Brutal Business: Book Three in the Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  63

  Barb stuck to the logging roads, staying high on the ridge. She constantly worked her radio, trying to find Wayne and Lonzo. After a little more than an hour of riding, she heard the sound of mechanical equipment running in the distance. She had to be getting close and began to work her radio in earnest.

  “Barb!” Wayne replied over the radio. “I was starting to worry about you guys. Is everyone okay?”

  “We’re okay. Is everything going to be ready?”

  “It should be. Lonzo found the perfect place and everything is working just as expected.”

  “I can hear you guys but I can’t see you,” Barb said. “Can you flash a light or something?”

  Barb focused on the area where the sound appeared to be coming from, though it was confusing the way noise bounced around. Eventually she saw a flash of light in the trees and headed in that direction. In another fifteen minutes, she had joined the men at a fenced enclosure that was much larger than the one where they camped the previous night.

  “What is this place?” she asked.

  “Some kind of pumping station for natural gas,” Wayne answered. “The engine you hear running is a compressor. It runs off the natural gas in the pipeline. That tank you see is the odorant that gives natural gas its sulfur smell. It’s added right here at the compressor station.”

  “But they’ve turned the odorant off, right? Lonzo said that would make it undetectable.”

  “It’s turned off. He said there might be some residual odorant in the gas already standing in the pipeline but that the odor would be faint.”

  “And the location? It’s just right?”

  “Relax,” Wayne said. “Lonzo says it’s perfect. He said the very thing we’re doing is something they used to talk about on the job. You know the way bored employees sit around and talk about worst-case scenarios? Apparently, this was one of them.”

  Barb slid off her horse, tying it and Conor’s to the chain-link fence. She stepped inside the enclosure and found Lonzo along with two other of the pastor’s men, working in the glow of a red headlamp. At her arrival, Lonzo gave her a brief glance then went back to his work. He seemed knowledgeable about the job but uncomfortable with the purpose of it. There were duties that he agreed to perform for the greater good but there were other aspects he refused to have any part of, insisting that someone else would have to be responsible for those. Barb assumed that duty would fall to her or Wayne.

  “We may only have a couple of hours. Dad was poking the bear when I left. He and those men are on foot though. It will take them a little longer to get here.”

  Lonzo studied his watch. He glanced at Barb nervously, then back to his work. “I can only do what I can do.”

  “I have faith in you. My father had faith in you too. Is the gas flowing?”

  “It’s been flowing for hours,” said Lonzo. “Just ain’t sure it’s going to do what you want it to do. Never tried something like that.”

  “We have a plan for that,” Wayne added. “We have people surrounding the valley as a backup. I hope it doesn’t come to that. The odds are a little better now that we’ve killed some of them but we’re significantly outnumbered. Plus they’re trained men fighting against our untrained men.”

  “You guys need to relax,” Barb said. “My dad says it’s good to plan, but don’t waste time fighting the battle in your head before it actually gets here. It won’t change the outcome.”

  “Your dad is a little too comfortable with taking lives,” Lonzo said. “I think worrying about it is a natural reaction.”

  “There are times the world needs men like Conor,” Wayne stated. “This is one of them.”

  64

  Before the grenade detonated, Conor leapt from the bed of the overturned truck onto the sloped pile of coal. The fuse was a short one, the grenade blowing three seconds after he tossed it. In those three seconds, he heard men screaming, running, and even one dumb enough to shoot at him instead of taking cover. When it blew there were screams from the wounded and dying, the sound of men running in all directions. One voice, louder than the others, was barking orders.

  Thomas was still alive.

  Before bolting into the darkness, Conor leaned around one end of the dump truck and sprayed a half-dozen rushed shots into the fray. They weren’t intended to hit anyone as much as to increase the sense of panic. Satisfied with his work, he retreated. As he moved, he scanned in all directions, his point of aim moving as he turned. He wanted them to pursue him but he was ready to drop anyone who got too close. Even over the chaos he heard the distinctive ratcheting sound of the charging handle on an M60.

