Brutal Business: Book Three in the Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  Her strongest supporters were Shannon, Jason Jacks, and his wife Sam. It almost made Barb feel bad that she’d been so rough on Shannon. The nervous young woman had stuck by her side the entire time. Jason and Sam didn’t question any of Barb’s orders, displaying a complete lack of “attitude” with her that was refreshing. Barb was beginning to get a little taste of how being so hard on people could make it difficult to get their cooperation when she needed it. It wasn’t like she set out to be a bitch with people, she just had this personality that needed room to express itself. When it did, it sometimes rattled everyone around her. Her dad once said that her personality had its own blast radius. She only now realized he was right.

  Her group rode Route 23 on horseback, having secured enough horses and tack for everyone, leading four pack horses with food, ammunition, and various gear. They probably could have gotten by on fewer horses but they wanted spares in case a horse was injured and a rider needed to switch out.

  Their trip retraced Conor and Wayne’s route, though at a slower pace. At the end of the day, aching and exhausted, they set up camp under the awnings of secluded highway convenience stores or in abandoned industrial buildings. With the cold temperatures they wanted locations where they could have fires to warm the parts that chilled on the long days in the saddle. Barb had imagined they would begin to bond into a unit around the nightly fire but it didn’t work out that way. There was never just one fire, each group preferring to stay with their own kind. Pastor White’s group had their fire, Wayne’s folks had another, and her small group had their own. It wasn’t the way she wanted it but she didn’t have any plan of how to unite them yet, and she figured it would only be divisive to force it.

  Each night Barb made rounds to every individual fire. She complimented the riders on their endurance and the ground they’d covered that day. She attempted to make small talk, to learn about these men and their families, but those attempts fell flat. The groups fell silent at her arrival and pretty much stayed that way until she walked away. While not overtly hostile, they spared her no warmth. They didn’t trust her and it made her think. While she didn’t feel that she needed other people for anything in her life, she recognized there was a value in being able to inspire people to want to work with you. Her dad had that ability, but apparently it was not hereditary. None of these people would have ridden with her if not for her father.

  On the second day of riding, the road began to trace the route of the fast-moving Levisa River. Barb found the sound of the water comforting and it added a new element to the scenery. They passed through the same small towns and communities as Conor and Wayne, receiving the same reception. No one messed with them; no one wanted to cross paths with them. People simply held their breath, hoping the riders moved on and didn’t stop. That was what they did. They were not there to scavenge or make friends.

  Most nights they camped between the tiny coal towns, not wanting to risk a group of locals perceiving them as a threat and taking action. After a few days on the road they closed in on Allen City, Kentucky, and spent the night in an abandoned service center for coal trucks. The shop area was large, though covered in a patina of coal dust and grease. They were pleased to find an enormous shop-built stove that burned both wood and coal, allowing them to heat their sleeping quarters for a change. They kept two men on watch that night to make sure the horses stayed safe, though no one was very excited about leaving the heated building. Barb dropped watch times to an hour per shift in the spirit of fairness.

  The next morning, after the most comfortable sleep of the trip, Barb went outside to relieve herself and saw a man on horseback talking to the guards. Her hand dropped to her holster, gripping her handgun, and then the rider turned toward her. It was Wayne.

  “Hey!” she said, relaxing and heading toward him. Her face clouded when she didn’t see her father, her mind going to that place she didn’t like it to go. “Where’s my dad?”

  Wayne smiled. “Easy now, Barb. Don’t worry. He’s fine.”

  She tried to recover from the burst of panic. “I wasn’t worried about him. That crotchety old man is more than capable of taking care of himself.”

  Wayne dismounted. “I need to water my horse. You got a second? I need to speak with you in private.”

  “I have to take care of something first, but I’ll meet you beside the river.”

  After taking care of her business behind a rusting truck body, Barb joined Wayne on the bank of the river. He was standing on a rock letting his horse drink from the cold water. “You ride all night?” she asked.

  “No. I actually spent the night just up the road. Didn’t sleep well, so I got on the road early. If I’d known you guys were here I’d have pushed on and met up with you. Guess I should have used the radio like Conor said.”

  “We slept pretty well here,” Barb said. “We were able to heat this building. I’ll have to physically drag everyone out of their sleeping bags this morning. No one’s going to want to leave.”

  Wayne’s horse stopped drinking, raising its head and allowing water to rain down from its mouth. “Are you done?” Wayne asked, and the horse lowered its head and started drinking again.

  “So, we found these assholes who call themselves The Bond. Ran into them just up the road in Paintsville. Conor had a little something in mind for them, so he wanted me to come back and talk to you.”

  Barb frowned and shook her head. “We could have been there in another day or two, engaged them there as a group.”

  “I argued that very thing but he had other plans.”

  “What’s he got in mind?”

  “He wants them to chase him. He’s afraid if we attack them there they might flee north and we won’t be able to stop them, then they’ll become someone else’s problem. You know how he is about that. He feels like it’s his obligation to protect people.”

  Barb smiled knowingly. “Well, he did put up those stupid signs all over the place,” she said. “I guess if you’re going to claim that the Mad Mick is protecting all the lands far and wide then you have some level of obligation to see that through. At least in my dad’s head.”

