“Snip the corner off one of those fertilizer bags. We’ve got to dump all that in here.”
Wayne did as he’d been asked, using his knife to remove a corner of one of the bags and start the process of emptying it into the fuel tank. “This isn’t going to be quick.”
“Hence the two liter.”
Jason came sliding down the bank and dumped another bag on top of the stack. “This is the last one.”
“Good job, lad. Take over for me,” Conor said. “I’ll start getting the Claymore ready.”
“Should you be doing that already?” Jason asked, concern in his eyes. “What if something bad happens?”
Conor chuckled. “Something bad is going to happen but hopefully not until we’re long gone.”
While he filled the fuel tank Wayne watched Conor lay out the contents of his boom bag. “I’ve used a Claymore a time or two and that doesn’t look like any Claymore I’ve ever seen.”
“This is a Mad Mick Claymore. It’s limited edition –the ‘must have’ explosive of the season. If I want to add shrapnel there’s a special sleeve that I slide over top of the device. It also has interchangeable firing modules so I just snap on whichever module fits the particular situation. There’s a special pressure sensitive module, a timer module, a remote control module, and a tripwire module. This one’s going to be rigged so a tripwire sets it off on a one minute delay.”
“Shouldn’t it go off as soon as they hit the tripwire?” Jason asked. “That would stop them in their tracks.”
“No,” Conor said. “I don’t want them to turn around and leave. I want to keep pushing them forward while nibbling away at their numbers a little bit at a time.”
Jason was doubtful. “That seems like a lot of trouble. My vote would be that we just turn them around with a good kick in the butt and send them on their way.”
“You got any family in Ohio?” Wayne asked, knowing many folks in Appalachia did.
“Yeah, some.”
“And you don’t have any problem with this group showing up and killing some of them?” Wayne continued.
“I guess I see what you mean. If we fix this problem we might as well fix it for everyone and not just ourselves.”
Conor pulled a roll of heavy fishing line from his boom bag and took off with it. He scrambled up the bank on all fours, then ran to the center of the bridge. He tied the loose end of the fishing line to the rail on one side and then ran across the bridge, passing the line through a gap in the railing. “I need you to catch this!” he yelled.
Jason appeared beneath him, hands extended. Conor dropped it neatly into the boy’s hands. He started off the bridge, ready to make his way back down the bank when he heard the distant rumble of trucks.
“Shit! They’re coming!”
“The trucks?” Wayne yelled back.
“Yeah. How much of that do you have left?”
“One bag,” Jason replied.
“Get up here, Jason!” While Conor waited on the boy to get up the bank, he grabbed his rifle and Go Bag from his horse, then ran to Wayne’s horse and did the same.
“What do you need?” Jason asked, appearing at Conor’s side.
“I need you to take the horses. Get across town and don’t let these guys see you. If they even get close, you get on a side street or you take off into the woods. However you do it, you get back to Barb. We’ll catch up with you there.”
Conor awkwardly made his way back down the bank to the bridge, his arms loaded with gear. He dropped it in a pile beside the fuel tank. Wayne was struggling to pour the last bag of fertilizer into the fuel tank, spilling some as the funnel refused to cooperate.
“You think this is enough?” Wayne asked.
“Enough fertilizer?”
“Enough of a boom.”
“My Claymores are a little heavy on the C-4,” Conor said, sounding like a grandmother sharing the secret ingredient in her sauce. “That alone may be enough to do the trick. Between that and the boost it’ll get from the fertilizer bomb, I think it’ll do the job. Let’s hurry, though. We’ve got to hustle.”
When the contents of the last fertilizer bag sifted out, Wayne tossed it to the side. Conor threw the funnel to the ground and put the cap in place on the tank. He hurriedly positioned his charge in what he felt was the optimal placement, then cut the fishing line and tied it to the pin inserted into his tripwire module.
“We gotta go, Conor.” It wasn’t just urgency in Wayne’s voice, it was fear. The trucks were getting very close.