  Conor didn’t hear anyone shouting orders to the gunner. Perhaps it was even Thomas himself who had leapt behind the weapon to chase Conor into the night. Either way, only seconds passed between his escape and the deafening rattle of 7.62 caliber slugs bouncing off the heavy dump bed and frame of the truck. Conor was already on the run, headed for his next position at the top of a rise along the road.

  He paused there to fire a burst before ducking and sprinting away. He was performing now. This wasn’t intended to be effective fire, merely to draw The Bond’s attention and lure them in his direction. It had that effect. Conor could hear shouting as Thomas attempted to rally his troops. It took a significant effort since they were firing blindly in all directions, lost to the fear of this unseen enemy.

  Thomas had never led men into combat outside of his role within The Bond. His understanding of battle tactics was a combination of the things he learned on the streets and what he learned under the command of other men in the military. This was like nothing he’d experienced before, like nothing any of them had trained for. Thomas was shoving men toward the fray, beating them on the back and urging them forward. When that failed, he made threats.

  Part of the problem was not all of his men had night vision. The Bond had only procured around a dozen sets to begin with and they’d lost and broken a few along the way. Some of the men rushing out into the fight were wearing regular headlamps which not only made them targets but interfered with the effectiveness of the night vision gear.

  While Thomas had managed to push nearly half his men into pursuit, it had required a monumental effort. When he finally found Mundo at the rear of the convoy, the man received the full brunt of his wrath. Thomas grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the bed of one of the disabled trucks.

  “You are my fucking lieutenant! You get out there and help find that bastard!” The glow of his red headlamp hit Mundo directly in the face and Thomas could see terror.

  “You can’t fight a man you can’t see,” Mundo said. “This is a suicide mission. We go out there after that guy and he’s going to kill every one of us. We been walking into a trap this whole time and you never saw it. I knew it. Lawdog saw it and you killed him.”

  That statement inflamed Thomas and he drew his pistol, shoving it against the side of Mundo’s temple. “You got two choices. You can die here or take your chances out there.”

  Mundo made his decision. He gritted his teeth. “I’ll go, T.”

  Thomas lowered his gun and Mundo limped away before Thomas could change his mind. He had taken some shrapnel from the grenade. His unhurried pace angered Thomas. The pistol already in his hand, he raised it and fired a round, pinging it off the ground near Mundo’s feet.

  “Move faster!” Thomas’s voice was like the throaty growl of a chained Rottweiler. Mundo obliged, stepping up his pace to a jog. Only when Thomas was certain that he had all of his troops in pursuit did he fall in behind them. He wanted a piece of the Mad Mick too.

  They moved up the road like a unit on patrol. Thomas made an effort to organize them into what he hoped would be a more effective formation. He got his men with night vision gear out in front as scouts. The main body of his force was moving along under the light of their headlamps, though he’d finally managed to get everyone to switch to the red LED to preserve their night sight.

 
Well ahead of the pack, Conor had no intention of this turning into a foot race. He was too old for that. He was tired and he’d already soaked his clothes with sweat charging up and down the hills like a bloody mountain goat. He had no confidence in his ability to outrun these men if it came to that. Staying a comfortable pace ahead of them was dependent on him keeping them scared. Fear would slow them, make them hesitate.

  Conor hoped to keep them together. The last thing he wanted to do was scatter the force or send them fleeing backwards. He decided he needed to get behind them so he could push them. Conor dropped a hand to his plate carrier and took stock of his grenades. He had one fragmentation grenade and two smokes left.

  Certain that less than a minute separated him from the lead element of the Bond, Conor hastily taped a smoke grenade to the guardrail and ran a tripwire with Kevlar cord. His hope was that the Kevlar cord would be less visible in night vision or with headlamps than the fishing line he normally used. With his tripwire rigged, Conor hopped the guardrail and flattened himself against the embankment. He again installed the suppressor on his Glock. He checked the magazine and found that it was still loaded with the subsonics from when he’d stolen the tanker. From his Go Bag, he retrieved the thermal optic.

