Brutal Business: Book Three in the Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  “Need to get rid of those trucks tomorrow,” Thomas said. “Can’t have all that shit we ain’t gonna take cluttering up our camp.”

  “We moving on tomorrow?” Lawdog asked.

  “I see no need for that right now. This seems like a safe area. We’ve got plenty of food and supplies, got an amazing crib, and nowhere to be. Let’s just hang and enjoy it. See the sights.”

  Catcalls went up from the men. They all knew this was code for “let’s stick around and terrorize the community for fun.” They loved their wild parties.

  “Thomas?” Mundo asked.

  “Yeah?”

  “This may sound like a crazy question but it’s been on my mind.”

  “What?”

  “You mind if I light one of these fucking trucks on fire and send it rolling down the road? I’ve always wanted to do that.”

  The men erupted into snickers and laughter. They were used to Mundo’s crazy ideas. He was always coming up with something over the top.

  “You serious?” Lawdog asked.

  Mundo nodded. “As a heart attack.”

  Lawdog shook his head.

  “I’ll make a deal with you,” Thomas said.

  Mundo was doubtful. “What kind of deal?”

  “That idea of yours sounds like it’s got trouble written all over it. What if the vehicle just rolls about ten feet and burns right there? Car fires are hot. It might damage our trucks. We might lose our fine accommodations for the night.”

  “I don’t think that would happen,” Mundo argued.

  “But it could, right?”

  Mundo nodded. “I guess so. What’s the deal?”

  “You can pull your stupid-ass stunt if you want to. Set a truck on fire, start it rolling, and jump up and down like a kid while it burns. But it needs to make it at least one hundred yards from this camp. Exactly one football field away. You think you can do that?”

  Mundo chuckled. “Hell, I don’t know. The truck would have to pick up some momentum and you’d have to hope it didn’t run into something along the way. Hundred yards is a long damn way. What happens if it don’t make it?”

  “I put a bullet in your head. Kill you deader than hell,” Thomas said.

  Mundo’s eyes went wide. They all knew Thomas was a hard man but this was new territory. “You serious?”

  Thomas grinned. “As a heart attack.”

  Droopy hopped up from his seat in excitement. “I’m going to mark off a hundred yards with a flare. You taking this deal, ain’t you?”

  Mundo looked uncertain. “I ain’t so sure. I thought it would be pretty damn funny to watch, but I ain’t sure it’s worth dying over. It was just an idea.”

  The men instantly started giving him shit, ribbing him about giving up so easily, and questioning his manhood.

  “Alright! Alright! I’ll do it.”

  “You sure?” Thomas asked. “‘Cause I’m serious. You screw this up – you don’t make the hundred yards – and you gonna get a bullet in the head. No more Mundo.”

  “Yeah, I’m gonna do it,” Mundo said. “Those the only rules?”

  “Yep, the only rules. Don’t screw up. You might be missed around this joint. Some of these people think your fool ass is funny. Me included.” He stuck out his hand and Mundo shook it with determination.

  The men were enjoying this exchange. Mundo was always running his mouth and giving people shit. They loved that it was being turned back onto him in a very serious fashion. They knew Thomas was serious about killing him. He didn’t joke about shit like that. If Mundo took the deal and didn’t live up to his end, Thomas would do exactly as he promised. To do any less would dishonor him in front of his men and he couldn’t have that.

  Mundo went from vehicle to vehicle, checking the condition of the tires and the steering. “Can I take a running one?”

  “You said roll, not drive,” Droopy pointed out, passing by with a flare. “Any dumbass can drive a vehicle a hundred yards and set it on fire.”

  “He’s right,” Thomas agreed, walking up, more men crowding around them. “I don’t care if you take one with a key so you can at least unlock the steering, but it has to coast. You can’t drive it. That’s the deal.”

  “Can I change my mind?”

  “Nope. We shook on it. You back out now, I got no choice but to kill you.”

  Mundo muttered to himself. He was easily agitated, always moving fast, talking fast, and cracking jokes. He wasn’t making any jokes right now. He’d made a deal with the devil and had to see it through or pay the ultimate price.

