The Mad Mick: Book One of The Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  When the drunk driver was released from jail in what the Mad Mick felt was a laughably short amount of time, the reformed drunk was given special court permission to drive to work. Conor took matters into his own hands. He obtained a duplicate of the headrest in the man’s truck from a junkyard and built a bomb inside it. While the man was at his job, Conor switched out the headrest. A proximity switch in the bomb was triggered by a transmitter hidden along his route home. One moment he was singing along to Journey on the radio and enjoying his new freedom. The next, his head was vaporized to an aerosol mist by the exploding headrest.

  No one was able to pin the death on Conor despite a lack of other suspects. He had a rock-solid alibi. The proximity trigger detonated the bomb because the man drove within its range. No manual detonation was required on Conor’s part at all. After putting everything in place, Conor took his young daughter to the mall to get a few items. Dozens of security cameras picked up the widower and his daughter.

  Oddly enough, his handiwork resulted in a job offer from an alphabet agency within the United States government. A team of men who made their living doing such things were impressed with Conor’s technique. They recognized him as one of their own and wanted to give him a position among their very unique department. He would work as a contractor, he would be well paid, and he would be provided with a shop in which do to his work. There were no papers to sign but it was made quite clear that any discussion of his work with civilians would result in his death.

  Conor knew a good opportunity when he saw it. He accepted the offer and, as he proved his worth, his employer decided it was worthwhile to set Conor up in his deep-cover facility in Jewell Ridge, Virginia. On the surface, Conor presented himself to the local community as a semi-retired machinist who’d moved to the mountains to get away from the city. Mostly as a hobby and to help establish his cover, he took in some machining and fabrication work from the local coal and natural gas industry. Behind that façade, Conor was the guy that certain agencies and contractors came to for explosives and unique custom weapons for specialized operations.

  Over his career, Conor created pool cue rifles that were accurate to 250 yards with a 6.5 Creedmoor cartridge. A rifle scope was integrated into a second pool cue and the matched set was used for a wet work operation in Houston that never made any newspapers. He once made a music stand for a clarinetist turned assassin that transformed into a combat tomahawk. It was used for an especially brutal assassination in Eastern Europe.

  He turned automotive airbags into shrapnel-filled claymore mines that replaced standard air bags in most vehicles and could be triggered remotely or by a blow to the front bumper. For another job, he’d created a pickup truck that appeared to have standard dual exhausts from the rear. In reality, one exhaust pipe was normal while the other was a rear-facing 40mm grenade launcher.

  He routinely created untraceable firearms, suppressors, and unique explosive devices. His explosives contained components sourced from around the world which made it difficult to ascertain the bomber’s country of origin. It gave his employer plausible deniability. He had resources in every shadowy crevice of the world and they were always good to send Conor the odd bit of wire, circuitry, and foreign fasteners to include in his handiwork.

  Like many bomb makers, Conor was fastidious in his level of organization and preparation. That carried over to his home life. His compound on the mountain had backup solar, available spring water, and food enough to last him for years. Even with those food stores, he maintained a little livestock just to freshen up the stew pot.

  "What's on the agenda today, Barb?” he asked. “What do you have planned for yourself?"

  "There's a girl at the bottom of the mountain, JoAnn, who I've become halfway acquainted with. It’s just her and her dad. Kind of like us. I ran into her yesterday and she said she was going to be doing some late-season canning so I offered to help. She’s canning things I’ve never done before, like French fries.”

  “Canned French fries. That sounds bloody magical,” Conor said. “Plus I’m sure it would be nice to get some girl time, huh?”

  Barb smiled back at her dad, a wee drop of mischievous venom in the expression, and yet another demonstration she’d been aptly named. "Actually, it would just be nice to be around somebody who’s not telling the same old tired jokes and boring stories all day long. Somebody who doesn't think they're God's gift to humor and storytelling."