  Wayne smiled. “I get the whole sheepdog protector thing but your dad takes it to a whole new level. He’s trying to protect a patch of ground bigger than some states.”

  “My dad takes everything to a new level.”

  “Speaking of which, he’s given me a list of things he wants us to prepare. I expect we’ll probably see him by the end of the day, so we’ll need to get cracking.”

  45

  Conor didn’t know what time The Bond soldiers would set out in pursuit of him but he made two assumptions. First, he had to leave taunting messages so they would know they were on the right track. Another pleasant by-product of those messages would be the fact that it would piss them off all over again. He was never afraid to poke the bear. Secondly, he would need to impede their progress when he could without spending too much time doing so. It was trucks against a man on horseback and he wanted to stay ahead of them if he could.

  Taunting them was easy and only required some of the cans of spray paint he’d picked up along the way. He didn’t have much artistic talent but he painted crude hands with upraised middle fingers on the sides of buildings and on cars along the route. Beside each drawing he would leave brief messages such as “A Present For The Bond” or “Turn Back Now!” He was aware it was childish, but he was trying to anger them on a primitive, immature level. He wanted their judgment to be clouded by hate.

  In places where the road was partially blocked by cars, he tried to find ways to further block it, knowing The Bond would have to spend time trying to clear those jams in order to get their trucks through. Sometimes it was a matter of attaching one of his handy explosive devices to the trunk of a tree and felling it to close the gap. While their trucks had winches and could pull the trees out of the way, it took time, delaying them. In other places he used explosives to dislodge precarious boulders from the mountainside and
drop them into the road. Hopefully the time he gained with each of those impediments would keep The Bond from passing him on the road.

  However, The Bond moved faster than Conor expected. They were an efficient team and knew how to work together. They also carried chainsaws with them, something Conor had also not expected. He was feeling pretty good about himself when he reached Prestonsburg, Kentucky. That feeling was short-lived when he heard the unmistakable sound of truck engines echoing through the hills.

  He mumbled a curse but wasted no time questioning his misfortune. He kicked his horse into a gallop, searching for a spot to escape the confines of the guard-railed highway. He usually preferred to hide on the high side of the road, hoping for a vantage point that would allow him to better see what the enemy was up to. There were no exits to that side of the road, though, nowhere he could get a horse across.

  An opening appeared on the downhill side of the road and Conor went for it, steering his galloping horse onto what appeared to be a driveway but turned out to be a gravel road. A sharp bend put him out of sight of the road. Rather than disappearing into the mountains he tied his horse off and ran back toward the road.

  There was a flimsy plywood shack sitting where the gravel road met the highway. Parents built them at their own expense to prevent their kids from having to stand in the bad weather when waiting on the school bus. His mind racing, Conor flattened himself against the back of it, heart pounding, as the trucks got closer. He needed to slow these men. He couldn’t let them get ahead of him.

  He ripped open the long pouch to the left side of his plate carrier and slipped out a suppressor for his Glock. He rapidly unscrewed the thread protector, dropping it in his haste and letting it go. He twisted the suppressor on then removed the magazine of supersonic rounds from the handgun, stashing it in his dump pouch. He cycled the slide, ejecting the supersonic round in the chamber. He tried to snatch it out of the air all cool-like but missed it. So much for being cool.

  He carried two mags of subsonic 9mm separate from his other magazines. He slammed one into the Glock and dropped the slide to chamber a round, then spun back toward the road. The structure blocked him from the view of oncoming drivers but would allow Conor to see them once they’d passed. Someone riding in a truck could only see him if they hung their head from one of the passing vehicles and he doubted they’d be doing that today. It was too damn cold to ride with a window down.

  He braced his left elbow against the tiny building to stabilize himself, leveling the gun with the point where he anticipated the tires would be as the truck passed, staring down the tall suppressor-height sights. When the lead truck passed him, he tracked the front tire nearest him and began squeezing the trigger. It took three rounds before he hit his mark and the tire popped.

  With the subsonic rounds, the report of each shot was diminished enough that he doubted these men could have heard it over the engine and road noise. They knew something was wrong, though. With the loss of a steering tire in a curve, the wheel itself hit the road surface and sparks flew as it ground along the asphalt. The truck wobbled as the driver stomped the brake pedal and the truck screeched to a stop.

  Conor didn’t stick around to watch. He was already on his horse and moving. He hoped the tire was damaged enough that they wouldn’t know what had taken place, attributing it to debris or wear. It didn’t really matter. Either way, this could cost them an hour by the time they pulled a jack and a spare from beneath the loads they carried in their trucks.

  He was going to have to work fast. In the hour they’d be delayed, how far down the road would he actually make it? He had to negotiate woods to make his way back to the highway which would be hard on him and his horse. Then he might be able to put a couple of miles between them, but it wouldn’t take The Bond long to close that distance in motorized vehicles.

  When he finally rejoined the road, he’d burned twenty minutes of the possible hour he’d gained himself. This wasn’t going to work. This wasn’t nearly enough of a delay to benefit him. He wanted to buy more time for Wayne and Barb to carry out the list of things he’d asked them to do. As much as he hated to admit it, he might have to accept that he wasn’t going to be able to get there ahead of The Bond.