  “Okay, this one,” he announced, standing beside a Ford F-150. “Can I at least unhook the trailer?”

  “Got no problem with that,” Thomas said.

  Mundo stared at the truck for a moment. “You know what? Fuck it. I’m going to take the trailer too. If I’m going out, I’m going in style.”

  The men let up a collective cheer. This was the Mundo they liked to see. They might as well enjoy it since this might be his last performance. In the distance, Droopy struck the flare, held it up high for everyone to see, and then dropped it on the ground.

  “You sure that’s a hundred yards?” Mundo asked when Droopy made his way back. “That looks pretty damn far.”

  “It’s a hundred,” Droopy confirmed. “I counted. Both ways.”

  The men started piling around the scene, climbing onto vehicles to better see down-course. Some were placing bets with real money, which was pointless since it currently held no value at all. They liked the sound of it, placing fifty thousand dollars of useless money on a pointless bet. Mundo was pacing around, talking to himself and trying to get psyched up.

  With a powerful war cry, Mundo launched himself at the Ford. He got his right hand on the steering wheel and his left on the door and heaved with all his might. The road was relatively flat but Mundo was blessed with a very gentle, nearly imperceptible incline which worked to his advantage. Still, he had to get the truck rolling under his own power and it took all he had. He pumped his legs, locked his arms, and cried out from the effort.

  And it moved.

  He grunted and roared. One leg slid out but he righted himself and kept at it, the truck gaining momentum bit by bit while the men were cheering and hollering. Thomas leaned back against the hood of another of the trucks, a joint hanging from his lips, and a smile on his face.

  “He’s going to make it,” Lawdog said.

  “He ain’t there yet,” Thomas countered.

  It was in the wee hours of the morning, pitch black, and Mundo couldn’t see anything once he was beyond the range of the men’s headlamps. He didn’t want to break pace to flip on the headlights, focusing instead on transferring his muscle power into momentum. A sudden grinding startled him and the door began to close shut on his body. He’d strayed too close to the guardrail.

  “Shit!” he cried, leaping onto the truck’s running board, then ducking into the cab, just as the door crushed closed. There was an earsplitting scraping sound.

  When the truck hit the rail, the grinding of metal against metal sent sparks flying. The cheers of men erupted into the night. However this ended, it was a good show at the moment.

  Mundo flipped several switches and turned several knobs before he found the headlights. When they sprang to life, cutting into the darkness ahead of him, he could see that he was riding against the guardrail. That friction was eroding his precious momentum. He steered away from the rail, getting all the tires back on the road, and aiming for Droopy’s flare. He was nearly halfway there.

  He rolled down the window and howled into the night. “Whoooohoooooooo!”

  His audience loved it and they cheered in response. Mundo started patting his shirt pockets to find his lighter. Then he recalled that he’d passed it to someone to light a joint and they hadn’t returned it. He smacked the steering wheel with his palms.

  Damn!

  People were always doing that shit! No respect for a man’s personal property.

/>   He switched on the cab light and didn’t see anything. They didn’t put cigarette lighters in them anymore. He checked the door compartments and the center console. Nothing. He couldn’t go this far and screw this up. He couldn’t put his life at risk for something this mundane and not finish it. The flare ahead was getting closer and closer. He didn’t dare brake to buy himself more time.

  He groaned in frustration and removed a flask of liquor from the cargo pocket on his pants. Careful not to spill any of it on himself, afraid that odor might make Thomas aware he’d had liquor on him, Mundo poured the alcohol into the passenger seat. It soaked into the cloth seat cover and ran into the foam padding underneath. Mundo had seen a couch burn once. The foam would go up like a bonfire.

  Unable to find anything with which he could spark the fire to life, Mundo steered the truck until the flare was just to the left of the driver’s side. He pushed open the door and gauged his speed. He only had one shot at this. As he closed in on the flare, he pumped his brakes once, then twice to bring his speed down enough to guarantee success.