  Conor faked offense. "I always thought you liked my stories. I thought they were part of our familial bonding. Those stories are your heritage."

  "You need new stories, Dad. I don't know if you've noticed or not but, when you tell a story, I’m usually sitting there beside you mouthing the words along with you. I know exactly how they all go. But I guess sitting there making fun of you also counts as bonding."

  Conor looked smugly at his daughter. "I had a new story for you when I went over to Damascus and helped that girl Grace and her family. You were on the edge of your seat."

  "Yes, but as much as I’m tired of the old stories I don’t want you putting yourself at risk just to bring home new material. Besides, you're getting too long in the tooth for those kinds of adventures. You’re not an operator anymore. Your days would be better spent puttering around the garden in a cardigan, half-drunk on Guinness, cursing at the beetles and weeds."

  "Don't be so quick to put your old dad out to pasture, Barb. I've got plenty of good years left in me. And plenty of good fights."

  Barb raised her cup of tea toward him in a conciliatory toast. "Well, here's to hoping those fights die on the vine. I hope you never have to use them."

  "I'll toast to that," Conor said, raising his coffee mug.

  "So what's on your agenda today, dear father?"

  "I spoke to a man the other day who lives down in the valley near the Buchanan County line. Since the shit hit the fan he's been taking in horses people could no longer feed. Now he's got more than he wants to take care of over the winter. I told him I might be willing to trade for a few so I’m going to go look at them."

  "Ah, a horse would be nice. It could take me an hour to walk to JoAnn’s house this morning. It would be half of that on a horse and a lot less effort."

  "It will damn sure be easier to carry a load on a horse than on a bicycle," Conor added.

  "So you've given up on your bicycles, have you? I’m shocked. I thought you were training for the Tour de Bojangles, twenty-one days of bicycles and biscuits?"

  Conor shook his head. "I’ve not given up on bicycles but my tender arse has. It’s become delicate in my golden years."

  Barb smiled at that. Despite her banter with her father, she loved him dearly. It was just the two of them in the world and that was fine with her. One day she may have room for a husband and children but she was in no hurry. She would try to wait the world out and see if things got back to normal one day.

  "An hour is still a long walk," Conor said. "Take your full load-out."

  Barb rolled her eyes. "You know I don't go out without my gear."

  "It doesn't hurt to remind you. We check and we double check. That's what we do and that’s how we stay alive. Not just your rifle and your pistol, but your go bag and your radio.”

  She gave her dad a thumbs up. "Got it, Dad."

  “You better,” he warned. “Some things are joking and bullshit. This is not. This is life and death. Every single day.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Plates too,” he insisted. “Plate carrier and armor plates.”

  Barb groaned. “It’s too hot, and it’s heavy.”

  Conor gave a conciliatory smile. “Well, if you’re too weak to carry the weight…”

  “I’ll take them,” Barb said, getting up from her seat. “You’re driving me nuts with this.” She went into the house to get her gear together. She had no intention of carrying those heavy plates. She would have to find a way to slip out without him seeing her.

  3

  An hour later Barb w
as halfway down the mountain, the road changing from steep switchbacks to a gentler winding course. She was headed in the opposite direction of her father, and he’d insisted on knowing exactly where she was going and when she’d be back. He’d been that kind of dad before the collapse and he was even more safety conscious now. She tried to comply as best she could but there was a streak of defiance in her. She was extremely capable and she wasn’t certain he always acknowledged that. She was proficient in martial arts and could outshoot most anyone. He’d raised her that way and she had no issues with it. She just wished he would recognize her abilities a little more, but perhaps that was all daughters complaining about all dads.

  She encountered a man walking in the road toward her and froze. Her first reaction was to throw her rifle up to a ready position until she determined if he was a threat or not. She quickly identified the young man as Ragus, a regular on the porch of their compound. Her dad had a tradition of taking in strays and defending the underdog. This boy was both and she had no need for him. Although she didn’t dislike him, he’d done nothing to earn special favor from her either.

