On The Edge: Book Three in The No Direction Home Series

by Mike Sheridan

  “When I was a kid, my granddad used to tell me stories about how the Irish rebels fought the English. You got anything like that?”

  Jonah rubbed his hands gleefully. “Does the pope know how to say a prayer? I got rebel stories coming out me ears. Of Fenians, of Volunteers, of the Rebellion of 1798, and the Easter Rising of 1916 where our brave forefathers fought the British Crown.”

  He leaned forward in his chair and ushered Mason and Doney in conspiratorially. “Now lads, did either of yis ever hear of the Battle of Vinegar Hill? No? Well listen up and I’ll tell yeh it the way me very own grandfather used to tell it to me. It’s a terrible tale where innocent Irish men, women and children were slaughtered in droves, so don’t feel ashamed if it makes you teary eyed, I’ve shed many a tear over it meself.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Outside Mason’s trailer, the gang leader and Jonah were in animated conversation. A second bottle of whiskey sat on the table while at the far end, a glassy-eyed Doney no longer made any attempt to keep up with the evening’s proceedings. His head drooped, and he looked like he might collapse at any moment.

  Jonah, however, had no problems keeping up with Mason, and for the past couple of hours, both the flow of liquor and words had been non-stop. Though ruthless and violent by nature, Mason was a surprisingly good listener and had lapped up Jonah’s wild yarns of the old country with gusto.

  After recounting the Battle of Vinegar Hill, Jonah had gone on to relate several stories of his own forbear’s clashes with the Black and Tans, brutal irregular soldiers sent to Ireland by the British during the War of Independence. After that came a tale of the Murphy clan’s involvement in the ensuing civil war. Like many countries, having won independence from their colonial masters, Ireland had gone on to fight a bitter internal war.

  Finally, the conversation moved on to the topic Jonah had been patiently waiting for.

  Reaching for the bottle of Jim Beam, the bandit poured out another shot for the two men. “Better make this one our last. We’ve an early start in the morning.”

  Jonah grinned. “Should be a fun day. Are yeh sure the Bentons are still in the area, though? If they’ve any sense, they’ll have bolted somewhere far away from here by now.”

  “They’re still here,” Mason said emphatically. He took a sip from his drink. “I’ll say one thing for the sheriff, he’s not a quitter. Saw that in his eyes the one time I met him. Neither is Ned Granger, his second-in-command. A tough bastard through and through. Kept him prisoner two days, so I ought to know.”

  Jonah raised an eyebrow. “He was your prisoner? How come?”

  Mason explained how a few days ago he’d ambushed and killed three Benton men and taken Granger hostage, and how Sheriff Rollins had rescued him, taking one of his own men prisoner in return, who he subsequently executed. Jonah had heard the story from Bert Olvan, but made sure not to give anything away.

  Mason then went on to recount how he’d originally come to the Cohutta in search of a man named Walter, someone he’d tangled with back in Knoxville. By now, his earlier good humor had dissipated, to be replaced by a dark, brooding air. Mason quite obviously held serious grudges, the type of person who would never rest until he’d eliminated each and every potential threat. At that moment, his focus was on Sheriff Rollins and Walter, at whose camp Colleen was currently sheltering. The thought made Jonah increasingly uneasy.

  “The two groups are tight,” Mason continued. “My men spotted Walter visiting here yesterday morning. My guess is that the Bentons are with Walter’s people right now. After all, where else would they have fled to after here?”

  “Makes sense. You got any idea where Walter’s camp is?”

  Mason shook his head. “Somewhere south of here is all I know.” He leaned forward in his chair, his hard black eyes boring into Jonah’s. “It might take a few days, but I’m going to find it. When I do, I aim on killing two birds with one stone. Rollins and Walter are dead men walking.”

  Jonah lifted his tumbler and saluted him. “I’ll drink to that.”

  In reality, Mason’s comment had sent a shiver down his spine. If the ambush in the morning failed, Mason would soon find Camp Eastwood, putting Colleen in immediate danger. He couldn’t have that. Despite the amount of whiskey he’d consumed, a cold sober question entered his head. Why take the risk of the ambush failing in the morning? Why not kill Mason now and take his chances in getting away?

