Brutal Business: Book Three in the Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  “You don’t shut your mouth, we going to hang your ass up there as an exclamation point,” Thomas snapped. “Now get in the damn trucks.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mundo said, suddenly all business.

  Show over, the men piled into the trucks, manning guns and slamming doors. Engines were started and the lead truck crept forward. When he confirmed that the others were behind him, the driver accelerated and they headed south on Route 23.

  “Where we headed next?” Droopy asked over the radio.

  “Kentucky,” Thomas replied. “Possibly Paintsville, depending on how the day goes.”

  35

  Conor and Wayne followed the paved surface of Route 23 when they had to, opting for the soft shoulder when they could to spare their horses. As the road cut through the steep mountains of southwestern Virginia and eventually Kentucky, the four-lane highway was sometimes jammed into a narrow ledge scraped into the mountain with no shoulder to either side. They were constantly on watch against being ambushed by anyone who might want their gear or their horses.

  There was no avoiding people. In a land utterly devoid of flat ground, the areas most suitable for road construction were inevitably the most suitable for the building of homes and towns. Tiny hamlets and clusters of houses showed up frequently so the pair crept through them on high alert, using back streets when they could, constantly staying on their weapons, ready to fire. Without numbers to intimidate, they relied heavily on menace. They weren’t guys open to small talk or barter.

  The two men hadn’t spent much time together before but had nothing to do but talk as they passed long hours together. Wayne talked about his family and his home in Michigan, about how his parents had been from Kentucky prior to moving north so his dad could work for General Motors. He mentioned that his dad ended up as a shop carpenter for GM, one of the highest paid and most desirable carpenter jobs available in the Detroit area. Wayne had followed in his father’s footsteps, seeking one of those plant carpenter positions, but had been unable to get on at GM. He wound up applying his skills in the high-volume residential construction industry, which had declined at the same rate as Detroit itself. He’d wanted to leave for some time but was caught in the trap of making just enough money to keep going but not enough to escape the city.

  Wayne asked Conor about his life and how he’d ended up in the United States, since his obvious accent left no doubt he was from elsewhere.

  “My own tale is crooked as a dog’s hind leg,” Conor said. “I don’t talk about it very much.”

  “Don’t or won’t talk about it?”

  “Both.”

  Wayne gestured around them at the steep mountains and the rocky bluffs. There was nothing but woods and empty road in all directions. “What else do we have to do but talk?”

  Conor relented, to an extent, and for the next two hours shared the highlights of how he ended up in America, leaving out the juicy parts. He mentioned nothing about his family’s background in Ireland and said nothing of avenging his wife’s death. He didn’t mention his employer, Ricardo, and what his actual career involved. He passed himself off as a welder and fabricator, though Wayne appeared extremely doubtful about that line. Conor also failed to mention that most of the male influences in his life had been from Irish crime families. None of this explained his relationship with Doc Marty, his extensive arsenal, or his obvious proficiency at ending human life.

  When he was done, Wayne laughed ruefully. “There may be some truth in what you’re saying but there are so many gaps in that story. It’s like seeing those top secret documents they show on television that are seventy-five percent redacted. There’s no continuity. I got no doubt that the best parts of your story are being blacked out.”

  Without commenting, Conor pulled out his GPS to check their location.

  Over days of riding and more redacted tales they passed through Pikeville, Kentucky, and small communities like Betsy Layne, Tram, and Watergap. Until they hit Prestonsburg, Conor was mostly concerned about the threat presented by residents of those tiny communities. Beyond Prestonsburg, he was more on edge, increasingly concerned about running into The Bond. The distance between the riders and the last known location of The Bond was closing. Men in trucks would have had plenty of time to continue down Route 23 if that was their plan. Conor and Wayne moved thoughtfully, watching for blind spots and signs of large encampments. On the south side of Paintsville, Kentucky, they found The Bond.

