Northern Sun: Book Four in The Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  57

  Barb didn’t wait around to hear the results of Shani’s phone call. You didn’t grow up the daughter of Conor Maguire and not know the sound of a grenade when you heard one. That explosion told her the fight was still on and she needed to be there helping her father. Instead of taking the stealthy route through the woods, she ran full-tilt down the paved road of the unfinished neighborhood.

  She readied her gear as she ran, turning off the beam of her red flashlight and dropping her nightvision goggles in front of her eyes. She did a tactical reload, extracting the partially spent magazine from her rifle and replacing it with a fresh one.

  She keyed the mic on her radio. “Smart Ass to Houseplant.” The names were an inside joke, recalling their fight together against The Bond a few weeks ago. Conor had insisted on putting together a ghillie suit to camouflage him in the woods, and Barb had given him the call sign Houseplant. “Smart Ass to Houseplant.”

  There was no response, but she didn’t take that too seriously. In these thick trees, the signal might not reach him until she was closer. She hung a left at the main road and was plowing down the double yellow line. Her heart and lungs worked together with profound mechanical efficiency. There was a reason she ran miles every day. It was for times like this. For times when thousands of feet of foot travel stood between her and someone who needed her.

  She wasn’t sure how long she ran but it seemed like only a matter of minutes before she was closing in on the sign welcoming visitors to Bass Springs Resort. Barb was aware there was a hostile out there and wished she had the ability to speak to the drone team but that required one of those sPad devices and she didn’t have one. They were programmed to only respond to the biometric data from the person they were assigned to so even taking Shani’s wouldn’t have helped her.

  At the entrance to the camp, she paused to get her head together and her breathing under control. Her pounding heart slowed as she scanned her surroundings through the display of her nightvision gear. Seeing no thermal signatures, she advanced with her rifle at high ready.

  Barb heard the cursing before she spotted her father. It was Profane Gaelic, probably the closest thing her father had to a native language. She couldn’t help but smile. If he had the wind to curse like that, he wasn’t seriously injured.

  She keyed the mic on her radio. “Smart Ass to Houseplant. I’m approaching from the entrance. I could hear your bloody cursing a mile up the road.”

  “Roger that, Smart Ass. Get up here.”

  She was at her father’s side in seconds. “Are you okay?”

  “My ears are ringing and I’ve got a face full of splinters, but I’ll live. Thank God for eye protection.”

  “What happened?”

  “The guy who slipped away from you and Shani returned here. I was in communication with the drone team and knew he was coming. I waited until he went inside Kamil’s cabin, then I went in after him.”

  “I’m assuming getting blown ass over teakettle wasn’t part of your plan?”

  Conor shook his head. “You know that thing where a comedian tells a funny joke, then throws the microphone on the stage and walks off? What do they call that?”

  “A mic drop?” Barb said as if the answer should have been obvious.

  “Yeah, that. Well, I got the jump on the guy but he pulled a ‘mic drop’ on me, except with a grenade.”

  “I heard it. Where is he now?”

  Part of the reason that Conor hadn’t yet pursued the escaped man was that he’d lost his helmet and nightvision when he leapt to safety. Barb looked for it while Conor dug out his sPad and made contact with the drone team.

  “What you got for me?” he demanded.

  “Your hostile appears to be following a trail through the woods. He’s running west toward the neighborhood nearest your location.”

  Conor ended the call and shoved the device back in his pocket. “He’s heading west through the woods. We should be able to intercept him.”

  “We should split up. You follow him in the woods and I’ll run ahead on the road. Maybe if I can beat him to the next street we can trap him between us.”

  Conor knew there was no choice, even though he wasn’t excited about it. “Do it.”

  Barb bolted before Conor could even go down his list of standard dad warnings.

  “Be careful!” he called behind her, but she was already disappearing from his view.