  He glanced casually to either side of him to see that many of Mason’s men were still outside their cabins and trailers, likewise drinking and talking. He wouldn’t stand a hope in hell of making it past the perimeter. His mind raced. Perhaps he could dart into the forest and lose them somehow. Getting off the headland without being spotted would be difficult, though. His odds weren’t great.

  A better alternative occurred to him. He would wait and see whether the Benton ambush succeeded in the morning. If not, he would find a more suitable opportunity to dispatch Mason, one that offered him a better chance of getting away. With a little guile, Jonah was confident he could arrange that. In the meantime, he needed to glean more information.

  “How many men will you take tomorrow?” he asked casually.

  “We’ll take three trucks. Six men in each,” Mason replied. “Gatto will lead the convoy. I’ll go next, followed by a trailing vehicle. That’s enough security to go find Walter’s camp. After that, we’ll make plans to attack it in full force.”

  Jonah stared at Doney, who moments ago had keeled over. He lay slumped over the table, his head resting across his folded arms. “You sure he’ll be in shape to drive tomorrow?” he asked with a grin.

  Mason jerked a thumb back at himself. “I’ll be driving. Used to do it professionally for a private security firm. It’s where I met Doney. That’s why I trust him more than anyone else in my crew, even if he can’t drink for shit.” He kicked Doney’s foot under the table. “Hey, you drunk fuck. You’re supposed to be protecting me!”

  Doney lifted his head off the table, his eyes glazed over and unfocused. “Say what, boss?”

  “Aw, nothing. Go back to sleep.” With a chuckle, Mason turned to face Jonah again. “You know something, Murph? I like you. I’m officially making you a member of my crew. Tomorrow morning, you ride with me. How’s that sound?”

  Jonah gulped. Bleedin’ diabolical was how it sounded. The last place he wanted to be the next day was in Mason’s vehicle when it got shot to hell. It appeared he’d been too successful in getting close to the bandit.

  He smiled weakly. “Great! I don’t think Gatto will be too happy about it though.”

  “Like I give a damn,” Mason growled. “He won’t kick up about it. Not if he knows what’s good for him. You’re with me now and that’s that.”

  He knocked back the last of his whiskey and rose from the table. Leaning over, he slapped Doney roughly across the top of the head. “Wake up! Funtime’s over. Go get some sleep. I need you sharp in the morning, you hear?”

  Doney stood groggily to his feet. Without a word, zombie-like, he lumbered off in the direction where, presumably, his cabin was located.

  Mason gave Jonah a brief nod. “Tell Gatto to meet me at the dining hall at 8 a.m. with five of his men. I’ll see you there too. Don’t forget to pack up your stuff. Remember, you’re with me now.”

  “Sure, boss. See you in the morning.”

  Mason headed toward the steps of his trailer. As soon as his back was turned, Jonah checked his watch. It was 11:55 p.m. Whoever was manning the radio at Devil’s Point would be knocking off in a few minutes. He was anxious to give his update right away. His life depended on it.

  Crossing the wooden bridge again, he hurried back to the square, empty of people when he reached it, and passed the Art & Crafts room, its yellow sign painted brightly across the doorway. It was the last cabin on the southwest corner, and the footpath ended there. Taking a quick look to either side of him, he stumbled through thick undergrowth and into the forest.

&n
bsp; After twenty yards, he stopped and rested against a tree. Though it was a risky place to make his call, he’d no time to get anywhere safer. Breathing hard, he pulled out his walkie talkie, turned it on and jabbed his finger down on the Talk button. “Bert…Kit,” he whispered. “Anybody there?”

  “Receiving you loud and clear, Jonah. This is Kit, over.”

  “Kitser, thank God you’re still here. I’ve something important to tell yeh.” Slurring his words and out of breath, Jonah concentrated hard on what he had to say. “Now…what was it?”

  “Are you all right, Jonah? Over.”

  “Kit, I’m drunker than a barrel full of monkeys, but for once in me life I can honestly say I was only doing me duty. Wait a sec while I get me head together.”

  A chuckle came over the airwaves. “Take your time. It’ll come to you.”

