoulder. The pursuer was right there, still gaining ground. He was so close that Wombat was afraid to turn around and engage him with the revolver again.

  He tried hitting the gas but there was none left in his tank. He didn't dare chance another glance back. He could hear Wayne closing in on him. He had no idea what to do next, then all options were taken away from him. There was a hard blow to the side of his neck, a stunning impact that stiffened his legs as it rebooted his entire nervous system.

  Wombat went down on his face, grinding to a halt on the coarse pavement. His face and hands burned where the flesh had been scoured away. Wombat rolled onto his back and struggled to raise the pistol.

  Wayne swung the ax handle like he was playing tee-ball and the shiny revolver was the ball. There was a crack and the revolver flew over the embankment on the far side of the road. Wombat's hand shattered like a stomped bag of Cheetos. His mouth gawped op
en and his eyes went wide. He'd have screamed if he could have drawn the air.

  Wayne waited patiently through the sucking breaths, the ensuing scream, and the writhing on the ground. When Wombat's movements slowed, Wayne pointed the ax handle at his face like it was the point of a sword. "Who the fuck are you?"

  Wombat was defiant, his face covered in road rash, gravel embedded in his cheeks. He was trying to use his shattered hand to staunch the flow of blood from his shoulder but it hurt too badly to apply pressure. "Who wants to know?"

  "The man who found the six boys you killed by the Dismal River. You remember that? Was that your work? Sure looked like something a big ole boy with an ax handle could have done."

  When Wombat didn't reply, Wayne efficiently stepped to the side and brought the ax handle down across Wombat's shin with all the power of a man splitting wood. Wombat screamed again, kicking and thrashing on the ground as his brain fought to find a place for that level of pain. It was difficult. The circuits could only handle so much. Eventually the mind would overload and he might pass out, but there was a lot of excruciating territory between that point and where Wombat was now. Wayne could hurt him a lot more before he'd be granted the mercy of losing consciousness.

  "Did you kill those boys?" Wayne asked again.

  The defiance seeped from Wombat like the blood oozing between his fingers. He had nothing left with which he could back up his attitude. He was beaten and probably going to die. He nodded slowly, watching Wayne process the information.

  With no preamble, Wayne raised the ax handle again and brought it down across Wombat's thigh. This time there was a satisfying crack as the bone broke beneath the thick layer of muscle.

  Wombat's ability to writhe around was impaired now by his injuries. Any movement brought skull-piercing levels of pain. Rather than mercifully surrendering to darkness, this wave of pain brought nausea and Wombat threw up onto his own chest, the sickness running down his neck and into his hair.

  Sensing that he was running out of both patience and time to get coherent responses, Wayne presented the injured man with one more question. "Why did you do it? Why did you kill those boys?"

  It was instinctive for Wombat to shrug at such a question, but the pain in his shoulder prevented it. Instead, he looked away, off into the morning sky, at the leafless trees. Teeth gritted, he grunted out his response. "I guess I wanted to see...if I could whoop six guys with my bare hands and...take their shit. That's about it."

  "You hadn't been stalking them? You hadn't been watching us?"

  "No," Wombat said. "Just their shitty luck...I came along."

  The revelation that the young men from his camp had died from nothing more than a whim, from the fickle nature of the universe, was more than Wayne could bear. With a scream so primal that the animals of the mountain retreated to their burrows, Wayne set upon the injured man with renewed fury. He broke his arms, his ribs, and his sternum. He shattered both kneecaps, then removed the man's shoes and broke each foot until Wombat's body was little more than a bloody sack of wet gravel.

  When Wombat lost consciousness, Wayne stopped. Although the man was alive for now, he wouldn’t last twenty-four hours. He'd bleed out or succumb to internal injuries. Hypothermia might get him. Each possibility was racing toward the inevitable end.

  As if noticing it anew, Wayne stared with revulsion at the bloody ax handle in his hand. He twisted and heaved it with all his might, watching it spin over the shoulder of the road and fly through the air like the outstretched wings of a buzzard.

  He turned from the body and found Ragus and Shannon waiting on him. They stared at him without judgment. If they'd watched the entirety of what he'd done, they made no attempt to intervene or stay his hand. Justice had been served, though it restored no lost lives. Neither did it erase what these two young people had likely gone through at the man's hand.

  Ragus held Wayne's rifle out to him. Shannon was carrying Wombat's. Wayne wrapped an arm around the two of them. "Let's get my horse and head back to the compound. We need to get things in order."