  58

  Conor plunged into the woods, finding what appeared to be the most highly used trail. The nightvision made it difficult to pick up minor details one might use when tracking someone. Footprints were harder to see, broken branches easily missed. Conor had to assume that the fleeing terrorist wasn’t concerned with stealth. He was simply trying to put distance between himself and his camp now that he knew it was compromised.

  An idea came to Conor and he rang up the drone team again. “I was told there was a way to stream your drone picture to this infernal device?”

  “Certainly.”

  “How do I make that happen?”

  “It’s easy, sir,” the drone operator replied. “I can provide you with a secure IP address to plug into the internet browser on your device. On my end, we’ll grant permissions for you to access the feed. Keep in mind it will be slightly delayed because it’s bouncing off a satellite.”

  “Roger that. Just do it. I’m in the dark down here.” He wasn’t referring to visibility, but instead to the fact he and Barb were a two-person team trying to chase down a running needle in a vast haystack.

  After doing a few things on her end, the drone operator gave Conor a string of numbers and waited for him to punch them into the browser on his device. After what felt like a ridiculously long two-second wait, the black and white thermal image produced by the drone’s camera filled the tiny screen of Conor’s sPad.

  “Bless you, my child! Thank you!” he said, ending his call.

  He studied the image for a second, taken from such a high position that it showed all three figures in the fight. The runner to the far left of his screen had to be Barb, tearing down the main road. The other figure, moving slower but at a brisk pace, had to be the remaining terrorist. Then Conor spotted himself at the bottom of the screen, the only combatant not making any progress at the moment.

  He shoved the device into a pouch and took off in pursuit. He now had a basic understanding of his position relative to his target. The woods around the fishing resort were laced with dozens of crisscrossing trails. Conor hit a jogging pace, occasionally whipping out the sPad and checking his progress. Basically, he was making none. At his jogging pace, the target was still increasing the distance between them. Only Barb, no doubt tearing down the road at a full run, was pulling parallel to him.

  Conor keyed the mic on his radio. “Smart Ass, you’re pulling even with him. By the time you get to the next road on your right, you should swing in and start looking for him. He may run directly by you, like a deer crossing a highway. Don’t mess with this guy. Don’t try to take him alive. Just shoot him and be done with it.”

  “Got...it,” Barb puffed, not wasting any more of her breath on talking than she had to.

  Still jogging, Conor studied the sPad screen for a moment longer. He keyed his mic. “Let me know when you take that right turn. I’ve got overhead thermal and can guide you.”

  She clicked her mic, her customary way of dismissing him when she didn’t feel like she had time to talk. He understood. At least someone was in the fight.

  59

  Bushra tore through the underbrush like a madman, running blindly. He was afraid to use his headlamp for fear it would give him away. He wasn’t certain he’d killed the man at Kamil’s cabin and there could be more of them. He couldn’t believe how suddenly things had gone wrong. They’d been launching kill teams on this lake since they got here with no issues. How had they been discovered and who were these people who had discovered them?

  He had no idea how he was going to survive. He
had nothing except the handgun on his hip and the meager items in his pockets. He’d lost his rifle escaping the blast in the cabin and only had two spare magazines for the handgun. His eyes adjusted to the night around him and he could make out basic shapes, but not enough to navigate efficiently. A few minutes back, a branch had stabbed him in the face, nearly poking through his cheek. He’d tripped several times, once into a small creek where he’d soaked his clothes. He felt safe from hypothermia while he ran but he couldn’t survive out in the open tonight, not in wet clothes and with no sleeping bag.

  He stumbled again, falling over a log. On all fours, he could see a change in the darkness ahead. A clearing.

  He crawled in that direction and emerged into a neighborhood. There was just enough light from the moon for him to make out the hulking shapes of houses tucked into wooded lots, moonlight reflecting off walls of high windows. The hour was late and all the houses were dark.

  No. Not all the houses, he realized. There was a light in one.