  Jonah focused hard. “Mason will be leaving the camp at eight in the morning, so yis better be ready for him then. Do yeh roger me, over?”

  “8 a.m. Copy that. You find out what vehicle he’ll be driving, over?”

  “’Course, it’s the first thing I asked. It’s a black Ravine. Nah, that’s not right. It’s a…a…black Crevasse. Ah, shite, I’ve forgotten the name of the poxy thing!” Jonah banged his head against the tree in frustration. It had been earlier in the evening when Mason told him the make of his pickup truck. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember it now.

  “Is it a Canyon?” Halpern asked calmly. “That’s what he drove last time, over.”

  “That’s it, a black Canyon!” a relieved Jonah whispered excitedly. “Listen to me, Kitser. Mason and his crew will drive out in three pickups. Six men per truck. You do the maths, I don’t think I could even do me two times table right now.”

  “Copy that. He’ll be in a convoy of three pickup trucks. Six men in each truck makes eighteen in total. What else you got, over?”

  “Mason will be behind the wheel of the second pickup. Here’s the kick in the bollix though, I’m going to be riding along with him, so yis better be real careful with yer shooting, yeh hear me?”

  There was a pause on the line. “Copy that. Mason will be driving the second truck. You’ll be in it with him. You got any idea where you’ll be sitting? Front or back? Over.”

  Jonah thought for a moment. “Probably in the back. His bodyguard, geezer by the name of Doney will most likely be in the front. I can’t swear to it though.”

  “Got it. Anything else?”

  “Yeh better believe it. Tomorrow morning, I’ll be slinging me arse in the bacon slicer for yis, so yeh better not riddle me full of holes. I want to get back to Colleen in one piece. Yeh copy that, over?

  There was another pause on the line before Halpern spoke again. “Jonah, I think it’s best if you make contact with us again at 6 a.m. In case there’s any change of plan. We need to do everything we can to keep you protected, over.”

  Halpern’s words made Jonah breathe a little better. “Yer a sound man, Kitser, I’ll do that. Righty ho, I better leg it. People will be wondering where I am. Jonah Murphy signing off. Over and out.”

  Job done, Jonah powered off the radio and headed back toward the square. When he reached the edge of the forest, he took a quick peek around to make sure the coast was clear, then hands in pockets, strolled off in the direction of the camp driveway.

  He thought hard, more sober now. If Gatto was still up when he got back to the lodge, he would give him Mason’s instructions for the morning. Also, how he’d been forced to leave Gatto’s crew to join him. It was sure to ratchet up the tension further between the two gang leaders.

  Who knew? Perhaps Gatto might kill Mason and save everyone the bother. More likely, though, would be that he’d be sitting in the back of Mason’s truck as it drove into a deadly trap, with a stinking hangover to boot. He let out a sigh.

  Luck of the Irish, eh?

  CHAPTER 27

  At 4 a.m., Granger, Walter, and the six members of the Snake’s Head hit team convened in the farmhouse kitchen. It was still dark outside, and a kerosene lamp had been placed on the table to illuminate the room. On the gas hob in the corner, a large pot of water was coming to the boil. The sleepy group, who’d been roused from their beds an hour earlier than scheduled, were all in need of a strong coffee.

  Mugs in hand, they sat down at the table. Granger looked around at them. “People, we got a problem. Late last night we received information that brings today’s mission into question. At the very least, it changes the manner in which we conduct it.”

  With a brief nod, he passed it over to Kit Halpern. The young man went on to detail his radio communication with Jonah Murphy the previous evening, finishing up by explaining how the Irishman would be riding in the same vehicle as Mason when he left camp in a few hours’ time.

  Clete was the first to react. “Damn,” he said. “We can’t go shooting the crap out of Mason’s pickup with your boy Jonah inside, now can we?”

  “Exactly,” Walter replied. “Which is why Kit had the good sense to arrange another radio call with him this morning. If we go ahead with this, we need a new plan. Something more surgical that doesn’t endanger Jonah.” He glanced at Granger. “Ned and I were thinking that if we can force Mason’s vehicle to come to a stop at the Card Spur junction, we can put a sniper in place to take him out.”

  “How will you get him to stop?” Ralph asked.

