The Mad Mick: Book One of The Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  "No, you're not fucking shooting her," Top Cat grumbled. “I’ve told you, we can’t spare any of them.”

  Barb experienced a little relief in overhearing that, concerned she had overplayed her hand and puked herself into being euthanized.

  “How about we leave somebody here with her to see if she gets any better?"

  "We’re already down enough men," Top Cat replied. "And what if she didn't get better? What are we supposed to do with her then?"

  “With this sized group and these pack horses, we’re moving pretty slow," Lester replied. "We can let her stop and rest for an hour or two, then double-time it to catch up with us.”

  Top Cat looked indecisive, shaking his head doubtfully. "I don’t like this thing of us being strung out all over the place. Our strength came from the size of the group, and this group is getting smaller by the day. It gets too small, we lose our intimidation factor and we might get challenged by locals."

  Lester was fully aware the group was shrinking and he had his own opinions about why that was taking place. Top Cat was just not listening when he offered them. Lester persisted, and Top Cat finally gave in, giving him permission to leave the injured woman behind in hopes a little rest would improve her condition.

  "You better hope she snaps out of this and there's no permanent damage. I'm not lying to Bryan about this. I'll tell him your fuckup cost us a woman. I expect when he hears that you’ll be carrying her load for a while. You’ll be doing laundry and working crops, all that shit."

  That was exactly what their boss back at Douthat Farms had assured them would happen if they injured any of the women. He’d told them whoever was responsible would have to carry the workload originally intended for the injured prisoner. Lester thought that was a crock of shit. In fact, he thought Top Cat being in charge of him was also a crock of shit. Lester was practical and realistic in his awareness of his own limitations. He did not have the broad range of knowledge required to operate Douthat Farms like their boss Bryan did. Lester could never take over that operation and run it with the same efficiency. He could never manage all the people and personalities. He knew nothing of agriculture, solar power, or construction.

  Top Cat, on the other hand, was no better in those departments than Lester was. He wasn't a better leader, any smarter, or any more skilled than Lester was. As far as Lester was concerned he could just as easily do that job. He was tired of taking orders from Top Cat. If the man persisted in being a dick, the injured girl might not be the only person left behind. With all the people who had already disappeared from this expedition, one more might not make any difference. He could slip a knife in Top Cat’s back and roll him off into a ditch somewhere, no one the wiser.

  "I want to leave Howell with the girl," Lester said.

  Top Cat looked over at him curiously. "Howell? Really? I thought you didn't like him. You’re always complaining he’s useless."

  Lester shrugged. “Well, if he’s totally fucking useless then I guess we won’t miss him being left behind with her, now will we?"

  "I guess not," Top Cat agreed.

  The riders left Barb and Howell at a shady spot by the road. It was little more than a wide place to pull off by a scenic creek. It looked like a spot where people stopped to fish or picnic. Howell protested being left behind, presenting a variety of reasons why he thought it was a bad idea, but he wasn’t fooling anyone. They were all pretty sure it was because he was scared. He’d shown signs of it before but he was a decent follower and you had to have people like that.

  Lester complained about the guy all the time. He was always shirking the hard physical labor at the camp. That would be okay if he compensated for it by carrying more of the guard duties, but he didn’t like those either. He complained about snakes, bears, and the bugs. If it was Lester’s call, he’d simply cut the guy loose and boot him out of camp but he didn’t get to make those decisions.

  Lester left Howell with a water filter and a couple of empty bottles. He also gave them a half-dozen cans of pears from one of the pack horses.

  "You don't got peaches?" Howell asked. “I like peaches better.”

  "I don’t give a shit what you like. It’s the pears or nothing," Lester replied.

  Howell pouted. "Be that way then." He took the pears and wandered off to take a seat on a rotted log.

  Barb laid on a vinyl tablecloth in the thick grass. She was alert and listening to everything but she put on a good show of whimpering and acting semi-conscious.

