Mundo’s calf was killing him. A fragment from the grenade had shredded the side of his calf. It was a nasty, painful wound but not life-threatening. If he could keep it clean and medicated he would survive. Despite that pain he limped on faster.
“Slow down,” Droopy called to him. “We don’t want to get too isolated from the main element.”
“Fuck the main element,” Mundo mumbled.
“What was that?” Droopy asked.
“I said your mama is big as an elephant.”
“The only reason I don’t shoot you is because I want to see the bug-eyed look on your face when I choke you to death.”
“You too fat and slow,” Mundo said, emboldened. “You’ll probably fall over dead before we make it up this hill.”
“You better hope so.”
With this exchange, Mundo realized that Thomas wasn’t the only thing he hated about this organization. He was tired of Droopy too. That hatred charged him a little and he walked even faster. He figured the faster he walked and the more insults he hurled, Droopy would be too tired to do much more than threaten him when they got to the top of this hill. If he could get him far enough away from the main group, he thought they could have some quiet time together and he could kill Droopy. He’d have to get the jump on him, but he’d love to see the expression of surprise on his face.
Mundo turned around to face Droopy, walking backwards up the steep hill. He was getting a second wind. “Hey, Droopy, I ever tell you about all the times I banged your sister?”
66
Conor was chugging like a freight train when he reached the beer truck. Apparently, it had run out of fuel on this section of road and been descended upon by thirsty hillbillies. The refrigerated truck had individual bays, each with a rolling door. Most of them had been pried open and a sea of beer bottles attested to the festivities that ensued. Conor could only imagine the expressions of glee on the men who found this gift from the heavens waiting on them.
He was glad to see the beer truck, although for a different reason. He felt like he had a pretty good lead on the men behind him but they had inexplicably increased their pace a while back. One minute they were a good eighty yards behind him and the next time he checked they’d cut that distance in half. At first he thought it was because the lead man had honed in on him, then he realized that wasn’t the case. The lead man appeared to be walking backwards and was badgering the next man in line.
The elation he felt at finding the beer truck made him want to stop and lay down on the cold ground to catch his breath. This was another of those times where he understood that if he stopped he might not be able to get back up. To his right was an opening in the guardrail and a sign indicating that the road ended in a half mile. Hopefully the road wouldn’t be the only thing ending in a half mile. Hopefully it would be the end of this brutal journey. Hopefully it would be the end of The Bond.
Conor cast a quick glance behind him and saw that the next Bond soldier was probably forty yards behind him. He shot through the gap in the guardrail and trotted a short distance down the steep gravel road. The downhill grade was a pleasant change but his legs felt like rubber and the ghillie suit made running awkward. He was afraid at any moment his legs would fold beneath him and he’d go tumbling down the hill like a heavily-armed tumbleweed.
When the beer truck was nearly out of sight, Conor yanked a length of paracord from his pocket. He tied one end around a bright tactical flashlight. When the first Bond soldier arrived at the beer truck, Conor turned the flashlight on and shined it at the startled man. While the man was temporarily blinded by the flare of light Conor took off down the hill. He dropped the flashlight and let the cord play out to a length of about twenty feet before the light started dragging behind him.
67
The flash of light to the face temporarily disoriented Mundo. It cleared quickly and he saw the flashlight disappearing down the gravel road. It was hard to get a clear picture, the light throwing off the way his night vision registered. He threw his rifle to his shoulder and fired three quick bursts toward the flashlight. He must have missed because it kept moving.
Mundo was preparing to unleash another burst when he was broadsided by what felt like a city bus. The bump helmet he was wearing wasn’t properly adjusted to the size of his head and it went skittering up the road, taking his night vision with it. Mundo felt like a quarterback who’d been sacked even though he’d already thrown the pass. The breath knocked out of him, he rolled onto his back and could make out the hulking shape of Droopy overtop him. “What the hell, man?”
While the climb had exerted Droopy and he didn’t have the wind to mount a response, the vague outlines of his profile showed he had a rifle leveled on Mundo’s face. It appeared he was trying to make a decision at that moment. Depending on which way that decision went, this could be the end of Mundo’s time on Earth.
“He’s getting away,” Mundo croaked.
“You think I give a fuck?” Droopy finally managed to say. “You was talking a lot of shit.”
“What you think Thomas is going to say when he sees you chose kicking my ass over catching the Mad Mick? The guy is carrying a flashlight. You can see him running. You better decide fast, ‘cause Thomas and the rest of them are almost here.”
The ambient light from the multitude of headlamps was making Droopy’s profile more refined. He turned his head to see the approaching group hurrying toward them, their speed increased by Mundo’s shots. Droopy then whipped his head toward the gravel road where the flashlight was quickly disappearing down the road. He made a snap decision.
“Dammit, this ain’t over,” Droopy warned. “You better never turn your back on me again.” With those parting words he bolted for the gravel road, pursuing the Mad Mick down the side road.
Mundo lay there in the dark for a second, his head rattled from hitting the pavement, his ribs aching with each breath. Then he realized he was completely alone. Droopy probably figured he would follow with Thomas’s group. On the other hand, if Thomas didn’t find him, he would assume he’d gone down the gravel road with Droopy. It was his turn for a snap decision. Before Thomas’s group could reach him, he rolled out of sight and took cover behind the beer truck.
