Better understanding what was going on now, Ragus focused on that door with laser intensity. He only cared to see one girl coming out. Then there she was, the seventh to emerge. Even before his eyes and brain recognized her, his heart already sensed it was Barb. While she stood still for her hands to be zip tied, he got a better look and was certain. It was her. She was alive and unharmed but her body language was telling. She was not happy about her circumstances. Knowing this girl, Ragus could only imagine her thoughts over the past day. She was a strong-willed and vicious thing. Were she unleashed in her current state, she might wreak more death and destruction on this group than even her own father was capable of.
Ragus followed her with the scoped rifle as she was escorted off and led to a horse. She didn’t resist but she could have. Ragus had seen her spar with her father before. She was skilled in martial arts he couldn’t even pronounce. Once, while watching her train at her dad’s compound, he’d apparently worn an expression that was a little too close to a smirk for her liking. He mentioned he’d been a wrestler. When she challenged him to a match, he’d declined, saying he didn’t want to hurt her.
That was the wrong thing to say.
The words were no sooner out of his mouth than she had him wrapped up in a submission hold on the ground. He was so stunned he barely had the wherewithal to tap out before he lost consciousness. Conor thought the whole thing was a hoot.
With her hands tied, Barb required the help of two men to mount her horse. One helpful gentleman placed both his hands on her backside and leered as he helped lift her into the saddle. This provoked her sharp tongue. Though Ragus didn’t hear the words, the man stiffened in anger. He drew back an open hand, ready to strike Barb, but the other man would not allow it. When prevented from beating the tied woman, the groper sought his consolation by using all his strength to zip tie her leg to the stirrup. Barb would not give him the satisfaction of flinching as the binding dug into her flesh. The man spun and walked away, calling out something to Barb as he left. Ragus assumed it was a comment to the effect that their little conflict wasn't over yet.
Aware that Barb had no circulation with the tight zip tie cutting off the blood flow, the other man whipped out a knife and sliced the tie free, replacing it with another, looser one. Ragus watched Barb as this took place, all of his attention focused on what she might do. He did not see her acknowledge this action, the way this man had protected her and loosened her bonds. She would not thank an attacker. She would not accept kindness from someone who had kidnapped her against her will and was taking her away from her home. She would kill this man as easily as the other.
It took a little time before every woman was on a horse and tied in place. Most of the men mounted once this task was done. They took up the reins of the pack horses and the long leads of the horses carrying the women. When they began moving out, two men remained by the smoker. Noticing that these men were cutting up meat and wrapping it in foil from the restaurant, Ragus assumed they must have been left behind to deal with the meat, which was not quite ready for travel. Having smoked meat they could easily reheat over a fire at night would be helpful as they travelled. He could understand them not wanting to leave it behind, even if it meant splitting up the group for a couple of hours.
In the distance, the caravan of riders and pack horses disappeared into the broad blanket of morning fog hanging over the vast green fields. When Ragus was satisfied the group was not returning, he reached into his pack and removed a canvas drawstring bag Conor had given him. He released the cord lock and opened the mouth of the bag, tipping it into his hand. A metal tube about ten inches long slid into his palm. It was one of Conor’s custom rifle suppressors and it was threaded to fit the .22 caliber Henry rifle.
When Conor gave him the suppressor he reminded the boy it would not silence the weapon. It would, however, alter the sound in a way that would make it harder for people to use the sound of his shots to locate him. "It'll make you a little harder to track down when you’re hunting, lad. Give you a little piece of mind."
He'd used the suppressor for hunting numerous times and he would use it again now. Taking up his Henry, he removed the steel thread protector from the tip of the barrel. The little cap kept him from banging up and distorting the threads during daily use of the rifle. He dropped the cap into the drawstring bag and pulled the cord tight, sliding the cord lock in place. He put the bag back into his pack and carefully threaded the suppressor onto the rifle barrel. The suppressor affected the balance and weight of the rifle but it had proved its worth to him. His intention this morning was not to silence his shots, but that the suppressor might keep the men who had already left camp from returning to check on their men.
