Northern Sun: Book Four in The Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  Any thoughts Doc Marty had on the matter were pushed back. He knew this had to be a tough call for the protective father. “Roger that, Conor. What do you need me to do?”

  “Well, obviously we can’t go broadcasting this information on the radio. I need you to be discreet. I want you to get a message to her that I called back with an opportunity for her. She needs to be there at the compound at first light, packed and operational. Tell her you can’t answer any questions until she gets there. Can you do that?”

  “I’ll have her here if I have to go find her myself,” Doc Marty replied. “So same for me? Be ready at first light?”

  “Affirmative. Full loadout including your medic gear and twelve hundred rounds. Don’t worry about food. Ricardo has that covered.”

  “What’s the climate like?”

  “What you’re wearing on patrol there should be sufficient. Temps should be similar.”

  “When should I tell the kids we’ll be back?”

  “A week at the most,” Conor said. “I’ve already given Ragus a heads-up.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  36

  Doc Marty wasted no time when he got off the phone with Conor. He replaced the SAT phone on the charger and immediately tried to raise Barb on the radio. It was always a hit or miss proposition, depending on the terrain she was in.

  “Hey, what’s up? You guys miss me already?”

  The comment was not as much of a joke as it might have been a few weeks earlier. Relations between Barb, Shannon, and Doc Marty had improved over time. Barb getting out on her own had contributed significantly.

  “We do miss you. You should have stayed for dinner.”

  “What’s on the menu?”

  “Goat gyros.”

  Barb made retching sounds into the radio. “I hate goat. The babies are cute but the adults are bastards. I agree they should be killed but I’m not fond of the meat.”

  “Your loss. They smell delicious,” Doc teased. “Are you busy?”

  “Just got in from patrol. I’m settling my horse in for the night.”

  “Listen, I talked to your dad a few minutes ago. Don’t worry. He’s okay but he says this job has turned into something bigger.”

  “Did he say what that meant?”

  “He did. It’s nothing I can discuss on the radio, but I can tell you in person.”

  “Not sure when I’ll be back that way, Doc. I was just there today. I planned on patrolling toward the firehouse tomorrow.”

  “There’s more, Barb. Conor said there was an opportunity for you but you need to be back here in full loadout at sunup tomorrow.”

  “Let me guess, more stuff you can’t discuss on the radio?”

  “That’s affirmative,” Doc said. “But if you’ll take my word on it, this is something you’ll want to be part of. I think it’s work you’re perfectly suited for.”

  “I guess I have no choice other than to take your word for it at this point, do I?”

  “Afraid not, Barb, but I’ll fill you in as soon as I see you. When should we expect you?”

  “The Jacks family has already fixed dinner and they’re expecting me. I think I’ll have dinner with them, pack my gear tonight, and get an early start in the morning.”

  “Sounds good. Don’t worry about food. Conor said that would be provided. He did request a specific ammo loadout but you can pick that up here tomorrow. No need to haul it back and forth.”

  “Got it,” Barb replied. “I’ll be there.”

  They signed off and Doc Marty returned to the kitchen. Shannon and Ragus had finished dinner and everything was laid out, ready to eat. One look at Shannon’s face told Doc that Ragus had already warned her something was up. Her expression was concern mixed with curiosity.

  “What did he tell you, Ragus?”

  “He wanted to know if I was comfortable watching the compound by myself. He said it could be as long as a week. I told him I was fine with it, that I’ve looked after things by myself plenty of times.”

  “Does this mean you’re going somewhere?” Shannon asked.

  Doc Marty nodded. “You can’t repeat this to anyone.”

  Shannon smiled as if the comment were ridiculous. She gestured around her. “Who do I ever see, Dad?”

  “No, I’m serious, Shannon. What I tell you can never be spoken of to anyone outside of this house. Sometimes the things we do could have repercussions a long way down the road if word got out. This is extremely sensitive information.”

  Shannon’s face reflected the seriousness of her father’s words. Her smile was gone. “I understand.”

  “I don’t know what kind of assignment Conor is on but somehow they uncovered part of the terror network that launched the attacks that caused all this. There’s an opportunity to act on that intel but it has to happen fast and they’re short on manpower.”

  The concern in Shannon’s eyes turned to fear. At the same time, she understood that both of them had changed since coming to live at Conor’s compound. They were both more aware of their capabilities. They’d both killed and become better at it. “That sounds dangerous, Dad. Are you sure you’re up for it?”

  Doc Marty nodded. “This is my job. This is what I do.”

  “Dad, you’re a dentist.”

  “No, Shannon. I’m a patriot and I’m a warrior. I went to dental school but it’s just a cover. Fighting terrorists is what I do. Sometimes I’ve been undercover for years with nothing to show for it. Now I have a chance to make a real difference.”

  Shannon started filling her plate. “I get it. I’ll be worried about you, but I understand. This is a side of you I don’t know a lot about, but I’m learning. I’m more used to the dentist side, not the dangerous side.”

  “I love you, sweetie. You’ve matured a lot in the last year. You’ve grown up.” He went to his daughter and hugged her.