Despite his lack of sleep, Conor was finding focus in his task. He knew this work like he knew anything in his life and his hands moved almost of their own accord. He finished setting the charge and double checked all of his connections. He stood, straightened out, and stretched his back. “It’s ready. Let’s go.”
Wayne didn’t have to be asked again. He already had his Go Bag on his back and his rifle slung over his shoulder. The two men clambered up the bank and kept running. The trucks were not in sight yet but had to be close. Not minutes away but seconds.
“Side street!” Conor barked when they came to the first intersection. “Turn right!” He was afraid they would be seen if they continued down the main street and he couldn’t take a chance on that. If The Bond caught them in the open with their heavy guns, he and Wayne would be trapped like cattle in a chute.
He noticed the street they were running down, lined with the normal shops of small town America, was named Elm Street. There was a flower shop, a barber shop, and a consignment store. There was an antique shop with a junky old lamp in the window. He wondered how many other quiet, peaceful Elm Streets were in small towns across the country. Thousands perhaps. He was certain about one thing; whoever named this picturesque little street never imagined a day where two men would be charging down it to escape an explosive device they’d planted in the path of a horde of nomadic post-apocalyptic warriors.
At the end of Elm they swung left on Front Street. Conor yanked his radio from the pouch on his plate carrier and keyed the mic. “Barb! Conor for Barb!” He held the radio in his hand, arms pumping as he and Wayne barreled down the street.
She responded quickly. “I’m here, Dad. Is everything okay?”
Conor struggled to talk and breathe at the same time. This wasn’t just jogging, it was running for his life carrying forty pounds of gear. “We got...interrupted. Company is...coming. When you...hear...the blast, that’ll mean...The Bond...crossed the bridge...into...town. We sent...Jason on with...the horses. Wayne and I...are headed...toward you...on foot. Not sure we’ll reach you...before Bond does. Don’t...wait.”
“We got this, Dad. What do you want us to do?”
“Get your...people...in woods. Don’t engage...Bond. Too dangerous.”
“I could set a charge,” Barb suggested. “I know how. I’ve watched you dozens of times.”
“No!” Conor gasped. He wanted to say more but he couldn’t keep this up much longer, trying to talk and run his fat ass down the street at the same time. “Don’t engage...hide!”
“Got it, Dad.”
49
As soon as she was off the radio with her father, Barb gathered her people together. She relayed the details of her conversation with him and explained that she needed everyone to cross the river.
“We’ll be safer with the river between us and those trucks. I need you to go down there and find a good location for crossing. I want you to make sure everyone gets across safely. Help each other. My dad says these guys have heavy firepower and we need to keep our heads down.”
“Just what was the point to coming all this way if we’re just going to run?” asked one of the pastor’s men.
“Were not running,” Barb explained. “This is guerrilla warfare. We’re outnumbered at least three to one. We’re outgunned so significantly that it’s practically muskets against tanks. We have to pick our battles and not get ourselves slaughtered. We can’t help anyone if we’re dead.”
&nbs
p; “Why don’t we just hole up on the roofs of those buildings along the street? We could open up on them as they went by,” suggested one Wayne’s men. There was a murmur of agreement from several among the crowd, heads nodding in consensus.
“We’re done talking about this,” Barb said firmly. “Our enemy has machine guns. They have grenades and launchers. They probably even have capabilities beyond what we know about. We need more intelligence on this enemy before we put our lives at risk.”
“I thought that was what your dad was doing?” said another of the pastor’s men.
“And we haven’t had a chance to hear what he has to say yet, have we?” Barb countered.
There was a powerful explosion that startled everyone in the group. People flinched and scanned about frantically.
“That’s them!” Barb said. “They just triggered my dad’s explosives. We have to move now!”
Then they could hear the trucks. Barb, and likely Conor himself, had figured the explosives would slow down the caravan of trucks. They would stop to check for damage and to check the road ahead of them but the opposite appeared to be happening. The sound of roaring diesel engines filled the small town, echoing off buildings and traveling up the river valley. They weren’t stopping. They were surging ahead.
