Northern Sun: Book Four in The Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  Eyes on the water, the drone controller responded. Ten hostiles confirmed.

  Conor dropped his optic back in place and got on the spotting scope again. The figure walking the path from the dock back to the camp was identifiable now. It was Kamil Farouq, heading for a large cabin close to the entrance to the resort. It was different than the others, perhaps designed for a year-round caretaker or the owner. It had landscaping, better windows, and smoke chugged from a block chimney built against the gable wall.

  Conor sat up and packed the spotting scope. “I’ve had enough watching. I can’t sit here a second longer.”

  “Did we give the assaulters time to get far enough away?”

  “They will be by the time I make any noise.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  Conor stood and slung his pack on his back. “I take out Kamil first since he’s the high-value target. It works out nicely that his cabin is also the closest to the road. When I’ve got him under wraps, you’re going to guard him. The second target is the young man in the restaurant. He must be the flunky of the bunch because they’ve got him washing dishes and serving food. People like that hear a lot, though, so I want to take him prisoner too. I’ll bring him to Kamil’s cabin when he’s secured. Then I deal with the rest of the folks. If they play nicely, they live. If they resist, I punch holes.”

  “That’s over a dozen men, Conor. You sure I shouldn’t play a more active role here? I’m a little more capable than you make me out to be. Surely you’ve seen that by now, right?”

  “You are capable, but Kamil is too important to leave unguarded. He might have a few tricks up his sleeve. Someone might find him and let him go. We can’t chance any of that. I need him wrapped up and secure. While you’re watching him, go through this cabin. Collect anything that might have intelligence value.”

  “Acknowledged,” Doc Marty replied. “I’ll do my part.”

  48

  Conor dropped onto the paved surface of the road and took careful steps as he crossed to the Bass Springs Resort. At the edge of the road, it transitioned to gravel and he had to be even more careful. The crunch of gravel traveled long distances in the silence. It was a cold night and in theory, these men would have their windows closed but not if their cabins were overheated by the fires. It wasn’t unusual to have to crack a window to regulate the temperature in a home with wood heat. He needed to treat this place as if it was summer and every window in the camp was open.

  He focused on Kamil’s cabin. There was a lantern glowing inside but tacky fishing lure curtains covered each window. Conor glanced behind him and saw Doc Marty exactly where he was supposed to be, about twenty feet back, following in Conor’s steps. He paused behind a tree and listened. There was the clang of submerged cooking pots from the restaurant as the dishwasher went about his work. From somewhere in the camp, a battery-powered CD player was playing Moroccan music.

  Conor stepped from behind the tree and made a final glance around the camp. There was no one moving around outside. It was time. He closed on Kamil’s cabin, folding his nightvision up and out of the way. He reached for a special pouch on his web gear and extracted a heavy brass knuckle duster, slipping it over the gloved fingers of his right hand.

  He held the barrel of his suppressed rifle in his left to keep it from banging against the railing as he climbed onto Kamil’s porch. He made no effort to be stealthy at this point. Surely the older man got visits from the other men at night, perhaps seeking counsel, or simply wanting to talk because they were homesick. Conor knocked on the windowless door, doing his best to make it not sound too aggressive. It was the knock of a younger man wanting to speak to Kamil but at the same time wanting to be respectful.

  When an inquisitive response came in Arabic, Conor froze for a moment. He had to assume Kamil was asking who it was. Conor didn’t know Arabic and didn’t even know the names of any of the men that he could use. He responded in the only way be could, mumbling some gibberish in a low voice that he thought sounded like Arabic.

  It must have been enough because he heard the approach of footsteps. Conor drew his fist back. When Kamil pulled the door open, Conor fired off a right to Kamil’s forehead. The Saudi’s eyes crossed and he stumbled backward, falling over a wooden desk chair. By the time Kamil hit the floor, Conor was on him, the barrel of his suppressed rifle pressed against the man’s throat. Kamil’s eyes rolled in his head, unable to focus on the man who’d attacked him.