  49

  Private Resort

  Jeddah, Saudi Arabia

  Barb breathed a sigh of relief when she found the staff entrance unlocked. She stepped inside, entering a long hallway that went to her right. There were signs and posters along the wall that she couldn't read, but assumed to be employment-related. Considering this was Saudi Arabia and not the United States, they were more likely to be lists of rules than rights. Standing still for a moment to get her bearings, she heard people talking, the hum of laundry machines running, and the roar of an exhaust fan. There was nowhere to go but down the hallway so she set off in that direction. She didn't hurry since she didn't know exactly where she was going, but she did walk with intention, doing exactly as her father had always told her to do.

  "I'm in a hallway," she whispered into her radio. "Laundry, kitchen, and the mechanicals of the building."

  Following the maze of hallways deeper into the resort, she passed other folks but made no eye contact with them. They wore a variety of different uniforms. Some of the men were dressed like chefs and kitchen staff. Barb didn't understand all of the regulations about mixing sexes in the workplace in Saudi Arabia, but understood that a private resort might have more latitude than a more highly-trafficked workplace. This was also Jeddah, which was one of the more progressive and tolerant cities in the nation, though that wasn't saying a lot.

  "Do you blend in with the people you're seeing?" Conor asked.

  "I haven't seen many women so I don't know yet." Barb briefly considered whether she should try to find a better uniform, but lingering in this busy area posed more of a risk than getting out into the resort itself.

  "If you can, find a prop," Conor suggested. "It always helps."

  When she passed a rack of empty drink trays, she snatched one up and balanced it on her fingertips. She hoped that would be her passport, that no one would question her if she looked like she had a purpose.

  She pulled the map Conor had given her from her pocket and spread it on the tray. She suspected the private resort was closed to everyone but Abbas and his guests now, which meant they had the run of the place. It was most likely they'd either be in the dining room or on one of the patios. Despite all they'd been through, despite the gravity of their experiences, they were at a resort, after all. Why waste the ambiance?

  "I'm in the public spaces now," she whispered, stepping through a door and leaving the noisy kitchen area behind.

  With the map as her guide, she steered her way through the lavish lobby with its ornate architecture and modern furnishings. When she encountered other people, she balanced the tray on her fingertips, using her free hand to hold the map down like it was some vital document that someone had requested be delivered with great urgency. When she reached the dining room, she saw a few folks but no familiar faces. When the hostess stared at her with curiosity, Barb made no eye contact and went on about her business.

  "No one familiar in the dining area," she murmured.

  "Keep looking. You got this."

  There was no bar in the resort. As a Muslim nation, they were still bound by Islamic law and customs. That wasn't to say that Abbas and the others wouldn't find a way to enjoy a cocktail, though it probably wouldn't be on the open grounds of the resort. Word of the indiscretion might get out and the citizens of Saudi Arabia were always eager for scandalous news about the royal family.

  Barb made a pass of the pool and patio, but those areas were completely empty. Not a single person around other than bored, idle staff standing around waiting for someone to require their services. Again, they looked at Barb with silent curiosity, wondering why she was on their territory. She had to hope the outfit she was wearing, along with the face covering, gave her a degree of anonymity. All they could see was her eyes and surely that would not be enough to give her away as an outsider.

  Having exhausted the logical spots where she'd have found someone in a western re
sort, Barb made certain no one was looking, then ducked into a restroom in the corridor. She studied the map, trying to spot some other place where the group might convene. "Dad, I'm not seeing anything. If they're here, they're laying low."

  "I trust the intel," Conor said. "It's a big place. Considering what they'd been through, maybe they're meeting in private."

  Barb folded the map shut. "Got it. I'll keep looking."

  She headed for the elevator, then noticed a man in a suit waiting to board so she ducked into the stairwell instead. Hurrying as fast as the garment would allow, she headed for the top floor. Perhaps there was a private rooftop location or a veranda where Abbas might be able to host a gathering.

  She paused midway and keyed her radio. "Dad, I'm on my way to the top floor. I'm going to check each floor and then work my way down through the building."

  When Conor failed to reply immediately, Barb knew what was going on in his head. He was struggling with his conflicting objectives. The operator in him wanted her to keep pushing and find Abbas. The father in him wanted to order her out of the building. Yet it didn't matter what he wanted. By going on ahead, she'd made the decision for him.

  "That's fine. Just talk to me as you go. Tell me what you're doing and what you're seeing."

  "Got it." Barb balanced the tray on her fingertips and started charging up the steps.

  She was pleased that running the stairs came so easy, her training again paying off. All the squats, the running with a weighted pack, carrying logs on her shoulders, and jumping obstacles. She understood now why that level of fitness was essential if she was going to live this life. She could never know what the situation might demand, never know when her fitness might save her life, or mean the difference between success and failure.

  When she reached the top floor, she leaned back against the wall and wiped her exposed brow. She took a moment to focus on her breathing and let it calm. "I'm here, Dad. Top of the stairwell. I'm going in."