“What can we do to help?” It was Shannon, with Sam at her side.
“I need you two to get across that river and get hidden.”
“We’re not going without you,” Shannon said.
Barb could sense their determination and saw it was pointless to argue with them. Like it or not, they were stuck at her side for the duration of this. “Despite what my dad said, I wanted to plant a charge to slow these assholes down but I don’t think I have time.”
“They sound really close,” Shannon said. “I might have an idea, though, if you want to hear it.”
Barb started to dismiss her. What could this girl have to offer? Then realizing that she had no ideas of her own, she decided what could it hurt? “What?”
“My dad told me about this really stupid trick that worked for snipers in the Vietnam War. It might work for these guys too. It’s pretty simple but we’ll have to work fast.”
“What do we need?” Barb asked.
“A pen, an envelope, and a piece of string.”
50
Lawdog and Mundo were in the lead truck when the convoy crossed into the small town of Allen City, Kentucky. After what happened to them a few miles back, with the sniper ambush on the highway, they were being as cautious as they could be at thirty-five miles per hour. Lawdog wanted to go slow so they could watch for explosives but Thomas wasn’t having it. Lawdog could see clearer than ever that Thomas was blinded by vengeance. Mundo was right. All Thomas could see was this Mad Mick character being tortured to death in front of him. Lawdog had to wonder if Thomas wanted that more than he wanted to keep his men alive. It was beginning to feel that way. After all, Thomas wasn’t in the lead truck with them. If they came under attack, it was probably he and Mundo that were going to get blown to Kingdom Come.
It didn’t come down that way. Lawdog’s truck was past the booby-trapped bridge, almost one entire block into town when Conor’s bomb detonated. The blast was deafening and sent debris raining down on the entire convoy. All these men were combat veterans and immediately assumed one of the trucks had struck an IED. Men ducked, cursed, and swerved all over the road as they tried to figure out what was going on.
Mundo stuck his neck out the window and craned it around backwards. “I think he missed us! The son-of-a-bitch missed us.”
“Any trucks hit?” Lawdog asked.
Mundo slithered back into the cab. “Don’t look like it.”
Lawdog picked up the microphone to check the status of the other trucks but was interrupted by Thomas on the radio.
“Any casualties? Any damage?”
Surprisingly, as the reports came in, it was just as Mundo had described. All of them had escaped injury.
“Should we stop to check the vehicles for damage?” Lawdog suggested. “We could have fuel tanks hit or tires damaged by shrapnel.”
“That’s a negative,” Thomas snapped. “Hammer down and keep moving. Get us out of this fucking town. If we got problems with a vehicle, we’ll know soon enough.”
“Roger that,” Lawdog replied, thoroughly chastised. He would have to think twice before making suggestions next time. He was supposed to be the second in command in this operation but Thomas wasn’t having it right now. He didn’t care what anyone thought about anything.
“You see what he did there, don’t you?” Mundo asked
“What?” Lawdog asked, his mind still on the way Thomas had shut him down.
“He cut off our retreat. He nailed the back door closed so we can’t get outta here.”
“Who? Thomas?”
“No, dammit. Not Thomas. The Mad Mick.”
Lawdog shook his head as if Mundo was telling him about a time he saw Bigfoot. “I don’t want to hear any of that bullshit. I’ve got enough to worry about. You just keep your eyes open for tripwires or anything suspicious. If we hit a booby-trap because you’re not paying attention, I’ll kill you my own self.”
“Whatever, man,” Mundo mumbled.
They did as they were told, keeping their speed at a constant thirty-five mph through the abandoned town. The streets were mostly clear of vehicles which made it easy to maintain speed but Lawdog was worried. He was tired of this trip. He liked what they’d been doing back in the cities better. The pickings were easy. Nobody was getting hurt. Life was good. They were the baddest thing around and could have anything they wanted. Nothing wrong with that. It was the dream life.
“What the hell is that?”