  He threw open his door and leaned out, holding onto the steering wheel with his right hand to keep him from falling. He dropped his left to the road and deftly scooped the flare into his gloved hand. The cheers of the men told him they’d been impressed by his maneuver.

  “Damn right,” he muttered. “You should be.”

  He yanked himself inside the cab, afraid that the weight of his body on the steering wheel might drive him into the guardrail again. If that happened with his body hanging out the door he’d be crushed, which was a hell of a lot worse death than being shot in the head. The sputtering flare was blinding, the sparks burning through his clothes.

  He yelled and cursed, some it directed toward his own stupidity, before flinging the flare into the passenger seat. The alcohol caught fire and spread with a calm blue flame. He’d gone far enough. He’d passed his hundred yards and gone a bit past it. He didn’t want to go so far that the men couldn’t enjoy the spectacle he’d risked his life for. He grasped the wheel tightly, stomped the emergency brake, and spun the wheel.

  The squeal of skidding tires silenced the onlookers. When the truck skidded broadside they could see the rising flames inside.

  “I hope his dumb ass gets out of there,” Lawdog said.

  “I don’t know how he’s going to ever top this,” Droopy said. “Crazy fool.”

  The driver’s door flung open and Mundo sprang from the cab. The fire had accelerated faster than he’d expected and his radical steering maneuver had nearly thrown him over into it. The flames filled the cab and their brilliant orange light silhouetted Mundo’s body. He raised his hands in victory and took a long bow.

  The crowd, even those who’d lost some of their worthless cash on betting, cheered at his victory. No one wanted to see him die. Nothing ruined a good evening like seeing a teammate take a bullet, especially for something to trivial.

  Mundo jogged all the way back, going directly to Thomas. “We good, T? I get to live?”

  Thomas cracked up. “Yeah, you get to live. You crazy, you know? Risking your life for something like that.”

  Mundo shrugged. “I risk my life every day. At least I’d have known how I was going to die and that it would be quick.”

  Thomas pulled the joint from his mouth and handed it over to Mundo. He pointed behind him. “You missing your fire, man. You should at least watch it burn.”

  Mundo took the joint and nodded. He turned his back and stared at his fire, a broad grin on his face. Some of the men patted him on the back and congratulated him. Mundo let out another loud whoop that rang through the night.

  32

  Conor rode out of his compound before daylight. They’d firmed up their plans the previous night. Later that day, Doc Marty and Shannon were to depart for Johnny Jacks’ house, where they would spend the night. It would put them closer to the firehouse on the day the larger force was to leave in support of Conor and Wayne. Ragus was to remain behind to keep watch on the compound, as much as he’d prefer to be involved in the action.

  Tomorrow morning Shannon and Barb would go by the pastor’s camp and then on to the firehouse, headed north with a force of volunteers from both Wayne and the pastor’s camp. Doc Marty, much to his distress, would remain behind at Johnny’s. It would keep him close enough to provide aid to the returning injured but would not expose him to unnecessary risk.

  It was a cold morning, the nighttime temperature having dropped into the twenties. There was frost on every surface and Conor’s breath froze, rising like fog in the beam of his headlamp. His horse was laden with his best gear. It was some of the same stuff he’d taken when he’d gone in pursuit of Barb after her kidnapping. The big difference then was that he’d not yet acquired a horse. He had to carry every bit of his kit on his back so he’d packed a lot lighter. Now he didn’t have that restriction and he was free to go full Mad Mick. The bulk of the extra weight was ammo. He might not need much for the recon part of his trip but when the bulk of his force showed up for battle he had no idea how much they might need. He wouldn’t have a plan for that until he got a better idea of what The Bond actually was. They could be trained, combat-hardened vets or they could be a bunch of clowns in stolen uniforms. He’d know soon.

  Holstered on his battle belt, Conor carried a Glock 17 with a threaded barrel. Slung over his neck, he carried his battle rifle. It was an M4 variant that was not much different from an over-the-counter AR-15 except for the three position selector switch. He’d built the weapon around a Spike’s Tactical lower receiver and the selector offered three engraved settings: Peace, War, and God Wills It. It was decked out with several other nice features, including a holographic sight that worked with his night vision, a targeting laser that offered both green and infrared modes, and a weapon-mounted light.