  Ragus shuffled uncomfortably behind them, uncertain of what to do. “Look, I love you guys but dinner isn’t going to stay warm forever.”

  Shannon wiped a tear from her eye, let go of her dad, and punched Ragus in the arm.

  “Ouch!”

  She wagged a finger at him. “That’s for being a bonehead.”

  Ragus rubbed his arm. “I’d take that any day over Barb putting me in a submission hold.”

  “I guess Barb and I will be talking then,” Shannon teased. “Any favorites?”

  Ragus looked wary. “No, only least favorites and I’m not sharing those.”

  Doc Marty gestured toward the kitchen island with its spread of gyro ingredients. “Go for it, Ragus. Let’s eat. I’ve got gear to pack and I’ll need to turn in early.”

  37

  In a rustic fish camp in Missouri, ten terrorists loaded rifles and backpacks into canoes. The sun had already dipped below the horizon. It had been a warm day but the temperature was dropping already. The night would bring frost.

  Wisps of smoke hung on the water from local residents trying to use their mostly decorative fireplaces to heat their lakefront homes. Most of the inefficient dwellings with their high ceilings and expansive glass walls were not designed for this. The older homes, mid-century ranches with low ceilings, tiny windows, and pine paneling were different. A woodstove or fireplace would have a fighting chance in a home like that. As was often the case, the less ostentatious stood a better chance of survival.

  Canoeing had not been a popular form of recreation in the region these men had come from. They were far from comfortable in the tippy crafts but had become more adept through practice and nightly forays into the surrounding communities. The region was packed with resorts, campgrounds, waterfront communities, and luxury housing developments. Connecting it all, the lake was a superhighway providing a means of travel even without fuel. A canoe, a rowboat, or a sailboat could all cover reasonable distances on the long, narrow lake.

  During the daylight hours, a smaller group of men set out on fishing expeditions in canoes and kayaks. Their true mission was to scout the
area for promising targets—occupied homes offering enough privacy to conceal an attack. The scouting groups returned to camp each afternoon bringing information and, if they were lucky, fish. They’d share what they’d spotted with the other men and develop a plan for their next strike.

  While their primary motivation was always to spread terror and kill Americans, they wanted to make it look like looting or robbery, so they stole anything they could use back at their camp. They preferred to put some distance between their camp and their targets, hopefully minimizing the possibility of the attacks being tracked back to them. After all, it was a big lake with thousands of homes.

  Their host was Kamil, a Saudi who’d operated a fleet of food trucks for two decades, and he’d turned out to be an excellent resource. Prior to the disaster, he’d both printed and purchased a collection of detailed maps of the region. He had road maps, satellite photos, and even topographic maps purchased from a US government website. Despite the Syrians’ initial suspicion of the Saudi, he’d proven to be a solid addition to their team and they worked together like a well-oiled machine.

  As all of the hosts had been instructed to do, Kamil had laid in a stock of weapons for phase two of the attack. The price of AR-15 rifles had dropped so significantly that Kamil had opted to buy them instead of the more familiar AK-47s. He was often able to buy two or three AR-15s for the price of one AK, so that’s what he did, stockpiling nearly twenty of them. He also bought a selection of scoped hunting rifles, tactical shotguns, and a wide selection of police trade-in Glocks in several calibers.

  At the time he bought the weapons, Kamil was unsure if the initial terror attacks on the country would be successful or not. There was no guarantee they’d even reach phase two, but that wasn’t his concern. His role was to be ready and have his supplies in place. He reasoned that he’d buy all the weapons he could buy and simply resell them if the attacks failed to progress.

  He also bought a selection of suppressor kits at a gun show. He’d always understood suppressors to be illegal without a lengthy paperwork process, but at a gun show he found there was an exception. There were inexpensive devices called solvent traps that were widely available. They were essentially suppressors without all the necessary holes drilled. Once the holes were drilled, they became very effective suppressors.

  Before the first wave of attacks, Kamil built one in his garage to learn the process and to make sure he had all the tools required to make the kits functional. It was surprisingly easy. He just had to make sure he wasn’t ever caught with an illegally-converted kit or he’d face a stiff jail sentence. Of course, after the collapse, it wouldn’t matter what he or his guests were caught with.

  Generally, men like the terrorists staying on Kamil’s property wouldn’t be concerned about the sound of gunfire, but Kamil knew it would travel long distances on the water. It would give his shooters away. He didn’t want to disturb the herd. That would keep them more vulnerable to attack. It would make them easier to murder in their sleep.

  Earlier that day, Kamil nodded when the fishing crew pointed out the location they’d scouted on one of his maps. He estimated it to be about three miles away. “That’s a good spot. It’s a gated community with a large dock. They have a pool and clubhouse, but the houses aren’t sitting on top of each other. They’re spread out for privacy.”

  Noting that the men around the dinner table stared at him blankly, he clarified. “Those are rich men in big houses. Good targets. Easy to kill.”

  The men nodded and smiled at that. Even with their basic English, they understood those terms.

