The Mad Mick: Book One of The Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  He withdrew quietly and returned to the horse he’d tied a good distance away. He backtracked a little, finding a good position along the route the men returning to the warehouse would have to take. There was a good straight stretch where it was open and there was nowhere to hide. Just the right spot.

  He dismounted and tied his horse in the bushes where it would be hidden from the road and hopefully safe from any flying bullets. He tied it loosely with the hopes that if he were killed the horse would be able to pull itself loose and escape. Tied to the back of his saddle, he had two of the shorter military-style rifles Conor had taught him to shoot. Conor referred to them as M4s.

  The boy had no illusions he’d be able to keep all the weapons he liberated but he wanted to keep some of them. These two M4s seemed to be pretty standard among the kidnappers. With each man he killed, he was able to collect more ammunition for them. He’d also taken a handgun, a Glock, and carried it in a holster on his waist. Despite his growing arsenal, he felt that the right weapon for this job was the Henry. The .22 caliber was small but the suppressor would help minimize the noise. He only hoped there would be enough distance between him and the larger group that no one would hear what happened. That also meant making sure the men didn’t have the opportunity to shoot back at him. A shot from their unsuppressed weapons might bring the entire group riding back to lend aid. If that happened, he would probably die.

  Ragus had manned his outpost in the bushes for perhaps twenty minutes before he heard the clatter of shod hooves on the paved county road. He already had his rifle raised and the barrel resting in the crotch of a maple sapling. He let the men get close enough that he would have a clear headshot on the first and should be able to get several more off at the second man before he found cover. Ragus rested the crosshairs at the very top of the man's head and squeezed the trigger.

  The rifle cracked and a hole appeared in the tanned expanse of the man’s forehead. His expression didn't even really change. He merely stiffened then toppled out of the saddle. The other rider must have heard the muffled crack but did not immediately associate it with a rifle shot. He was more distracted by his concern at his friend falling off his horse. By the time he put two and two together and determined there might be a threat, Ragus had already squeezed the trigger again.

  The shot placement had not been so easy on the second man because he was moving and his horse was spooked. The shot caught him in the cheek below his eye socket and ripped away a chunk of flesh the size of a quarter. The man flinched as if he'd been stung by a bee. He gritted his teeth and his hand flew up to his face.

  Watching through the riflescope, it wasn't immediately clear to Ragus if the man even associated the rush of pain with a gunshot wound. Before he could take any further action, Ragus levered the action, positioned the crosshairs, and squeezed the trigger again. The solid-point projectile punched a pencil-sized hole in the man's cranium and penetrated his brain. He tumbled off his horse, which panicked and bolted for the woods. Ragus was not certain the men were dead but he did not want to have to apply the coup de grace from point-blank range. He wasn’t sure he was ready for that kind of personal killing. From his cover, he aimed carefully and put another shot in each man's head. They weren’t getting up from that.

  Ragus had no interest in gloating over his victory. This was not a particularly proud moment. This had not been a fight, it had been an ambush. It was not his skill overcoming his opponent’s skill, but simply the bad luck of two men to have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Add to that the fact that, as a group, the kidnappers had crossed the wrong kind of people. People who didn’t quit.

  Without looking too closely at them, Ragus posed the men in the road, pointing their arms in the appropriate direction. He made a cursory check of their gear and food for anything he needed. One man’s saddlebags had a handful of Snickers bars and Ragus nearly cheered out loud. He was suddenly starving and planned on eating all of them.

  20

  When the dark of night began moving toward a predawn gray, Conor stirred in his hastily strung hammock. He had always been sensitive to light. Unless he was flat out exhausted he found it difficult to sleep outside during the daylight or in a lit room. His work ethic was so engrained he felt if he could see, he should be working. By that same measure, if it was light enough for him to see the ground and not miss a sign, it was light enough to be on the move.

  He was certain he knew which way to go now. There was no mistaking the objective of the morbid directional markers Ragus had left him beside the burning tires. This other road was a secondary road with a lot more turns and intersections than the highway, and he would have to remain alert for places where the kidnapping bastards may change direction. The distinctive scuffs left by the rebar horseshoes were becoming more difficult to spot. Conor assumed they were becoming worn down by all the walking on hard surfaces. The distinctive scoring that made the prints so easy to follow were slowly being ground off by the asphalt. This secondary road was made up of older pavement, already scuffed and harder to read.

  Conor was a fit man despite all the ribbing from his daughter but had to admit he felt a little old for this type of pursuit. His back hurt from being jostled in the saddle all day yesterday. He was not used to being on a horse. He was not complaining about that, though. He’d gladly take the horse over the pace and exertion of trying to keep up with the kidnappers on foot.

  When he did find his first set of prints on the new road he hopped off his horse, crouched down, and examined them closely. He wanted to make a mental note of any changes in their appearance so they would be easy to look out for. He was also pleased to note that this road passed through more forested terrain. With more roadside vegetation, Ragus had taken to breaking the tips from branches again as a trail marker. It was an easy indicator that didn’t require Conor to hop off the horse and lose time deciphering prints. It was also easier for Ragus than having to pose a dead body at every intersection.