Pulled from his thoughts, Lawdog scanned ahead of him, then to the sides, and didn’t see a damn thing. “What you talking about?”
Mundo stabbed a finger ahead of him. “That! Right there in front of your face.”
Then Lawdog saw it too. A string had been tossed over a useless power line spanning the main road. A white envelope hung from the string right at eye level, dead center in the middle of the road, spinning slightly in the breeze. Lawdog downshifted and coasted to a stop.
“What the hell’s going on up there?” Thomas demanded over the radio. “Why are you slowing down?”
Lawdog picked up the microphone and pressed the transmit button. “Give us a second, T. There’s something in the road we need to check out.” Lawdog released the button and gestured at Mundo. “Get out and see what that is.”
Mundo squinted at Lawdog. “So I guess us checking it out means me checking it out?”
“Of course. Now get moving before the boss starts bitching.”
Scowling, Mundo got out of the truck and jogged toward the envelope, his rifle in his hand. Before he touched anything, he visually traced the string up the wire to make sure it wasn’t attached to any type of unusual device, particularly the kind that might blow him up. He scanned the surrounding windows to see if he could spot anyone lying in wait for them. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, only his own reflection in grimy storefronts. He pulled his Leatherman tool from his belt and opened the scissors. He carefully approached the string, scissors extended, prepared to snip it. He moved slowly, anxious that the act of snipping the string might somehow trigger a massive explosion.
A honking horn nearly made him wet his pants.
“Move it!” Lawdog demanded. “Thomas wants to know what’s taking so long.”
Mundo dropped the Leatherman to his side. “Dammit, man, you almost made me piss all over myself. Don’t do that again.”
“Get moving!” Lawdog said. “If you don’t hurry up, Thomas is going to be up here breathing down your neck.”
Convinced now that he wasn’t going to die if he cut the string, Mundo raised the Leatherman back up and snipped it, the white envelope dropping neatly into the palm of his outstretched hand. He held it before him in both hands and examined the bold pr
int on the outside. “Take this to your leader,” he read out loud.
Mundo obeyed, jogging double-time back through the convoy, arriving at the passenger side of the truck in which Thomas was riding. He hopped deftly onto the running board and presented the envelope at the window. “Your mail, sir.”
“What the hell is that?” Thomas asked.
Mundo shrugged. “Beats me. It was hanging from the string in the middle of the road. It says it’s for you.” He held it up for Thomas to read.
It only took Thomas a split second to figure out the point of that message. Before he could issue a warning, gunfire erupted from the roof of a nearby building, pounding the cab of the truck Thomas was riding in.
The windshield shattered. Rounds punched holes where they could and pinged off thicker surfaces they couldn’t penetrate. Thomas ducked instinctively, crouching below the dashboard, trying to put the engine between him and the shooters. The effort wasn’t entirely successful. Way too many rounds were finding their way into the cab, buzzing around like angry hornets. The truck lurched and the engine stalled. Thomas glanced toward the driver, ready to tear into him for the rookie move but the driver was dead. He’d caught rounds in the neck and face. His face was shredded and blood soaked his uniform.
Thomas hit the latch on the door and shoved his shoulder against it until it sprang open. He threw his body to the side, half rolling and half falling out the door. It was a substantial drop and he hit hard but had no time to recover. Rounds hit the ground around him. At any moment those flattened projectiles were going to find his flesh and shred him like razor blades. He rolled hard, then scrambled to his feet and flattened himself against the building. Wherever those shooters were, he was out of their immediate line of fire.
His first thought was that it was the Mad Mick but this wasn’t one guy. There were several guns firing. Several more people that would have to pay for this insult. With their primary target – him – no longer visible, the enemy rifles turned their attention on the lead vehicle. Thomas could see Mundo in the bed of the truck, crouched with the other men staring wide-eyed back in his direction. He had good reason to keep his eye on Thomas. He knew he’d screwed up.
Brutal Business: Book Three in the Mad Mick Series Page 28