  The oddly-named boy broke into a large grin at finding Barb on the road with him. The boy made no secret of the fact that he was enamored with her and considered himself a worthy suitor. At her age, the couple of years between them seemed more significant than that same number of years might at a later point in her life. To the young man, Barb was beautiful, dangerous, and the woman he loved, at least as much as a boy his age understood love.

  "You’re a pretty sight to come up on," Ragus said. "For a moment I thought the sun was rising a second time on this beautiful morning." He was a little shy and found it hard to say things like this to her but nothing else he’d tried had worked. He was running out of options.

  “You’re nearly as full of shit as my dad. No wonder you two get along so well.” Barb was not swayed by flattery. "What are you doing out this morning? Did you forget your daycare was closed and walk all the way to town?"

  The boy was not deterred in the slightest. Barb could abuse him all day and the dazed smile he wore in her presence would never leave his face. “Going fishing with a friend. Why are you out wandering around the mountain by yourself?"

  "By myself? Just who should I have with me?"

  "Why, a man, of course. I'd be glad to be that man and escort you wherever you're going."

  Barb couldn’t stop herself from bursting into laughter. “I haven’t seen a man this morning. All I've seen is squirrels and boys, both full of nothing but chatter and concerned with nothing but their nuts."

  Ragus blushed at that and lost some of the wind in his sails. "You’re welcome to come fishing if you want."

  Barb looked around the boy, examining his hands and seeing only a rifle. "I see no tackle. You plan on shooting them with that Henry rifle?"

  "No, I've got a hand line in my pocket. The Mad Mick showed me how to use it.”

  Barb snorted. “The Mad Mick. He been filling your ears with stories of his adventures?”

  “Maybe.”

  Barb started to give the boy a lecture about how her dad’s stories got bigger with each telling. She started to tell him her dad had had some wild adventures over the years but he needed to slow down and take life easier. She started to say all those things but stopped herself. Conor, her dad, the Mad Mick—whatever you wanted to call him—had saved this boy’s life, and if that boy wanted to put him on a pedestal she should probably just leave it alone. The boy needed someone to believe in and her dad was as good a vessel for that belief as any.

  “Where you going fishing?” she asked, softening her tone.

  “There's a boy I know back at the next intersection and I’m going to see if he wants to go with me. If you want us to walk with you, it will only take me about ten minutes to run and get him. Then we can walk you wherever you want to go."

  "I appreciate your concern but the only thing worse than having one awkward teenage boy around is having two. And I say again I don't need an escort. If we ran into trouble, I’d just end up having to save the two of you."

  The boy didn't argue, but hung his head in defeat. He’d struck out. Again. “Maybe I’ll see you later.”

  Seeing him so dejected, and knowing what he’d been through, Barb almost felt a glimmer of guilt at being so hard on him. Almost. "You wouldn’t want to come with me anyway. I'm going to a friend's house to do some canning. Unless you’re interested in peeling and slicing vegetables, you should probably just stick with your plans."

  As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she could see him processing this information. He was trying to determine if getting to spend the day with her was worth the boredom of having to process vegetables. "I think I'll just go fishing, but thanks anyway."

  She was relieved. "Well, then I'm going on my way. Stop by the house one day. My dad don't mind you nearly as much as I do."

  That remark brought a smile to the boy’s face. He could not help but be entertained by her brutally sharp wit. She could spew venom at him all day and he would sit and take it. He waved as she walked away.

  She’d taken no more than twenty steps when she felt like she was being watched. She stopped in her tracks and looked back over her shoulder to find Ragus staring at her. She was immediately aware this was not so much out of concern for her safety as out of concern for the movement of her backside.