  Conor snapped his head around when someone followed him into the cabin, confirming it was Doc Marty. Doc propped his rifle against a bookcase and dropped to his knees. He carried two flex-cuffs in his teeth, using one set to secure Kamil’s wrists, the other to secure his ankles. Conor handed Doc a roll of duct tape and he made two wraps around Kamil’s head, covering his mouth, then his eyes.

  While Doc Marty taped the man’s eyes, he saw the bloody dent in the skin of Kamil’s forehead. “That’s going to leave a mark.”

  “He’ll be fine,” Conor growled. “You got this?”

  “Got it. Be careful.”

  Conor slipped the brass knuckles back into their pouch and paused at the door, listening. When he heard nothing of concern, he cracked the door, placed his ear to it, and listened again. Nothing but the lapping of waves on the shore and the low sound of music in one of the cabins. Conor slipped out into the night.

  He paused at the base of Kamil’s steps to drop his nightvision back into place. He scanned his surroundings and saw nothing that caught his eye. Everyone was inside enjoying the warmth of their cabins. Still hearing the sounds of dishwashing coming from the kitchen, Conor slipped around to the locked front door of the restaurant. He folded his nightvision up and extracted a miniature flashlight with a red LED. He carefully propped his rifle against the wall and found the set of lockpicks in his gear.

  He was pleased to see that the lock was an old residential-quality Kwikset with the polished brass nearly worn from it. The well-worn five-pin lock was among the easiest to open. With a rake pick and a tension wrench, the lock was no challenge at all. Simply dragging the pick along the keyway with the correct pressure had all the pins sheared in less than thirty seconds. He extracted the rake, twisted the tension wrench, and the door was unlocked.

  Conor opened it carefully in case the old hinges protested and moved into the dark entry at high ready. Ambient light from the kitchen filtered into the dining room. The floor was dark wooden planks and, with each step, Conor waited for them to betray his presence. He stayed as close to the walls as he could, knowing that typically a floor sagged more in the center of the room and it was those sags, that motion of wood against wood, that created the squeak.

  The dishwasher was singing to himself. At the pass-through to the kitchen, where cooks slid steaming plates to waitresses, Conor took a quick glance and saw the dishwasher with his back to him. Conor smiled when he spotted a white wire tracing its way to each ear and a glossy earbud embedded in the man’s ear canal. Holding his breath, Conor could hear the faint din of the music the young man was listening to.

  Conor stepped to the kitchen door and gauged the distance between him and the dishwasher. It was maybe twelve feet. He noted there was no window in front of the dishwasher to show his reflection. Conor propped his rifle against an empty ice machine and closed on the dishwasher. In a fast, fluid movement he wrapped the man in a rear naked choke.

  As expected, the dishwasher grabbed at Conor’s arms and shoved backward against him. Conor took him to the ground, landing on his side. He quickly righted himself, rolling onto his back, the dishwasher held tightly against his chest. Conor wrapped his legs around the man, locking his ankles together over his groin. His hold secure, Conor applied more pressure and soon felt the dishwasher losing ground. He was not fighting back nearly as hard. A few seconds later, the hand flailing at Conor’s forearm went limp. Conor kept him locked-in a moment longer to make sure he wasn’t faking.

  When he was certain the fight was gone, Cono
r released him. Gasping a bit from the exertion of the struggle, he rolled the dishwasher onto his stomach and flex-cuffed him. The duct tape they’d used on Kamil was attached to the molle webbing on his vest with a carabiner. He extracted a long strip and covered the man’s mouth.

  Conor scrambled up from the dirty floor and killed the lantern before retrieving his rifle. He stood in the dark doorway and surveyed the camp again. No one appeared to have heard a thing. He raised his radio.

  “Doc, I’m bringing you a new friend.”

  “Roger that.”

  Conor dunked a pot into the lukewarm dishwater and dumped the contents over his prisoner’s head. That and a few nudges with the toe of his boot roused the dishwasher to consciousness. Conor hooked an arm beneath his bicep and pulled him to his feet. The dishwasher staggered but stayed upright.