  He peered through the weeds below the guardrail. He didn’t move a muscle and his ghillie suit helped obscure him from the sight of The Bond’s lead element. He counted a half dozen men, weapons ready, moving along with night vision. They really needed to work on their stalking game. Even if he hadn’t been watching for them they gave themselves away with the scuff of their boots, the creak of their webbing, and the rattle of their gear. They were as loud as a herd of cattle.

  Conor didn’t move, barely breathing as the men neared him. They passed directly in front of him, giving no indication that they spotted the Kevlar tripwire. One of them noticed the pressure of the tripwire hitting his leg but it was too late. The hiss of the smoke grenade startled them, sounding like an angry snake. The grenade was on the guardrail opposite his position and it drew the team’s attention in that direction. Smoke poured, enveloping the men before they could even decide what to do. They were scared to proceed into the unknown but equally terrified to retreat. That meant answering to Thomas.

  Conor flipped his night vision out of the way and watched through the thermal. Smoke impairing the team’s vision but did not affect Conor’s at all. Through the thermal scope he could clearly see the men moving about as they spoke to each other, trying to determine a course of action. Conor decided he would help them along. He couldn’t attach this optic to his pistol but he could hold it in front of his eyes and instinctively point his weapon at the men. That was exactly what he did, rapidly popping off rounds at the men standing less than thirty feet from him.

  Those who were hit cried out in pain, startling the other men standing around blindly, trying to figure out what to do. They were afraid to return fire, afraid they’d hit one of their own since they couldn’t see. Conor dropped four of the six and the remaining two scattered. They ran in the same direction and he chased them with rounds, catching one in the lower back and the other in the calf before his slide locked open.

  The man with the calf wound took off his night vision, dropping it to the ground. He tugged a flashlight from his pocket and played it around frantically in the darkness and smoke. Men were dying around him and he didn’t want to be one of them.

  “Thomas!” he barked. “I need help!”

  Through his thermal, Conor could see the man limping around awkwardly, holding his rifle with one hand as he played the light about uselessly. Conor shoved the suppressed pistol through his battle belt. He had more subsonic rounds in his Go Bag and regular rounds in his mag pouches but he didn’t need a gun for this. The man turned slowly in the darkness, trying to watch all directions at once.

  Zeroing in on him, Conor slipped his thermal scope into his dump pouch and eased forward. His hand shot out of the darkness and twisted the rifle barrel skyward. The injured man pulled the trigger and a three round burst sprayed into the air. Trying to wrench the gun from Conor, he dropped his flashlight, the beam playing across the leering face of the Mad Mick. It caught the flash of a knife blade as Conor swung, plunging it into the man’s neck, and ripping it out the front of his throat. Conor sheathed his knife and bolted from the cloud of smoke.

  Once clear, he dropped his night vision back down and sprinted into the darkness. He could hear the main body of Bond troops behind him. They’d encountered the fading wall of smoke and knew it carried bad tidings.

  “It’s thinning out,” Thomas said. “Keep moving. I heard something.”

  Hearing The Bond leader giving orders Conor wondered why his terrified men didn’t put a round in his head. It was a testament to the hold that he had on his team. Even when they outnumbered him to the same degree they outnumbered Conor they couldn’t say no to him.

  At the next bend in the road, Conor paused and checked his six. Through his night vision he could see the demoralized Bond soldiers examining his handiwork. The man who must have been Thomas retrieved all the night vision gear. He took a set for himself and handed out what remained. Two devices had been broken when the men had fallen onto the asphalt.

  “Sucks for you,” Conor muttered.

  There was a crackle in his earpiece and the familiar voice of his daughter. “Dad, where are you? Have you hit the steep section of road yet? Lonzo says you need to be looking for a wrecked beer truck.”