A bottle went rolling as he skittered for cover. He shot his hand out to stop it and was elated to find it was full. Unable to stop himself, he muffled the lid with his shirt and twisted it. The heavenly odor of beer reached his nostrils. He tipped the bottle up and drained it in a single, long gulp. The only nice thing about this cold night was that the beer was the perfect drinking temperature.
He groped around, his hand stung by shards of broken glass before he found another undamaged beer. He sucked it down with the same relish. He paused in his drinking when the clatter of footsteps told him Thomas’s group had reached the truck. He prayed they stayed on that side of it. If Thomas found him hiding here with a beer in his hand, he’d shoot him in the head with no hesitation.
“Down there!” Thomas barked. “He’s getting away. Go!” There was the sound of pounding boots as the men shot down the gravel road.
When they’d all left, Mundo sucked down that second beer and reached for another. He was like a man lost in the desert who’d found an oasis and couldn’t stop drinking. Uncertain of how far away the men were, he placed his empty on the ground and found two more full ones. He needed to get away from this spot but he needed his night vision and his rifle first. Both had gone flying when Droopy bowled into him. Once he had his gear, he could grab some more beer and get out of there. He might even have time to get back to their trucks and grab some gear for the road.
He opened one of the beers and took a calming swig. He walked around the front of the truck. It was pitch black and he couldn’t see a thing. Trying to recall his position relative to the truck, he groped around with the toe of his boot, trying to find his lost gear. In the distance he could hear yelling and sporadic gunfire as the men closed in on the Mad Mick.
“T
hat you, Mundo?” came a voice from behind him.
The sound of that voice was like someone dumping ice water down the back of his shirt. He nearly pissed himself. In an instant, he knew what had happened. Thomas had left someone behind in case the Mad Mick doubled back. He should have considered that possibility.
“Who’s that?” Mundo asked.
“It’s Buddha Boy. What the fuck you doing back here?”
“I got blindsided,” Mundo said, not mentioning it was Droopy who had done it. “My ass got knocked out.”
“That a beer in your hand?”
Mundo knew that whoever this was had the advantage of night vision. They could see him but he couldn’t see them. He needed to think fast. “I was thirsty when I regained consciousness. It was all I could find to drink. Want one? There’s plenty.”
“Nah, man,” Buddha Boy said. “You best throw that shit away and get your ass into the fight. Thomas smells that, you’re a dead man. Thomas misses you, you’re a dead man. He don’t like you anyway.”
“Yeah, I get that.” Mundo saw it all slipping away from him. He had his opportunity for escape. He could make this happen. This could be over. It was within his grasp and Buddha Boy was going to ruin it. He couldn’t let that happen.
“Yeah, man, I’ll do it,” Mundo conceded. “My ribs are killing me. Bastard knocked me on my ass.” He pressed his side like he was probing for a damaged rib. As he did, he removed the powerful LED flashlight tucked into his webbing. He’d been afraid to use it to hunt for his gear, concerned the beam would give him away, but now he felt he had no choice. He turned the flashlight toward Buddha Boy’s face and thumbed the switch on the butt cap.
Buddha Boy flinched and made a motion to cover his optic. Mundo knew his eyes would be closed beneath the night vision. He took his beer bottle by the neck, smacked it against the bumper of the overturned truck, and closed the distance. He put a hand behind Buddha Boy’s neck, trapping him, and ground the bottle into his neck. Buddha Boy staggered backward as Mundo released him. One hand yanked the bottle free, unleashing a torrent of blood. Although he tried to staunch the flow with a gloved hand, Mundo knew it was hopeless. Buddha Boy was a dead man.
In the fight, Mundo had dropped his flashlight. He picked it up and searched frantically for his gear. He needed to be done with this and get out of there. He spotted his night vision and replaced the bump helmet on his head. Fortunately, it was still working. He turned the flashlight off and stowed it on his webbing. Able to move freely in the darkness he quickly found his rifle and slung it over his shoulder.
He ran to the edge of the road, checked down into the valley, and saw that the men were in pursuit of their quarry. He should have plenty of time to return to the trucks and get some gear for the road. He felt a little bad about Buddha Boy. He’d never had a beef with the guy and he’d worked hard to keep them all fed. He paused at the body on his way by it.
Buddha Boy was still alive. Mundo couldn’t see his eyes beneath the night vision gear but his fingers were moving as he tried to close the wound.
“I’m sorry, brother,” Mundo said. “You were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Buddha Boy’s hand slipped from his throat. Mundo figured that was it. He’d lost too much blood and was gone. However, he had just enough life to release the retention on his holster and roll the Beretta M9 in Mundo’s direction.
Mundo didn’t notice the motion until a flash of light impaired his night vision, accompanied by a simultaneous searing pain in his inner thigh. He’d been shot. He reeled backward, dropping the two beers pinched between his fingers and the rifle in his other hand. He sat down hard, groping at the wound, trying to determine how bad it was. There was blood everywhere, black in his optic.