Ragus packed away his remaining gear and slipped his pack on his back. With fewer people remaining in camp, he wanted to ease up on them and see what he could hear. Perhaps the men, distracted by their work, would let slip some bit of information that would help him know where they were headed, providing some insight as to the men's intention with their captives. Or maybe, tapping into his rising anger at seeing how Barb was treated, this would become more than an eavesdropping operation. He fully accepted he might have to pull the trigger on someone.
Ragus dropped down out of sight and used low-lying bottoms and draws to hide his approach. At intervals, he would poke his head up like a gopher and make sure the men had not changed position. Soon, he found himself at the edge of the gravel parking lot. He was not a soldier or a cop, with their training in tactics and assault positions. He had no complicated plan of approach. He treated this as if he were stalking two deer and not two men. He scanned the surrounding area. When he was certain there was no one to see him, he climbed from the weeds and moved across the parking lot to the rolling barn door that served as an entrance. He was nervous and wanted to run flat out, to get this exposed section over with, but was afraid the sound of his feet on gravel would attract the men’s attention.
Flattened against the front wall of the bright red barn, Ragus listened intently for any indication he had been seen or heard. He kept himself tight against the wall, easing around the corner from the front of the building to the side. He was now against the long wall leading back toward the smoker. The restaurant had an outdoor seating area and Ragus carefully wound his way between the scattered tables and chairs.
These people are fucking pigs, he thought. The place was trashed. Discarded bones, silverware, napkins, and paper plates littered the floor. Had there been beer bottles or red plastic cups scattered in with the rest of the debris it would have looked like the remnants of one hell of a party.
Approaching the rear corner of the building, Ragus flattened himself against the wall again and steadied his breathing. He heard the men talking, laughing. This was a regular day for them. Just doing another job for whoever they worked for. A regular day for men who ran around kidnapping women from their families.
Ragus raised the Henry in front of him and pushed down on the lever. When he saw the dull glint of brass he closed the action. The rifle was ready to go. He thumbed back the hammer, shouldered the rifle, and raised it into a shooting position. All he had to do was step around the corner and open fire.
If these men were still doing what they’d been doing when he saw them last, they were packing meat and had no weapons at hand other than holstered side arms. Ragus took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he took another, trying to get his nerve up. He reminded himself of what these men were doing here and what they had done. He wanted to harden himself so there would be no hesitation if he needed to pull the trigger.
He forced himself to move around the corner and face the men. The first to notice him looked up in surprise, as if Ragus were one of his own group and had returned for some reason. When it dawned on him that Ragus was an unfamiliar face, he dropped a hand to his holster. Ragus was ready. He already had his crosshairs centered on the man's face. He pulled the trigger. The rifle cracked and the man's hand flew to his fa
ce like he’d been stung by a wasp. He staggered and was holding his face when he dropped over backward, hopefully out of the fight. Ragus worked the action and chambered another round.
The second man held a slab of greasy ribs in his hand was caught in a void of shock and indecision. Ragus could see the thoughts going through his head. Should he drop the meat? Draw his gun? Run for his life? Ragus understood that confusion because it was much like what was going on inside his own head, mixed with a heavy dose of terror.
Ragus was already aiming his rifle at the second man’s head. He decided to make his decision for him. "Set the meat down and raise your hands."
The man didn’t move. He was trying to decide if he had a play available to him or if he needed to comply. Ragus and the man stood about twenty yards apart. From this distance, Ragus dropped squirrels with headshots on a regular basis. This man’s melon was a hell of a lot larger. He dropped the crosshairs to the man’s thigh and squeezed off a shot.
The man flinched, dropping the ribs back onto the table. His greasy hands clasped his thigh. He stared in wonder at his own blood before looking up at Ragus with murder and outrage in his eyes. "What the fuck, dude? What the fuck!"