  While the dense vegetation made it easier for Ragus to mark the trail, traveling in the forest made Conor much warier. The brilliantly colored changing leaves formed a canopy, looming over and embracing the road. There were a lot of places to hide. There could be men anywhere. This road also passed through communities and there would be houses along it. There could be traps or ambushes anywhere and he might not see them until they were sprung. Days in this terrain, under these conditions, were tense and exhausting. It was a far cry from the peaceful country drive one would have experienced traveling this road a year ago.

  Conor was perhaps an hour and a half down the secondary road when he came up on a straight section with some sort of obstruction in the distance. His first thought was it might be a trap. He raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes and squinted for any sign of something fishy. Instead, a smile curled the edges of his mouth.

  "I like your style, kid."

  The style to which Conor was referring ended up being a new pair of directional markers. There was no intersection here that required clarification so Conor had to assume these dead men were targets of opportunity. Ragus may have no choice but to kill them or he’d killed them to reduce the number of enemies they’d face down the road.

  When he reached the bodies, Conor found there were two of them laid out neatly in the road. Each man's hands, outstretched above his head, was weighted down with rocks to assure they remained pointed in the correct direction.

  “Hey buddy, can you give me some directions?” Conor asked one of them.

  The wounds on the face told Conor the story. The kid had taken them out with head shots. They appeared to be .22 caliber. An M4 in 5.56 would have the same size bullet but there would be more trauma. He suspected Ragus was using the Henry rifle he’d given him with the suppressor. Conor was pleased he’d made the decision to give the boy that rifle now. He was also pleased that Ragus seemed to understand the judicious use of firepower. Better to use the stealth approach of a well-aimed, suppressed shot than to blast m
ag after mag of higher caliber ammo at the target.

  If Conor formed a team when he got home, this kid certainly had a place on it. It crossed his mind he might even make a fine son-in-law but Barb wasn’t having that. To her, the small age difference, or perhaps maturity difference, was an insurmountable chasm. From Conor’s perspective, with the benefit of more life under his belt, the difference in ages would be completely immaterial. There was also no arguing with the fact that Barb badgered and made fun of Ragus every time she saw him. Despite that, it didn’t deter the lad. Maybe he sensed the bark was worse than the bite. There was no arguing with the fact the boy was risking his life, and taking others, to try and save Barb, though. If that didn’t buy him some points with Barb, Conor was going to have a serious talk with the girl.

  One man's forehead was damaged by gunfire, making it a poor substitute for a notepad. The other man's bore a number written in permanent marker, just like the dead man he’d found yesterday. The number was sixteen and the purpose of the numbers was clear now. The previous man read eighteen, minus these two dead men, left sixteen men remaining with the party of kidnappers. The kid was not only leaving him directions but intel as well. He now knew what size force he was dealing with.

  “Good move, son.”

  Conor had been impressed with the boy’s style earlier but this was definitely a good way to pass intel onto the folks following you. The purpose of the numbers would not be clear to folks just randomly coming upon this body but would be evident to someone following in your footsteps. The state of the bodies told Conor that Ragus had gone over them hastily, taking only the things he needed. He hadn’t taken all the weapons which told Conor he’d already armed himself. That was good. The Henry rifle was clearly doing the trick but additional firepower was always nice. If this turned into a battle, the lever action would not be as efficient as a semi-auto.

  The men's horses had been collected and tied off to a nearby tree. Conor removed the gear, saddles, and the bridles. He released each horse with a pat on the rear. No use leaving them here tied up. They could forage until someone new claimed them.

  He went back to the bodies and rolled one of the men over, raising his shirt. He examined for post-mortem lividity. The beginning stages of purple blotching told him the bodies had probably been there for at least two hours but not overnight. He lifted an arm and flexed it, checking for rigor mortis. He found no indications of stiffness there so he moved to the eyelids and neck. Changes he found there helped give him an approximation of how long the bodies had laid there. He was guessing two to four hours.

  Conor had no formal instruction in forensic sciences but he had more experience than he’d admit looking at dead bodies. He also read a lot of medical information because it helped him design better weapons. Occasionally it struck him that it was probably a little fucked up to read medical books for the complete opposite purpose in which they were intended, but that was the nature of the job. He was the Mad Mick, not Doctor Mick. He was the Master of Mayhem, not the Master of Medicine. He was a killer and not a healer.

  He climbed back on his horse and nudged it in motion. A few miles further down the road he came upon signs of a group encampment. A wide trail of beaten-down grass led to a schoolyard where it looked like the group had spent the night. Conor remained on his horse but made a quick pass around the site. He wasted little time there. He only wanted to confirm there were no bodies there, either of captives or of kidnappers. When he found nothing, he steered his horse back onto the road and took off.

  He was close. This could happen today.

  21

  After an hour of riding, Barb began throwing up. She rode with her eyes closed, wavering in the saddle like she could topple over any moment. She was not really sick, she was intentionally trying to appear ill to slow them down, but it was a fine line to walk. A dangerous line. If she appeared too ill, too injured, she suspected they’d just shoot her and leave her behind.