  “We’re going to Kamil’s cabin,” Conor hissed in his ear. “If you cause any trouble, I’ll kill you.”

  When there was no response, Conor tugged him toward the kitchen door and out into the night. The man staggered, still not hitting on all cylinders, but Conor kept him moving in the right direction. At Kamil’s steps, he tripped and fell as he tried to negotiate them in the dark. Conor didn’t waste time fighting with him. He opened Kamil’s door and dragged the dishwasher inside, dumping him at Doc’s feet.

  “Bind his legs,” Conor said. “I choked him out but he should be fine.”

  Doc set to work binding the dishwasher’s legs with a set of flex-cuffs. By the time he looked up, Conor was gone again.

  49

  Conor slipped out of Kamil’s cabin and was making his way to the next when someone opened a door down the line. The sudden increase in the volume of music told him which cabin it was. He took three quick steps and put a tree between him and the man who’d exited the cabin. Fortunately, he wasn’t carrying a light, going wherever he was going by familiarity and memory. Conor tracked him to where he stepped into a small building. Conor’s optic kept him from seeing the color but the familiar sound of the door and the latch told him it was one of those portable toilets used at job sites. This must be what they were using for bathroom facilities.

  Assuming the man would have gone no further than his porch to urinate, Conor guessed he was settled in for a more serious task. He decided to see if the man had a roommate. He unsheathed his combat tomahawk and held it in his right hand, his rifle hanging across his body. He flipped his optic out of the way, then mounted the steps and yanked the door open like he was a resident of the cabin returning from the restroom.

  The cabin was set up with two beds and the second resident sat by the warm woodstove in a wooden rocker, a blanket pulled across his body. His eyes were closed. At least they were until Conor took the first step toward him, then they opened sleepily. His peaceful expression was gone in a flash after he processed the menacing figuring of Conor Maguire entering his quarters.

  The terrorist shot to his feet and the rapid flicker of his eyes told Conor he was trying to put things together. Who was this man? What did he want? What should he do?

  Conor didn’t give him time to come to a conclusion. He couldn’t take a chance on the man crying out and sounding the alarm. As soon as the groggy man was on his feet and stationary, Conor let the tomahawk fly. The thin, sharp blade punched through his forehead like it was eggshell.

  The terrorist’s eyes went wide, then blank as his brain suffered a massive hardware failure. He began a slow topple backward. Conor rushed for him but wasn’t fast enough. The man fell across the hot woodstove and the room was instantly filled with the odor of scorched clothing, hair, and burning flesh.

  “Jesus,” Conor mumbled, frowning at the odor. He grabbed the guy by the cuff of his pants and dragged him off the stove, then wrenched his ‘hawk free with a sucking sound.

  He was headed for the door, planning to ambush the other occupant outside of the porta-john when he heard the clatter of the plastic door slamming. There was no way Conor was getting out of the cabin without being seen and he only had seconds before the guy was inside. He hurried to the oil lamp and twisted the metal knob, extinguishing the flame. After the room fell dark, Conor dropped his nightvision, positioning himself alongside the door.

  There were loud footsteps, and before the door was fully open, the man returning from the bathroom was already complaining. Conor couldn’t understand the words but he recognized the tone. He was angry that his inconsiderate roommate had not waited for him to return before turning out the lights.

  Conor’s advantage was slim. He could see the other man in the darkness, but the bulky optic threw off his depth perception at this range and made grappling nearly impossible. He had one shot. If it went physical, there was no keeping the noise down. He lashed out with the tomahawk, swinging for the man’s throat.

  The blade glanced off the man’s chin but buried itself in his throat before he could react. The ‘hawk hit the man’s spine with a solid click. Conor wrenched the tomahawk free and blood ran onto the floor like water spilling from a hose. There was a gurgle and choke as his lungs tried to draw air through an intake system that was no longer working as designed. The man’s hands flew to his throat, an involuntary but futile gesture. No amount of pressure was going to stop this bleeding. His vital fluids would pour free until he was dead and dry.