  Bushra got to his feet and staggered in that direction. He’d only taken two steps when there was a muffled thunk and a bullet whizzed by his head. Bushra launched himself onto the ground. Though it had only sounded like an air rifle, he was not fooled. That had been a rifle round that almost took him out. A suppressed rifle round.

  How had they seen him? It had to be nightvision equipment or a thermal device. This told him he wasn’t being pursued by the local neighborhood watch. It was someone with more significant resources.

  He turned in the direction he thought the gunfire had come from and sent two rounds from his Glock. His weapon was not suppressed and the loud shouts split the still night. He was firing blindly, unable to see or hear anything at which to aim. The only thing visible to him in this sea of blackness was that one illuminated window and it drew him like a moth to a porch light.

  Bushra got to his feet and sprinted toward the light, firing behind him as he ran. He had no idea where his shots were going. He hoped it might keep his attacker pinned down, but it wasn’t. Suppressed rounds chased him in his flight, whistling around his body. He cried out when one sliced the back of his neck, scooping flesh away, searing like a red-hot razor. He stumbled and fell, but got back on his feet again, firing and running.

  Seconds later he hit the driveway of the illuminated house. He took cover behind a car and his attacker held their fire. Leaves and small twigs were piled against the windblown side of the vehicle. It had not moved in a long time.

  Fighting to get his breathing under control, Bushra clapped a hand around the back of his neck and felt the warm liquid there, too sticky for sweat. He looked up toward the wide front window of the house and saw it was now lined with people. They held red plastic cups and tall wine glasses, cupping their eyes as they stared out into the night, trying to locate the source of the gunshots.

  “Bad night for a party,” Bushra gasped.

  Knowing that whoever was shooting at him was likely closing in with each passing second, Bushra kept low and disappeared around the back of the house. He groped around, trying to find an entrance. When his hand fell on a steel basement door, he backed up and rammed his shoulder into it. When two attempts failed to open it, he stepped back and kicked with all his might.

  There was a blinding pain in his ankle, but the door jamb cracked. Bushra shouldered it the rest of the way open and limped inside. He didn’t bother with trying to barricade the door against his pursuer. He turned on his headlamp, squinting against the bright light. Finally able to see with clarity, he hobbled to the steps. He scrambled up them on all fours and charged through the unlocked door at the top.

  Throwing it open, he emerged into what must have been a cocktail party, though he’d only seen them in movies before. A half-dozen startled men and women looked at him with fear in their eyes. Bushra understood why. He must appear terrifying, standing there in their living room. He was stained with blood and mud, his clothing torn, his eyes wild with rage.

  Bushra threw up his gun and immediately shot one of the men. The man fell over, a leaking bullet hole punched directly into his forehead. His plastic cup hit the floor and beer splashed onto the expensive hardwood floors.

  There were panicked screams, men and women clutching each other in terror.

  “Shut up!” Bushra demanded, waving the handgun at them. When he finally had their attention, he spoke to them in his awkward English. “That’s just so you know I’m fucking serious.”

  60

  “He disappeared from thermal,” said the voice in Barb’s earpiece.

  “I think he interrupted a party,” Barb replied. “He went indoors.”

  “Seriously? A party? And we weren’t invited?”

  “I think our presence would be welcome about now. I just heard a gunshot and screams from inside the house.”

  “Hold up, Barb. I’m almost there,” Conor said. “Less than a minute.”

  “I’m going after him. I don’t want to give him time to dig in. It’s the only house in the neighborhood with lights on. You can’t miss it.”

  She heard him complaining in her ear but she ignored it. This was her job and she knew what she had to do. She wouldn’t do anything stupid, but neither would she hold back when her instincts told her to keep pushing forward.

  Barb was running toward the house when a figure appeared in the lit window. The backlighting threw off her optic so she couldn’t get a good look at what was going on. She had to assume it was her target looking for her. She dodged sideways and ran through the yard, not running up the driveway as he might have expected. She hadn’t seen the man climb the tall steps at the front of the house, so she had to assume he’d gone around back.