  Top Cat wore a strained expression on his face and cut his eyes at Lester. "This is your fault. She's probably got a head injury. Concussion or something. I think that’s supposed to make you throw up."

  There was a lot Lester wanted to say in his defense but kept his mouth shut. Yeah, he’d screwed up, but everyone had screwed up before. It was not a big deal and he was tired of Top Cat making out like it was the end of the world. If he had to, he could go out anytime with a smaller group of men and bring back more women. He didn’t get this whole thing of making out like they were precious cargo. They weren’t. They were cattle, and there were plenty more cattle out there.

  When she came up with this plan, Barb was concerned she wouldn’t be able to make herself throw up because her hands were bound to the pommel of the saddle. She couldn’t move her hands far enough to get a finger into her throat. Fortunately, she’d once had a nauseating experience that unfailingly made her stomach churn. She hated to draw upon that experience to fuel her nausea but she had no choice. She recalled an incident from a few months back when she was helping her father track down an apparent roof leak in the compound.

  Since a lot of the finished space in the various buildings had once been offices, there were suspended acoustical ceilings throughout much of the facility. A damp ceiling tile had caught Conor's attention. He was meticulous, and if there was a roof leak he wanted to stop it before it did any significant damage. While Conor climbed on the roof to investigate the leak from the top, Barb remained inside staring at the ceiling tile.

  Not one for inaction, she got a ladder and decided to explore from the bottom. She pushed the tile up to see if she could find anything but the ceiling tile was snagged on something and didn't want to go up at all. Try as she might, Barb could not get the tile to move. The adjacent rectangles in the ceiling grid held numerous useless things that prevented her from just moving to an adjacent tile and raising it. Two held florescent lights, one held a heating duct, one a cold air return, and another an exit sign.

  Barb decided since the tile was ruined anyway she could use her finger to push a hole up through the soft tile. Perhaps she could feel something and if any water was trapped there it would then be released by the weep hole her finger created. She got a mop bucket and placed it beneath where she thought the water might run, then put her finger in the center of the damp area on the ceiling tile. She twisted it back and forth, drilling her finger into the soggy tile.

  Her finger hit what she thought was wet insulation, which would have been consistent with what they’d found in other parts of the building. She removed her finger from the hole, squinting and peering upward, shining a flashlight toward the hole. Just then, a gooey stream of maggots poured forth from the hole and ran into her face, her hair, and her open mouth. Barb was neither weak, nor was she squeamish, but the stream of maggots was carried by a liquid that looked like thin red gelatin but smelled and tasted like rot and death.

  Her reaction was instantaneous and involuntary. Springing backwards out of the stream, she half jumped, half fell down the three steps of the ladder. Carried by her momentum and off-balance, she staggered backwards several feet and hit the wall. She brushed furiously at her face, trying to clear the maggots from her face and mouth. She kept spitting but could feel them moving inside her mouth, between her lips and teeth.

  The vomiting came of its own accord.

  She didn't know if it was the taste, the palette of sensations, or the putrid smell like a rotten fish smoothie. She was on her hands and knees throwing up into the mop bucket when Conor came in.

  “I can’t find a damn thing,” he said before spotting Barb collapsed against the wall, a look of panic on her face, which triggered his own panic. He was uncertain as to what had happened to her. His eyes went to the overturned ladder. He crouched at her side and put a hand on her back. “What’s wrong, my girl? What happened?”

  Before she could respond the soggy ceiling tile gave way, crumpling and falling to the floor just feet away from them. As the chunks of disintegratin
g tile hit the ground, the decomposing body of a fat raccoon landed atop it, hitting the floor with the sound of a soaked bath towel dropped onto a tile floor. Odiferous coon fluids splashed around the entire room, hitting both Conor and Barb.

  Conor, who had certainly seen more ghastly sights in his life than his daughter had, simply wiped the spray from his face and curled his nose in disgust. “Well, ain’t that a sight.”

  He took his daughter by the arm and led her to an outside solar-heated shower, helping her into the stall. She was ready to cry and might have had nausea not overruled every other sensation.

  When Barb got out, her dad handed her a glass of clear liquid. “Vodka.”

  “I don’t drink,” Barb said. “I’ll just throw up again.”

  “Don’t drink it. Just swish and spit. It will cut the taste of coon juice.”

  Barb’s stomach heaved but she heeded her dad’s advice. It did indeed cut the taste of coon juice but she hoped that was a folk remedy she never needed to resort to again.

  "Do we need to cut her loose?" Lester asked. "Just leave her behind? Or take her off to the side and kill her?"

  Lester had never killed anybody like that in his life, shooting them in cold blood at point-blank range, but he thought he could do it. Certainly portraying the image that he could perform such an act would strengthen his position among the group. In this type of social order, almost like the correctional system, the willingness to kill so easily and so personally gained you respect. While he wouldn’t admit it to anyone in the group, if Top Cat had given him permission to kill her, he’d probably have just left her behind with a warning, firing a couple of shots into the ground to make people think he really killed her.