  Conor and Wayne reached the outskirts of town in the late afternoon after a long day of riding. The sun was getting low on the horizon and they were already anticipating having to find a place to hole up for the night with no fire. The pair didn’t know that The Bond had already hit town earlier in the day and established a camp at a car dealership. They were at that very moment going around and doing their “friendly neighbor” bit, introducing themselves to the locals. Had it not been for The Bond rolling out their version of the welcome wagon, which always involved a little gunfire, Conor and Wayne might have been unfortunate enough to ride right up onto one of their guard posts. It was a burst of thumping gunfire from a belt-fed weapon that got their attention.

  Conor reined in his horse so violently that the animal backed up and spun. “Easy now,” he whispered. He held up a hand toward Wayne. “Listen!”

  “You’re the one making all the noise,” Wayne retorted.

  Dismounting, Conor led his horse to the shoulder of the road. In the distance they could see the sporadic placement of rural homes transitioning into a more orderly system of streets and neighborhoods. A faint scream sliced through the cold, echoing through the hollows. It was followed by another burst from the belt-fed gun.

  Wayne dismounted and joined Conor. “We need to find them and put a stop to this. They’re killing people.”

  “How many did Pepe say there were?” Conor asked.

  “Could be a hundred or more.”

  “Wayne, we’re not ready to engage anyone. We need intel. We need to confirm troop strength and capability.”

  Wayne let out a long, tense breath. “Sorry. There’s just something about hearing people needing help that makes it hard to stand back and do nothing.”

  “I didn’t say we’d do nothing. We might be able to help the people of this town, but if we give away our presence now, we’ll blow it.”

  “You’re right,” Wayne conceded. “What do we need to do?”

  They moved off the road into the woods and found an opening in the trees. There was enough grass growing that it might keep the horses entertained for a while. They hobbled them and offloaded their gear. Conor didn’t want to take a chance on all his goodies being stolen if the horses made too much noise and someone found them. The two men stashed their gear a short distance away, covering it with branches and leaf litter. When they were done, they moved on with just their rifles and Go Bags.

  They returned to the road, crossed it, and jumped the guardrail on the opposite side. Below them was a steep hillside descending to a creek, across which were several mobile homes on a winding gravel road. Conor led the way, descending in a controlled slide on the slate and scree. Several times his momentum outpaced his feet and he had to sit down to slow himself. When they reached the bottom, they found themselves on a distinct trail that ran along the creek bank.

  “Let’s follow this for a while,” Conor said. “I don’t want wet boots if I can avoid it.”

  They made good time on the trail and eventually reached a point where the road swung to their side of the creek. At this point they weren’t as concerned about making noise. They had a good view of their surroundings and the few dwellings they’d seen showed no signs of being occupied. Houses soon became more frequent and the roads turned into streets, demonstrating a planned orderliness. There were no alleys here, just a small town backstreet with scattered houses. In the distance they began to hear the rumble of idling engines. They picked up their pace and moved toward them. Before they reached the source, the noise began moving a
way from them, leaving only a keening wail of grief.

  They slowed, moving with raised rifles in the shadows of houses and parked cars. Conor took cover behind an azalea bush and Wayne fell in behind him. They were at a wide, paved street lined with picturesque houses. They were older homes from the early twentieth century that had all been updated. They had crisp white trim, painted shutters, and brass hardware. Smoke rolling from chimneys told Conor that at least some of the houses were occupied. In the middle of the street, a grief-stricken woman had collapsed to her knees, mourning someone that lay splayed awkwardly in a puddle of blood.

  “Stay here,” Conor ordered. Moving from concealment, he crept into the street, scanning in every direction. If there were people living here, which there obviously were, there was no way they could have missed the show that took place here. There had to be people watching out their windows right now and they would be watching him move toward the woman. He only hoped that no one would drop him without warning, firing a shot from a window or around a corner. He was aware of what he looked like and that he was probably the kind of guy that you’d want to shoot without warning.