  She quickly spotted the kicked-in door and peered inside. There were no signs of life, but ambient light filtered down a set of steps, along with the sound of sobbing and moans. Barb flipped her optic out of the way and stepped onto the stairs. Tactically, it was a lousy place to be. It was a “fatal funnel,” a chokepoint from which there was no escape if the terrorist popped his head around the corner ahead of her. Conor Maguire would not approve. In fact, he’d likely jerk a knot in her ass for making such a reckless move.

  Barb slowed her breathing and moved steadily. One step, then the next. She concentrated on her goal. She was going to make it to the top and she was going to kill this asshole. That was her plan and nothing was going to interfere with that.

  Then something did.

  She was nearly at the top when a groaning step betrayed her. She heard the rush of footsteps in the room above her. She was torn and knew she only had a fraction of a second to respond. Did she leap backward and take a position in the darkness? No, Barb charged like an armed bull.

  She had three steps to cover and her powerful legs pushed with everything she had. Even in her bulky gear and heavy boots, her training paid off and she was already at the top step when Bushra appeared there, a scared woman shielding his body. Barb spotted the handgun aimed overtop the human shield, but she was already so close it caught him off-guard. That moment of shock cost Bushra a critical split-second of reaction time.

  With no clear shot, Barb whipped her left hand from the forend of her rifle and swept Bushra’s arm, pinning his hand against the wall. She ground his Glock against the wall, trying to crush his fingers and break his grip. The gun went off, the noise deafening in the confines of the stairwell. The terrified hostage screamed in Barb’s face. Bushra pulled the trigger again but the gun had failed to cycle in Barb’s grip, the spent round still sitting in the chamber.

  With a scream of his own, Bushra shoved with all his might, throwing the frightened woman onto Barb. With one hand clasping Bushra’s Glock and the other holding her own rifle, Barb had no means by which to catch herself. She arced backward, Bushra’s Glock still in her hand.

  She hit near the bottom of the steps, landing hard on her back. Her helmet and rear armor plate absorbed some of the blow but the wind was knocked from her. The screaming woman lande
d on top of her, her outstretched hand landing on Barb’s throat and nearly crushing her larynx.

  “Fuck!” Barb groaned, elbowing the woman to the side as she struggled to right herself in her heavy gear.

  The woman now off her, Barb could see the silhouette of Bushra limping down the steps toward her. Her rifle was still across her body, attached by the sling around her neck. She awkwardly tipped it up one-handed, her finger flicking the selector from semi to full-auto, and she pulled the trigger.

  Rounds chewed up the wooden steps. Splinters and chunks of pine flew in all directions as she adjusted her aim. Spent shell casings rained onto the basement floor, jingling like dropped change. Bushra tried to scramble backward but his broken ankle impeded his movement. A round caught him in the shin and shattered his already injured leg. With retreat impossible, he chose the only path he saw, diving directly onto the armed woman.

  Barb tried to pull her aim up to meet the flying body but couldn’t adjust quickly enough. She had no time to move and the large man crashed down upon her before she could pump him full of rounds.

  Barb cried out as her breath was again crushed from her. Her head jammed at an awkward angle against the cinderblock wall at the base of the steps. The enraged man, blind with pain and hate, jammed an elbow against her throat and pushed with all his might. Barb felt vertebra pop in her neck as the pressure increased. She suddenly understood that he was trying to break her neck and stood a very good chance of doing so.

  She tried to scream but couldn’t breathe. She tried to get a hand to a weapon—her knife or pistol—but her arms were pinned, trapped against her body. She looked in the man’s eyes and saw only hatred. He grimaced and ground his teeth. Flecks of spit flew into her face and he pushed her neck closer to the point of breaking.

  For once in her life, Barb had no move. She was trapped on her back, upside down on the steps. Her arms were pinned, her neck close to snapping like a twig. Her vision began to fade, which she found to be a merciful byproduct of this manner of death. She didn’t want to hear her neck break. She didn’t want to see her death.