  Conor grabbed the man with his left hand and slung him into the room, taking him down to the floor. Another blow of the ‘hawk, this one to the forehead, put an end to his struggle.

  Conor exited the cabin and stood on the porch. In the cold air, his pants felt damp from the man’s blood. He heard no one moving around. He needed more detainees. The more people they had to question, the more opportunities they had to garner intelligence. It was just so damn hard when he didn’t know what awaited him inside each cabin. Rushing inside and taking two armed men prisoner was never easy. The only thing he had going to his advantage at the moment was the men were totally relaxed. They considered themselves to be off-duty for the day and they weren’t the least bit concerned that someone might try to attack them. Lucky for Conor, but oh so unlucky for them.

  He crept toward the next cabin and listened at the base of the steps. Nothing. The only sound was the CD Conor had left playing in the cabin he’d just visited. He’d started to turn it off, but decided it might help cover any stray noise he produced, like the sounds of struggle and violent death.

  Conor took the wooden steps one at a time, then pressed his ear against the door. He was rewarded with the discordant sound of mismatched snoring. Two men, both asleep. If things went right, one would die and one would be taken prisoner. Random chance would determine which man met which fate.

  He turned the knob and it spun in his hand, unlocked. He tugged gently and the door came open. Inch-by-inch, he swung the door outward, making certain there were no screeching hinges or places where the door dragged. When he had enough of a gap, he slipped inside and pulled the door up behind him. The room was warm from the woodstove and he didn’t want a sudden change in temperature to rouse the sleeping men.

  He scanned the room and found there were two men in two beds, both snoring deeply. Perhaps because he was right-handed and that was his dominant side, Conor went right first. That random trait determined that this man died and his roommate would presumably survive to be taken prisoner.

  Conor took slow, careful steps, drawing his combat knife as he walked. He hovered overtop the sleeping man for just a moment before pressing a gloved hand down onto his mouth. In the eerie glow of his nightvision, Conor saw the man’s eyes pop open. Before he could raise his hands to try and dislodge Conor, his razor-sharp knife raked across the man’s throat. Black blood pumped and ran into his sheets as he struggled. He no longer had the strength with which to fight back. He was weak and dying, only seconds for this world.

  When the man beneath his hand was finally still and dead, Conor listened before moving. The other man still snored, not disturbed in the least by Conor’s activities. C
onor went to him next, sheathing his knife and removing a powerful stun gun from his belt. He pressed a gloved hand across the man’s mouth, then touched the stun gun to his neck. There was a crackle of electricity and the man’s body arched beneath Conor. When he let off the trigger, the man remained rigid.

  Conor flipped him over and flex-cuffed him. He stripped tape off the roll and made two passes around the man’s mouth, then two more around his eyes.

  As the man began to recover his faculties, Conor whispered in his ear, “I killed your friend. If you struggle, if you try to get away, I’ll kill you too. Do you understand?”

  The man attempted to nod, his muscles still not fully cooperating.

  Conor passed a loop of paracord around his neck, tying it off to the hands bound behind the terrorist’s back. “If you try to get away, you’ll pull the knot tight around your neck. I won’t be here to loosen it. You’ll choke to death.”

  The man nodded again, more alert this time.

  Conor tied his feet to the footboard. He hated leaving a man this way, although it wasn’t out of any humanitarian leanings. One just never knew what kind of goodies someone might have hidden on their bodies. Most of these terrorists seemed like amateurs, though. They weren’t soldiers, operators, or spies. Someone like Shani could never be left like this. She probably kept a hacksaw blade in a nostril and a switchblade between her toes.

  Back outside, Conor repeated the same process for every cabin. He won some, he lost some. He managed to take two more detainees into custody, but the rest fought back, forcing him to snuff their candles. When he was done, he radioed Doc Marty.

  “Coming to you, Doc.”

  “Roger that.”

  When Conor hauled the first of his prisoners into Kamil’s cabin, Doc raised an eyebrow at Conor’s blood-soaked kit. “I hope that’s not your blood.”