Ragus had already chambered another round and had the crosshairs of his scope on the bridge of his nose. "Straighten up, mister. That leg will keep. And I ain’t asking again about the hands. Put them up!”
Wearing an expression of pain on his face, he tested his leg, putting a little weight on it, and flinched. He extended his hands above his head. "You didn't have to do that. You didn’t have to shoot me." His tone was childish and accusing, as if there were rules to this game and Ragus had violated them by using a real gun and real bullets.
"Yeah I did have to shoot you. Now lower your left hand and unfasten your gun belt."
The man displayed the same hesitation, like he was replaying his options again. He was obviously a thick-headed son-of-a-bitch.
"I'll shoot you again. It’s nothing to me. Ain’t my leg, ain’t my blood leaking in the dirt." Ragus’ matter-of-fact tone hid his pounding heart and nervousness.
His threat carried some impact, though, and the man complied. He fumbled to unlatch his belt with a single hand as requested. When he was done, he dropped the brown leather belt with his holster and sheath knife to the ground. He raised his hand back up above his head and glared at Ragus. "What you want, boy?"
"I need to know where you’re taking those girls and why."
The man hesitated again, challenging. Ragus was tired of being disrespected and not taken seriously. It pissed him off. Each second he wasted, they were getting farther away. That thought dialed up his panic even further.
He dropped the crosshairs to the man's kneecap and pulled the trigger before the man even had time to react. This time he fell over backwards, writhing on the ground, and screaming in pain. Ragus kept his rifle leveled on the man but moved over and kicked the gun belt out of the way. While he was there by the smoker, he confirmed the man he shot in the chest hadn’t moved. Unsure if he was dead, Ragus kicked him twice in the head and the man didn't flinch. The sensation of kicking the head left him a little queasy. He’d been unprepared for both the sound and the sensation but it told him what he wanted to know. If the man was still alive he was either a tough bastard or a good actor.
"You son of a bitch!" the injured man screamed, cradling his knee. "I'm going to fucking kill you."
The threats meant nothing to Ragus. He wasn’t even listening to them. He had work to do and he was behind already. Without taking his eyes off the man, he eased out of his pack and let it slide to the ground. In an outer pocket he had about a dozen sturdy zip ties Conor had given him. Ragus had never zip tied anyone before but he pulled one out and tossed it to the wounded man. “Tie yourself up."
The man didn’t react, rolling around in the dusty gravel, cursing and crying. Ragus patiently waited him out, then reminded him of the request. “If I have to ask again, I’m putting another hole in you.”
The man growled and gritted his teeth. "It takes two," he hissed. “Two zip ties.”
Ragus shook his head at the man’s persistent lack of cooperation but tossed him another. “Always some excuse with you. You’re just one of those people, aren’t you?”
The man pushed himself to a sitting position, wincing at the pain. He reached for the zip ties.
"Make it good now. Don't try to bullshit me. You have plenty of places left I can shoot."
With some awkwardness the man zip tied one wrist, then slipped a zip tie through it and tied the second wrist to the first.
"Hold them up. Show them to me."
The man did as he was told, scowling at Ragus with a murderous glare. Convinced he was a little less of a threat now, Ragus approached the man, still holding the rifle on him. He checked the man's extended wrists, then grabbed the loose end of each zip-tie and yanked it tight.
The man jerked and cried out. He looked at his hands with frustration, then back up at Ragus. "They don't have to be that tight. It'll cut the circulation off."
Ragus shrugged. "Another couple hours and it won’t matter. You'll be dead anyway."
The man appeared stunned by that revelation, perhaps imagining Ragus would let him go and he could hobble off for help. It wasn’t going to happen that way. There was no forgiveness in the scared boy’s heart. He dragged the man over to a steel pole which supported an upper deck eating area. He used more zip ties to secure the man's hands to the post. Slightly concerned that the man's blood loss might kill him before Conor could catch up with them, Ragus put a zip tie around each of the man's thighs as a tourniquet.