  When the sobbing woman saw him coming toward her she let out a bloodcurdling scream, recoiling from him and scuttling toward the opposite sidewalk. Conor held up a flattened palm to her, a sign to calm down, that he didn’t intend to hurt her. She wasn’t buying it and why would she? Her eyes roved along his camouflage clothing and came to rest on his rifle. She didn’t know him. Why else would he be there but to inflict more pain? To kill more people?

  “I don’t mean you any harm,” Conor said.

  “Haven’t you done enough already?” she moaned. “You’ve taken the only thing that meant anything to me.”

  Conor shut out her pain. He wasn’t there to provide comfort. He needed information or there would be a whole lot more people in the same world of hurt. “I’m not with those people. Who are they? Do you know anything about them?”

  The woman eased over on her side, resting her bare cheek on the pavement, and staring at the body in front of her. Her voice was a moan, a song of grief. “I don’t know who they are. We were just out walking around the neighborhood. They said they were new here and wanted to introduce themselves because we’d be seeing more of them. My husband asked them if they were from the Army because they were dressed like they were. They had Army trucks and Army guns. They said they weren’t, that they were from something called The Bond.” The woman dragged a curled wrist to her face, wiped at her nose, then rolled over onto her back. She closed her eyes and began sobbing again.

  A flash of movement caught Conor’s eye. He stepped to the side and spun, his rifle barrel coming to rest center mass on an elderly man with thick white hair, a burgundy cardigan, and corduroy pants. The man had somehow gotten to within a few feet of him. Where the hell was Wayne?

  “You fucking freeze!” Conor growled.

  The man halted mid-step and raised his hands above his head. His eyes crunched closed in anticipation of the gunshot he expected must be coming. “I don’t mean you any harm. I just wanted to check on the girl.”

  Conor took in the man before him and lowered his gun. He had retired lawyer written all over him. “Did you see what happened?”

  The man lowered his hands and nodded, his eyes glued to the sobbing woman. “Can I?”

  Conor nodded, then waved for Wayne to join him. Wayne had somehow missed the old man but spotted Conor’s wave. “Nice job keeping watch, Eagle Eye,” Conor said when Wayne reached him. “You could have mentioned this guy running right up my arse.”

  “I didn’t see him. I was watching windows.”

  The lawyer was at the crying woman’s side, crouched, and holding her hand. He tried to get her to sit up but she fought him, crying harder, so he let her be. He turned his attention back to Conor.

  “This is the first we’ve seen of those people. My wife and I were watching from the window because we thought they were the National Guard or Army here to deliver aid or assess damage. No one was concerned. They did this after the flood of ’77, coming through like that in big trucks. We saw Sondra and her husband talking to them. Everyone was smiling. Then they opened fire for no reason at all. You can see this man didn’t have a gun. There was no reason to kill him. Why would the Army do that?”

  “It’s not the Army,” Conor said.

  The man appeared confused by that but stared at Conor with renewed interest, taking in his weapons and his gear. He pointed at Conor with a crooked finger. “Then are you the Army?”

  Conor hesitated before responding. “You might say that, but probably not the army you’re expecting. Have you heard of the Mad Mick in these parts?”

  A flicker of awareness cut through the man’s confusion. “Uh...yeah. Travelers passing through have mentioned some signs. They’re supposed to be some hillbilly vigilante group guarding the area south and west of here. Are you part of that group?”

  “It’s a group of one,” Wayne said, nodding in Conor’s direction. “Crazy Irishman. That’s him.”

  The man pointed at Conor, a questioning expression on his face. Conor nodded in response.

  “Oh my,” the man said.

  “Do you know which way they went?” Conor asked.

  The man nodded to his right. “That road takes you to Route 460 and on into town. I expect that’s where they’ve gone.”

  Conor wanted to immediately set off in pursuit but understood their walking pace wasn’t going to do the job. “Let’s get back to the horses, Wayne. Going by the GPS, this town is kind of sprawled out with two highways passing through it. We’ll exhaust ourselves chasing them around on foot. I’ve got a different plan.”