  Only mildly embarrassed at having been caught, the boy threw up his hand in an awkward wave. Barb began to raise her rifle. The boy's eyes went wide and he took off running like a scalded dog. That brought a smile to Barb's face. She wouldn’t have shot him, though. Perhaps she might have shot at him, but she certainly wouldn’t have intentionally hit him. She couldn’t rightly kill someone her dad had put so much effort into saving.

  Ragus probably owed Conor his life. They first met the kid when he slipped into their compound to steal a chicken. The dogs alerted on him and cornered him in the henhouse, snarling and growling. Conor would have been within his rights to shoot the lad, especially with times being what they were, but it was evident the young man was starving.

  Conor stared down the iron sights of his rifle at the boy. A flashlight mounted to the rifle illuminated the boy in a blinding circle of light that forced the kid to shield his eyes. "Did your old man send you here to steal from me?"

  The boy shook his head slightly. "I ain’t got no old man."

  "Your mother then? You trying to feed your mother? Tell me the truth, boy, or I’ll kill you and boil your meat for my dogs."

  There was no defiance in the boy. Only defeat. Conor sensed the boy would have found it a relief if he pulled the trigger and killed him.

  "She died a couple of days ago."

  That admission hit Conor hard. He’d been raised by his mother and lost her too. “Have you eaten since then?” he asked.

  The boy shook his head. “I didn’t eat for the last couple of days before she…before it happened. I’m not sure of the last time.”

  Conor led the young man into their home and fed him leftovers from their dinner. The boy ate ravenously, like a dog left to starve at the dump. Conor had to tell him to slow down for fear he would choke. At that point, it had only been about five or six weeks since the collapse, but the boy ate like he had not eaten in that whole time.

  "So, why are you all alone, boy?" Conor asked.

  The boy wiped his mouth with a hand, ignoring the napkin Barb had set out for him. He took a drink to wash down a large mouthful of food. "My daddy left when I was a kid."

  "You're still a kid," Barb pointed out.

  The boy scowled at her, apparently not fond of being called a kid. “I’m seventeen.”

  “You don’t look it,” Barb said.

  Conor held a hand up to his daughter. He wanted to handle this. Her badgering wasn’t helping anything. "And your mother?" he pressed.

  "She passed a couple of days ago. She had cancer real bad before all this happened. She lost her job becaus
e she couldn’t go anymore. Without doctors and medicine the end came quicker than they said it would. It was…bad. It was awful."

  It appeared the boy had more on his mind, like there were more words wanting to come out, but the memory of what he’d been through was blocking them. Conor, and even the sharp-tongued Barb, let it rest. The demons would come out of their own accord when the time was right. No use forcing it.

  "So how are you taking care of yourself?" Conor asked.

  "He's clearly not," Barb noted, gesturing at the boy as if his presence proved her point. “He’s a wastrel.”

  Part of Conor wondered where she’d learned such a word. "How are you planning to get by, boy? You keep stealing from people, you’re going to get killed. That’s not a feasible plan for survival."

  The boy did not respond. The answer was obvious enough he felt no need to state it.

  “How are you going to defend yourself?" Conor asked.

  Again, no response.

  "Do you even own a weapon?"

  "I got this," the boy said, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a small revolver. Lacking experience and training with firearms, he waved the pistol around, sweeping everyone with the barrel.

  Conor’s hand lashed out and grabbed the revolver, twisting it from the boy’s frail grip. "Easy there, cowboy. We need to go over some basics before you get this thing back.” Conor dumped the cylinder of mismatched ammunition onto the table. The pistol was a cheap .38 with a two-inch barrel. The sights were no more than grooves in the frame of the handgun. It wouldn’t be accurate beyond a couple of yards.

  “Please don’t take that,” the boy begged. “I might need it.”

  "This may be decent for self-defense but only at fistfight distances. You have anything you can hunt with?"

  The boy shook his head, looking down at the table and at the revolver. Conor shot his daughter a pleading glance, frustrated at the boy’s predicament and not sure what to do. When Barb was no help, offered no answers, Conor again addressed the boy.