  The ten men departing the closed resort that night didn’t have nightvision, thermal gear, or any fancy optics. They relied on moonlight and simple flashlights with red LEDs. They were led by a Syrian named Bushra, who’d become a soldier while still a boy. Bushra had no close family and had never married. He didn’t know how old he was but felt he was beyond the point of starting a family now. As he’d gone from child to soldier, he would go from soldier to death. There was no stop along the way for anything else. His life’s path had been determined.

  They were the only men on the cold lake that night. After paddling the winding shoreline for nearly two hours, the lead canoe slowed and waited for the other boats to near them. As they pulled alongside each other, the nervous men latched onto the gunnels of the other canoes, holding them together in an awkward flotilla.

  “To the right,” Bushra said in a low voice. “Look.”

  Men turned in their canoes, doing their best to keep the noise down. They still weren’t comfortable on the water and their movements were awkward. In the distance, each man could see the tiny red chemlight dangling beneath a broad, floating dock. It was the marker left for them by the fisherman earlier in the day. This was the location they’d scouted.

  Their target.

  When he was certain everyone had seen the marker, Bushra returned to his native language to find the words he needed. “Adad said that we should go left of the dock. There is a private boathouse and the boat is hoisted up in the air. We can leave our canoes in there while we conduct our operation. Be careful though. Every noise you make on the water will carry a long way.”

  The men shoved their boats apart and quietly paddled in the direction of the boathouse. Distances were deceiving on the water. Their only landmarks were the sliver of moonlight, the shadows along the lakeshore, and the tiny chemlight hanging in the distance. It was farther than they thought, but in less than ten minutes they were carefully slipping through the open door of the boathouse.

  With the enclosed structure sheltering their activity from prying eyes, Bushra clicked his light on and the red beam provided them with sufficient illumination to unload their boats. Having come up with a system during their nightly forays, the man in the bow exited first while the man in the stern steadied the craft. The one who exited was then responsible for pulling the gear onto the dock. Finally, the man in the rear climbed out while his partner did his best to hold the boat steady for him.

  With the help of his comrades, a scrawny man named Sharif monkeyed up into the powerful speedboat hanging from the boat lift. With the aid of a red-lensed flashlight, he riffled through the various compartments until he found a sheaf of papers in a waterproof sleeve. He handed them over the side to Bushra.

  “William?” Bushra asked, showing the papers to Rihad, who was also able to read limited English.

  Rihad traced the word with his finger. “William,” he confirmed with a nod.

  The men checked their weapons and stepped out of the boathouse. Despite the cool night, Bushra was sweating, both from the exertion of the paddle and from his taut nerves. They could make out a long set of stairs twisting its way up a steep bank to a dark home set back in the trees. The wood of the stair rail appeared silver in the pale moonlight.

  “Let’s go,” he whispered, starting to climb.

  They moved silently, rifles held tight to keep them from banging against the wooden handrail. They kept a space between them so as not to tangle their feet in the darkness. At this point, stealth was more important than speed. When they next traveled these steps, their work done, the priorities would be reversed.

  When they reached the level of the home, they passed through a gate. Operating the lock required Bushra to use the shielded beam of his light again to figure out the mechanism. When they were all through the gate, Bushra began the careful move around the house to the front door.

  They followed a sidewalk, then climbed expensive cast limestone steps, their shoes barely scraping against the smooth stone. A tall door stood before them, long panels of leaded glass to each side. They stacked up in two lines and Bushra took a deep breath before banging his fist firmly against the door.

  Using his best American accent, he called out. “William! William! Are you in there? There’s a fire! Fire!” He had to repeat his message a second time before heavy footsteps approached the door at a trot.

  Concerned his home was on fire
, William Coleman frantically unbolted the door and pulled it open. Bushra was waiting on him, the butt of his rifle drawn back. As soon as the door was out of the way, Sharif blinded William with a powerful strobing flashlight beam to the face. William squinted and attempted to throw a hand over his eyes but he wasn’t fast enough. Bushra slammed the butt of his rifle toward the center of William’s face. There was a wet snap as the man’s nose broke and he stumbled backward with a cry.

  Rihad lit a flashlight and a wash of light caught the unfolding action. Bushra chased his target to ground, pinning his weapon across the man’s neck with both hands, and hissing in his face. “How many in this house?”

  William didn’t answer, choosing instead to use his last breath to shout a warning to his family. “Run!”

  “Bastard,” Bushra grunted, whipping a razor-sharp hunting knife from his belt and slicing William’s throat.

  The rest of Bushra’s team didn’t wait on his order. More lights sprang to life. Targeting lasers were illuminated, their powerful beams cutting through the dark house. Men rushed in all directions. Frantic screams came from upstairs as a woman attempted to herd her children into a single room.

  There was not enough time. Bounding the steps two at a time, the men were nearly upon her. Sharif reached the top of the stairs in time to see a door slamming at the end of the hallway. His blood hot from the battle, he didn’t give his enemy time to find a weapon or call out the window for help. He charged the door and threw all of his body weight into it.

  The door splintered and the lock shattered, metal pieces bouncing and rolling across hardwood floors. The room was dark except for the unsettling effect of Sharif’s bobbing weapon light. His momentum carried him deep into the room. Screams split the night as he fought to bring his weapon to bear.

  “Move!” came a cry from the door.