“You asshole! Why’d you have to do that?” Mundo screamed, trying to find something to shove into the wound. He traveled light because he didn’t want the weight. He didn’t have his blowout kit, his pack, or even his plates. He cut a quick glance at Buddha Boy to see if he was carrying any gear. Instead he found the M9 canted awkwardly in his direction.
Before he could pitch himself to the side there was another explosion from the weapon. He felt a hard punch to his chest and toppled over backward. There was searing pain and a whistle in his chest as he tried to breathe. He lay there a moment wishing those beers hadn’t broken when he dropped them, then all went dark.
68
Conor charged down the dead-end road, leading his pursuers into the bowl-shaped valley created when the highway was built. He was fairly certain there was at least one man close behind him but they didn’t have a direct line of sight to each other due to the thick woods lining both sides of the curvy road. The guy had taken some shots at him earlier but they’d been separated by the terrain for the last couple of minutes. Nearly at the bottom of the valley, when sucking in a breath, Conor caught the faintest whiff of natural gas and came to a stop.
He hadn’t expected the gas to rise this high. The pumping effort must have been more effective than he’d imagined. He’d hoped it would be odorless if they weren’t pumping the artificial odorant into it. Lonzo said he could shut that off, but it was too late to worry about that, since he had no control over it.
The flicker of flashlights and headlamps in the trees high behind him caught his attention. It meant the main body of Bond troops had topped the hill and were charging in his direction. He couldn’t just stand around in the road.
“Dad, we can see The Bond. They’re headed down into the valley,” Barb confirmed over radio.
“Roger that,” he replied. “I see them.”
Conor’s mind was occupied with how he was going to get himself out of there without alerting The Bond to his trap. He grabbed up the flashlight he was dragging behind him, turned it off, and shoved it into a cargo pocket. He still had his ghillie suit on and would have to hope that was enough to conceal him. He powered into the underbrush alongside the gravel road and started working his way back up, angling away from the road and path of The Bond soldiers.
69
“Do you see him?” Thomas demanded over the radio.
Droopy’s knee was hurting from running downhill and he’d slowed to a limping walk. “I was following his light but I can’t see him now. He’s around a bend or something.”
“Find him!”
Droopy gave a frustrated grunt and shoved his radio back in its pouch. “What the hell you think I’m trying to do?”
At the top of the hill, Thomas wasn’t take any chances. “Go!” he barked, rushing the main body of his men down the road to assist Droopy in his search. They were so close. They had to keep the pressure on him. He pulled two men aside. “One of you circle left, the other right. Watch that he’s not slipping away into the woods. Rejoin the group at the bottom.”
He wasn’t taking any chances. He’d learned his lesson. The Mad Mick wasn’t some townie or some pissed off hillbilly. He was a formidable and dangerous opponent, but he’d pissed on the wrong tree. This ended now.
Thomas cut off his headlamp and studied the terrain through his night vision. It appeared there was no escape from the valley without having to climb back out. When the road was built, engineers had dammed one end of it to raise the elevation of the road, leaving this little pocket of isolated valley with only one way in and out. The Bond had the main route blocked. If the Mad Mick tried leaving by the woods, it would be slow going and produce noise that they could use to track him. He was not getting away.
Elated by his impending success, Thomas raised his face to the night and unleased a wolfish howl that rang through the hills. He would give the Mad Mick a taste of his own medicine. Who’s the predator now? When he was done, he loped down the steep gravel road after his men. They weren’t allowed to have all the fun. He wanted some blood too.
70
When Conor heard that howl he understood exactly what it meant. Who’s the hunted now, Mad Mick? Conor received Thomas’s message loud and clear. Despite the ch
illing nature of that message, it meant the leader of The Bond was involved in the pursuit. He was following his men into Conor’s trap, which was exactly what he wanted, but there was one snag. He himself was in the trap too. He was not where he needed to be for the trap to be sprung.
Barb was constantly chattering in his ear, asking for updates on his position. He didn’t want to speak out loud. He didn’t know who might be out there in the night close enough to hear his voice. He focused on trying to climb as quietly as possible while maintaining a steady speed. Trekking silently was nearly a lost cause with the thick carpet of leaves and twigs underfoot. He could only hope that his enemy was drowning out his noise with their own steps, their chatter, and their labored breathing.
From above him, he spotted the erratic beam of a light bouncing from tree to tree as someone descended directly toward him at a very high speed. There was no time to run and nowhere to go. Had he been spotted?
Conor crouched behind an evergreen holly bush, focusing on total stillness. Whoever was headed in his direction was bounding down the hill, taking long strides to cover ground as fast as possible. That was good for him. They would be more concerned about trip hazards than studying greenery. Just in case, Conor slipped his hand to the grip of his combat knife. The man coming toward him would not have much control due to his speed. He certainly wouldn’t be able to aim and shoot under those conditions.
The man didn’t slow, running within a dozen feet of Conor and not even glancing in his direction. Conor let him pass, breathing a sigh of relief before standing and resuming his climb.
Brutal Business: Book Three in the Mad Mick Series Page 35