  Conor stood in the road, his horse heaving from the effort of their climb. There was no point in trying to put more miles between him and The Bond yet. His work here wasn’t done. He was going to have to change his plan. He turned his horse and began walking it back up the road, toward his enemy.

  When he came to the first road branching off the uphill side of the highway, he steered his horse in that direction. They soon ran into a yellow pipe gate and Conor knew he was probably on a gas well site. Perfect. He skirted the pipe gate and rode a little further. He stopped to consult his GPS and was satisfied by what he saw. He dismounted and walked his horse into the woods.

  When he was at the right spot, he removed the Accuracy International sniper rifle from his large pack. He made sure he had all the rounds and support gear he needed for the weapon, then hurried deeper into the woods. Using his GPS, he was able to locate a rocky bluff that overlooked the disabled Bond truck. His binoculars revealed that the men were fighting to get the truck up on a jack. The road was steep and the weight of the truck and trailer combined pushed the jack over every time they made any progress.

  This was the first opportunity he’d had to see the group as a whole. There were probably ten trucks, including a tanker for refueling between stops. He had to give them a nod for that. Men were everywhere, and though he couldn’t count them he was confident in an estimate of between eighty to one hundred men. The fact there were at least two less than yesterday brought a smile to his face. He could have killed more of them but under those conditions he didn’t have much of an advantage. He was determined to wipe them out but he didn’t want to be killed in the process. Seeing how many there were now, he could see some advantage to paring their numbers down a little more before they reached Barb and Wayne.

  The good thing about this situation below him was that the truck and trailer had completely blocked that lane of the highway when it wrecked. The men were trapped there. Even to turn their trucks around and flee in the other direction would require unhooking their trailers. There was no way they could swing the large trucks around for a U-turn in the tight confines of the guard-railed highway.

  Conor found a good spot, took off his Go Bag, and set up the rifle. He unfolded the legs of the Atlas bipod and leveled everything, using the miniature bubble level mounted on his scope to make sure the rifle wasn’t canted. He used a rangefinder to measure the distance to target and inserted purple foam ear plugs into his cold ears. He proned out behind it and got himself oriented to the field of view visible through the scope. A scrap of paper taped inside the lens cover and a second in a waterproof sleeve taped around the stock of the rifle provided him the ballistic data he needed. He inserted a magazine, then laid out three more in a neat row beside him. He chambered a round and exhaled.

  He didn’t consider himself a sniper. He was a technician, a tinkerer in tools of death. The technical aspects of this deadly art appealed to him. Adjusting the scope for distance, windage, and drop were very similar in Conor’s mind to the way he’d read thousandths of an inch with a caliper or micrometer. It was like the way he adjusted a milling machine or lathe to remove hair-thin layers of metal. So while Conor may not have been a master at the stalking aspects of sniping, he was very technically proficient at getting shots on target.

  When his breathing was slowed, he made a few adjustments to the scope, and determined which of the dots in his reticle was to be his starting point of aim. He clicked the safety off, the sound surprisingly loud in the silent winter forest, then he pulled the trigger.

  BOOM!

  The round missed his target, shattering on the bumper by the guy’s head, spraying him with fragments. The man grabbed his face and fell over backward. Conor heard his scream even over the distance. He adjusted his po
int of aim in his head as he transitioned to the second target. He’d already planned the pattern in his head and knew where every round in this mag was going.

  BOOM!

  The second target dropped, Conor’s shot coming so fast that the stunned men had not even figured out what was going on. When the second man dropped, The Bond soldiers knew what was going on. These were soldiers and they’d been fired at before.

  BOOM!

  Conor caught a fleeing man in the lower back, a spine shot that dropped him like a puppet with its strings cut. The other men had rifles out, trying to figure out where the shots were coming from even as they struggled to find cover. Conor knew logic would eventually direct those men to his position so he had to make as much of an impact as he could in a short amount of time.

  BOOM!

  He was dialed in now and struck a hiding man just above the elbow, the lower part of the arm barely hanging on by a strip of flesh.

  BOOM!

  He nailed a driver who was uncertain if he’d be safer in the cab or outside of it. His decision to stay inside was the wrong one.

  BOOM!

  He shot a man running for the shoulder with a weapon, the man dropping to a heap and skidding to a stop.

  Conor emptied the mag, killing or disabling one man per shot. When the mag was empty, he decided he didn’t have enough time to load another. There were men who’d slipped off from the group. They would be scaling the steep hill, intent on finding him, and he didn’t intend to stick around for that.

  He gathered his gear and sprinted for his horse. He stowed the rifle carefully, knowing he’d likely need it again before this operation was over. He mounted his horse and urged it back the way they’d come. They were around the gate and galloping down the road before anyone was even close to his position.

  46

  Thomas rushed around the scene, alternately cursing both his men and their attacker. They couldn’t be certain whether the shooter was still active or not so no one was anxious to stick their head from behind cover. They’d seen what this shooter did with any body part exposed to his crosshairs for too long.