  Conor was winded from his sprint to safety. He learned over the years it was hard to whisper when you couldn’t breathe. He gave himself a moment to recover before responding to her. “I’ve started up the hill but haven’t seen a beer truck yet.”

  “Lonzo says there’s a wrecked beer truck halfway up that hill. When you reach the beer truck you need to get those men to follow you off on the secondary road to the right. It will take you downhill into a bowl-shaped valley that was created when they built the four-lane highway. There’s an old gas station and abandoned restaurant down there that closed when the highway went through. You need to lead everyone down there and then get out. It’s a dead end.”

  “Roger that,” Conor gasped.

  Not being one to linger over initiating action, Conor stepped out into the center of the road. He raised his rifle and fired off three quick rounds into the air. “This is your last chance,” Conor bellowed. “Turn around now.”

  He didn’t wait for a response. He sprang to safety behind the bend in the road as the Bond soldiers dropped to their knees and opened fire in his direction. They didn’t even wait for Thomas’s command. Dozens of rounds simultaneously ricocheted from the stone face of the road cut. Conor wouldn’t wait around for them to get a better firing position. He was already jogging up the road, firing random shots to leave a trail of breadcrumbs for them. He didn’t want them to lose their motivation. They needed to think they were closing in.

  “Beer truck better be close,” Conor groaned. “I feel like I’ve run the Boston Marathon tonight.”

  65

  Thomas was furious that his men had let themselves be ambushed. He stalked around the dead and injured, tearing their bump helmets off and redistributing the night vision gear. He tossed off the black toboggan he was wearing and strapped a set onto his own head.

  “We didn’t see him, Thomas!” one of the men cried. He was writhing around on the ground trying to staunch the flow of blood from his side. Knowing how Thomas dealt with the injured, he wanted to make himself battle-ready.

  Thomas didn’t respond. Every minute they wasted there was another minute that bastard got ahead of them. This ended tonight. He’d already decided it was going to end. If they captured the Mad Mick alive, he was going to drag him behind the vehicle until he was dead. Once he was dead, they would continue dragging him behind the vehicle as a reminder to people everywhere they went. That was what happened when you messed with The Bond.

  Taking measure of the size of his dwindling forc
e, he understood that he had to beef up their ranks. They’d probably lost half their men tonight and a fifty man force was nowhere near as intimidating as a hundred man force. As a matter of fact, he’d go ahead and set a target for two hundred and fifty men. There would be no stopping them then. There would be no chance of another freak incident like this, a lone crazy man impeding their progress.

  “Let’s go,” Thomas ordered. He tossed one of the bump helmets with the night vision to Mundo. “Put that on.”

  Mundo did as he was told, knowing that in his current state of mind, Thomas would shoot him for the slightest infraction. He too had been thinking about the future of The Bond and had come to his own conclusion – he was done with them. To hell with all the rules. To hell with Thomas. To hell with not being allowed to drink. To hell with his mission, and to hell with the Mad Mick. He was done with all of them. As soon as he had the opportunity he was jumping off this crazy train.

  “Where you want me, T?” Mundo asked.

  “You take point.”

  Mundo limped off, aware that he was being punished for what he’d said to Thomas earlier. Thomas was probably hoping he’d get killed. He halfway expected Thomas to put a bullet in him but he wouldn’t have given him night vision if he was going to kill him. He’d wait until he took it off first so there was no risk of breaking it.

  Staggering off into the darkness, his rifle raised, scanning nervously, Mundo heard Thomas giving more orders behind him. The men with night vision were being ordered to follow him. Mundo risked a quick glance backward. He wanted to put some distance between him and the main body of men, particularly between him and Thomas. That way if an opportunity presented itself, he could take it.

  He was probably fifty feet ahead of the next man behind him, which he noticed happened to be Droopy. A short distance behind Droopy was another man wearing night vision. It may have been Shootah but he couldn’t tell. Mundo noticed with some aggravation that Thomas, who had insisted on taking a pair of night vision, had flipped them up out of the way and was traveling with the main force of men. He was no dummy.