"I’ll lose my legs if you do that."
“We done chewed that fat,” Ragus said. “Ain’t chewing it again.”
Not convinced the zip ties alone were sufficient to hold the man to the pole, Ragus went to one of the pack horses and found a coil of rope. He used it to lash the man to the pole. Finally comfortable the prisoner wasn't going anywhere, Ragus used his own knife to trim off a piece of smoked beef. The flavor spreading in his mouth was nearly an ecstatic experience. He couldn’t recall ever tasting anything so good in his entire life.
He didn’t want to waste time but he could also not pass up this opportunity. He needed the meat, both for now and for the coming journey. Having the provisions he needed on the trail would mean fewer stops to forage for supplies. He also needed to see if he could get anything out of the prisoner.
“What’s your name?” Ragus asked.
The bound man moaned, a futile wailing like mating cats. "I ain’t gonna tell you nothing," he said. "You might as well let me go."
Ragus shrugged nonchalantly, as if they were going back over old territory. "It ain’t no nevermind to me. If you don’t tell me, you'll damn sure tell the man following me. I don’t have a doubt in the world."
That shut the man up. He retreated back to his suffering.
Ragus continued eating patiently, sipping from his water and watching. Then he turned his attention to the horses. There were two saddled and two pack horses. One of the pack horses was already burdened with gear and other had empty saddlebags which Ragus assumed was for the meat the men had been packing when he came upon them. Ragus wasn’t a horseman. In fact, he’d never been on one in his life, but he was getting ready to learn. No way was he passing up transportation to keep traveling on foot.
He sliced off a dozen hunks of the meat, then made himself a healthy package of meat for the trip. He put all the unsliced meat back in the smoker and closed the door. Conor should be coming along soon. If so, some meat and a horse should rejuvenate him in the way it had Ragus.
He conducted a hasty search of the dead man and collected what gear he could find. He took a decent knife off the dead man. The men were using the same type of pistol and Ragus didn’t see any point in carrying both of them so he took one with all the spare magazines and the box of ammunition each man carried. They had military-style rifles like Conor had. Rag
us didn’t know a damn thing about them except they were called AR-15s. He decided to take one and some spare magazines for it. It might be useful if he could figure out how to work it. He also found a really nice rain poncho that beat the hell out of anything he had.
“You ain’t going to leave me here like this, are you?” the bound man begged.
Ragus regarded him and nodded. He finished packing his gear onto one of the horses. In his pocket, he had a plastic baggie with sliced meat in it. He took out a piece and shoved it in his mouth, chewing it slowly while he pondered the one last thing he had left to do. He pulled out his own knife, the one Conor had given him, then fell upon the protesting man.
Following the kidnapper’s trail was much easier on a horse. While not an experienced horseman, Ragus was figuring it out. Occasionally he had to dismount and check signs from the ground but the kidnappers were mostly sticking to paved roads. That made Ragus think they were from out of the area and using maps to navigate, rather than being locals who might be inclined to take common shortcuts. Their crude horseshoes and the trail of manure continued to make it easy to discern their direction of travel. Ragus faithfully moved off the road at regular intervals, snapping branches to mark the trail since he hoped Conor would catch up with him soon. He imagined him finding the bound man and the extra horses. Ragus would like to see the look on his face when he did.
Ragus had considered bringing a pack horse with him but opted against it in the end. He was afraid it would be twice as much trouble for a fellow just learning to ride a horse for the first time. He’d learned a lot from riding with his gear today and would have a better idea how to pack things tomorrow. He’d probably have to lose the five-gallon bucket that hung from the saddle horn. It was convenient storage for him but the horse didn’t care for it rubbing and bumping against him with the rhythm of its stride.
The Mad Mick: Book One of The Mad Mick Series Page 9