  “Mason will be in the second vehicle of a convoy of three. If we take out the first vehicle as it approaches the junction, it should force him to stop. Of course, everything depends on certain variables, like how tightly bunched the vehicles are, how quickly Mason reacts to the situation…. Still, it’s a simple plan, and easy to execute. Maybe we get lucky and can line up a kill shot.”

  Clete frowned. “If you force the first vehicle to stop, it means we got no frontal shot. We can only shoot Mason through the driver side window. It’s going to be hard to position a sniper unless you know exactly where he’s going to stop. Every additional foot he rolls past or pulls up short, leaves a tighter angle to shoot from.”

  Jim Wharton leaned forward at the table, frowning too. “That’s not the only problem. Most likely Jonah will be sitting in the back, but that’s not one hundred percent certain. If he’s sitting beside Mason, he’ll be right in the firing line.”

  “I’m a good shot,” Cody said. “If Mason comes to a stop in front of me, I’m pretty sure I can kill him with a clean shot.”

  “Pretty sure isn’t good enough,” Rollins said emphatically. “It only takes Mason to move his head a couple of inches and you’ll hit Jonah. I don’t want to have to explain to his wife how we missed the bad guy and killed her husband instead.”

  Wharton shook his head. “Me neither. No way.”

  There was silence around the table a few seconds while the group reflected on the situation. Then Ralph said, “How about we use the drug cartel’s favorite method of assassination? Put two sicarios on a motorbike. Driver roars up to Mason’s window, guy at the back aces him, and they hightail it out of there.” He paused a moment as he thought about it some more. “The trick will be to neutralize Mason’s shooters first, otherwise it’ll be too dangerous for the riders.”

  Granger liked the idea. “A motorbike hit gives us more flexibility than a fixed sniper position. From a couple of feet, the shooter’s not going to miss either. Let’s see if we can figure a way to make this work.”

  For the next twenty minutes, the hit team worked through various strategies, searching for one that would allow a motorcycle to ride up close to Mason’s side window with minimum risk to the riders. Finally, they came up with something they were convinced might work. It was complicated, though, and required the precise execution of certain prerequisite steps. If any one step failed, they would have to abort the operation.

  “With a bit of luck, this might just work,” Walter said, staring down at several detailed sketches of the ambush site. He straightened up and looked around the room. “All w
e’re missing now are two people crazy enough to volunteer as sicarios.”

  Ralph shrugged. “Seeing as I’m not too particular on someone else riding my Harley, I’ll volunteer as the driver.”

  “I’ll do the hit,” Cody said. “It’s only fair. I’m part of the reason why Mason is in the Cohutta in the first place.”

  Walter looked at him with concern. “You sure, Cody? I know you’re cool under pressure, but we’re talking real dangerous shit here.”

  “Totally,” Cody answered firmly. “Besides, somebody’s got to do this. We might not get another chance before Mason finds our camp.”

  “Kid, you plug Mason good,” Ralph said. “I’ll make sure we get away. We’ll blast past them with the wind in our hair before they even know what’s hit them. Deal?”

  Cody grinned back at him. “Deal.”

  CHAPTER 28

  At 8 a.m., Jonah, along with Don Gatto and five other members of his crew, trudged into Camp Benton’s dining hall. Jonah felt awful. His mouth was dry as an oatcake, his hands were clammy, and the back of his t-shirt was soaked in sweat—the result of yet another night’s heavy drinking.

  The anxiety of what was soon to transpire didn’t help either. At 6 a.m., he’d had a brief conversation with Bert Olvan, who’d instructed him to sit in the back seat directly behind Mason, if he could, when the convoy left camp. Hungover and sleepy, he hadn’t questioned him. Thinking about it now though, it puzzled him. Surely the Bentons would line themselves along the left side of the road, allowing for a clear shot at the driver position. That would make the right-hand side of the vehicle the safer place to sit, not behind Mason. He just hoped they knew what they were doing.

  He glanced over at Gatto, wondering what he might say when Mason showed up. On Jonah’s return to Wasson Lodge the previous evening, the gang leader and three of his men were still up. They were down at the lakeside playing dominoes on a small foldout table that had been dragged out from somewhere.