  36

  The climb back up to the road and their horses was not nearly so easy as the scamper down. The loose shale was merciless, like some cruel surface designed to torture climbers. They slid one step back for every two forward. They were forced to sling their rifles over their backs and use bushes as handholds. Sweating and gasping for breath, they hissed curses when they had the extra air to do so. It was absurd enough to have been comical, the type of situation Conor frequently laughed at himself for getting into, but darkness settled on them, forcing them to climb by the light of their red-lensed headlamps. It wasn’t funny anymore. If someone had them in their crosshairs, there would be no escape. It would be like shooting Dall sheep from a cliff face.

  When they reached the top and slithered over the guardrail, the men crumpled onto the asphalt to catch their breath. Conor tugged off his headlamp, removed his fleece watch cap, and allowed the night air to cool his soaked head. He could hear his mother telling him he’d catch his death for such a thing. The night was indeed getting cold, and their exertion had masked how much the temperature dropped. It was probably right at the freezing point, and being outside in their sweat-soaked clothes could become a problem. They’d have to get moving at a gentler pace and allow their body heat to dry their clothes or they could be at risk for hypothermia.

  Conor sat up, then staggered to his feet. His legs were shaky, cooked from the climb, and his arms were tired from hauling himself up on scrubby bushes. Wayne hadn’t budged and Conor tapped him with his boot. “Get up, you bum. We can’t afford to catch a chill. We need to keep moving.”

  “Just shoot me,” Wayne groaned. “I feel like I did five hundred squats with a horse on my back.”

  “We probably should have thought it out better. Using the road to get back up here might have been a smarter option than backtracking, but that’s on you.”

  Wayne frowned. “Why the hell is that on me?”

  “Because I don’t want to look like a feckin’ idiot.” Conor grinned.

  Wayne shook his head, lolling it back and forth where it rested on the pavement. “And I thought you knew what the hell you were doing.”

  “Not always. Sometimes I wing it.” Conor turned his cap inside out, putting the dryer side against his head. He replaced his headlamp and clicked o
n the red beam, angling it down at his feet, then headed off for their gear cache, knowing Wayne would follow soon enough. In a few minutes the two of them were back on the road with their horses and gear. They set off in the direction of town, choosing to walk because Conor was afraid that sitting in his saddle might allow hypothermia to set in. He needed to keep the muscles working until things dried a little.

  “I thought I was in decent shape,” Wayne said. “I work outside and do manual labor for a living, but that climb kicked my ass.”

  “I don’t know many folks conditioned enough to enjoy what we just did. Barb perhaps, but she’s a glutton for punishment. I think the girl likes to suffer a little too much.”

  “I’m glad she wasn’t here to see that. The only thing that could have made that climb worse would be her taunting us from the top of the hill like a drill instructor.”

  “I can think of other things that might have made it worse, my friend. Like being shot at, for example.”

  “You always make me feel better,” Wayne said. “You’re a ray of sunshine.”

  Conor smiled. “It’s a gift.”

  Eventually they climbed onto their horses, switching from red-lensed headlamps to night vision. Conor also had a thermal scope in his bag of goodies but he couldn’t wear the thing on a bump helmet like he could the night vision. He’d brought a bump helmet for Wayne too, sparing him the discomfort of wearing the skull-crusher headgear which was the other option if you didn’t have a helmet. The skull-crusher was so named because the only way to get it tight enough that the heavy night vision gear didn’t sag was to ratchet it so tight you could feel the seams of your skull threatening to break loose.

  “This shit is amazing,” Wayne said, ogling the sky and the terrain around them.

  “You haven’t used it before?”

  “I’ve used it in the military but it’s been a while. Not sure what I had was this good. It made everything green and this is white. Explain to me again why a welder has the latest and greatest night vision? And not just one set but two?”