  Also in his Eberlestock Gunslinger pack, strapped across his horse, was something he rarely brought out – his Accuracy International sniper rifle. The beast was nearly twenty pounds with an optic, ammo, and a bipod. It was chambered in .300 Win Mag and shot so damn well it made Conor surprise himself sometimes. He’d be the first to tell you that he was no sniper but there were times the job called for precision shooting. He kept the gun tuned, shooting it often enough that he was certain it would hit where he aimed it. Ballistic data for his custom rounds was taped to a scrap of paper inside the flip up lens cap. With that and his rangefinder he was usually good to go if environmental conditions were fairly stable.

  He carried a bivy sack and a down bag for sleeping. He had trail food, which consisted of MREs, jerky, and energy bars. The larger force, Barb’s group, would be carrying better provisions, but he and Wayne wouldn’t be cooking. He had a lot more tactical goodies in his pack and saddlebags. Much of it he hoped he didn’t need, including the combat tomahawk that he’d wielded so effectively when he’d rescued Barb. It had taken several good soakings to clean the thing of all the blood and gore. It had a lot of memories attached to it and they were all unpleasant. He carried it wrapped in a piece of red cloth like some especially powerful piece of dark magic that was only unleashed in the worst of times, which was perhaps a very accurate assessment of what the weapon was in Conor’s hands.

  The sun was up when he reached the spot where the ridge leveled out to farmland. Frost coated the land but the sun was heating it up, adding a reflective quality to every frozen surface as the frost began to melt. Whorls of mist rose from the ground. Conor stopped to take in the splendor of it. There was utter and total silence.

  From the road, he heard no sound that was not of his own making. His saddle groaned and his gear creaked. His horse snorted, rattling its bridle as it shook its mighty head. This was not the first time he’d seen such beauty and experienced such peace on the way to do brutal business. It had happened so many times it almost seemed the way of things, that every eruption of violence was preceded by a calm so profound as to stop him in his tracks.

  He’d found it in
the deep jungle outside of Mosquito in Eastern Honduras, one of the most violent nations in the world, just before he detonated the explosive device that killed an uncooperative cartel leader. It was during a time when the CIA and the cartel often had overlapping interests. Then suddenly they didn’t anymore and the drug lord had to go.

  Conor again found it in the beautiful mountains around the Ma’in Hot Springs in the Madaba Governate in Jordan just hours before assassinating a terrorist financier with an exploding olive. It was an amazing device that utilized a pressure switch ignited by the man biting down on it. It wasn’t large enough to vaporize the unsavory character but it created a traumatic wound from which the bleeding could not be stemmed.

  He experienced the same thing on a beautiful beach at Phuket, Thailand, where he was tracking down a mercenary who’d disclosed Conor’s participation in a job they’d done together. The guy figured he was far enough from the United States that Conor wouldn’t hear about his loose tongue. He was wrong. Conor killed him by slipping a fake ice cube into his drink, the cube infused with a fast-acting poison. It happened in a club frequented by mercenaries, operators, and guns for hire. It was the kind of place where no one saw a thing, no one asked questions, and stepping over bodies didn’t raise an eyebrow.

  And you wonder why they call you the Mad Mick, Conor mused.

  Fifteen more minutes of riding put him at the road by Johnny’s house. The smell of wood smoke hung in the crisp air. A tendril of smoke curled from the chimney. Conor knew that Johnny was probably already up. Barb would be soon, if she wasn’t already. Conor opened the gate and went through, the dog sounding an alarm at his arrival. By the time he reached the house, Johnny was on the porch wearing a flannel shirt, suspenders, and a big grin.

  “Why aren’t you inside by that warm fire?” Conor asked, climbing off his horse and tying it off near the porch.

  “Wanted to see how you took your coffee.”

  “Black, thank you. Barb up?”

  “Not yet, but I assume that she’ll be rolling down those steps any minute since the dog started barking. She likes to stay on top of what’s going on around her.”