  When the larger group rode out of sight Howell began to express his frustration with Barb. As far as he could tell, she couldn't hear him. She was practically delirious. As long as he didn't hurt her, or at least leave any marks on her, he figured he could do what he wanted. Certainly berating her was within the scope of what he could get away with.

  "Stupid bitch! You’re the reason I got stuck here babysitting. A grown-ass man and I got to look after you."

  Barb was concerned about the man hovering over her and mumbling. She expected at any moment for him to lash out with a foot or punch her in some soft spot that wouldn’t leave a mark. She needed to do something to put a little space between them. She needed a deterrent. All it took on her part was recalling the revolting mouthful of fermented raccoon juice and the smell of it on her face, a mix of rotted fish and corpse. She gagged deeply, turned her head, and threw up a puddle of bilious liquid at his feet.

  "Jesus Christ!" Howell muttered, stepping backward. He grew even more disgusted at her and stalked off to look over the creek bank. There were boulders along the edge the size of wheelbarrows. A man could stand on them while fishing.

  Howell wandered back to her a few minutes later. "I'm going to fill these water bottles. If you move an inch, you’ll live to regret it. There won’t be any marks but you'll hurt just the same."

  Giving no reaction at all, Barb continued to give the impression she was barely coherent. Bored with her, Howell walked off to fill the water bottles. Relieved he’d gone about his business, Barb lay there on the ground fully aware that, while she wasn't as bad off as she acted, she really didn't feel very well. Her ribs and sternum ached from the blunt arrow she'd taken to the chest on the day she was kidnapped. Lying on the hard ground only caused that pain to resurface, and she was not entirely certain she didn't have a mild concussion from the flashlight blow she’d taken to the head last night.

  Concerned that Howell might be a loose cannon despite the warnings not to hurt her, Barb decided while he was over the bank filling water jugs she would pretend to pass out. Her fitful tossing and moaning only agitated him, reminding him of her presence, and of the unwanted babysitting duty he’d been unfortunate enough to draw.

  She needed to think. She had a decision to make. She felt an obligation to JoAnn and didn’t want to abandon her. If she killed Howell and took his weapon, could she then get JoAnn back by herself? Perhaps she would run into her dad along the trail and enlist his help, but she wasn't even a hundred percent certain he was out there. All she had was a feeling and the knowledge that he would follow her with everything he had. That still didn't mean he was close enough to help with a rescue.

  Unfortunately, the easiest way to keep JoAnn safe was from the inside, as a captive. Even in her injured state, she was aware she could not stop thinking like a sheepdog. It was about obligation and protection. It was about taking care of folks who couldn’t take care of themselves. She should just try to relax and take a nap. When she woke up she would pretend to feel significantly better, then she and Howell could rejoin the main group.

  She heard the loathsome man returning from the creek, the heavy steps of his boots in the overgrown weeds, then scuffing against the gritty dirt. He rinsed his mouth out with a drink of cold water and spat it on the ground then shuffled over toward her. She could sense him standing above her, an ominous, menacing presence. She could feel the gears grinding in his head and hear his dark thoughts. The side of him of him that followed orders was losing out to the other
side. Why was he just standing there above her? Why didn’t he sit down somewhere else and keep himself occupied while she rested?

  The water bottle lid was unscrewed again and she heard him drinking. There was a spitting sound and a warm spray of water hit her in the face. He’d rinsed his mouth again but this time he chose to spit the water on her instead of on the ground. She was so startled she broke her act, opening her eyes and looking up at him. She was greeted by the grinning visage of a man who had come to a decision, and it was not a decision she would like. He resolutely put the lid back on the water bottle and tossed it casually in the direction of his pack, then returned his gaze to her. There was a smile on his lips. A glazed expression in his eyes.

  Barb would have given anything at that moment to have her hands free. With her martial arts background she was confident she could grapple with this guy and kill him with her bare hands. He'd have no idea what hit him. With her injuries, and with her hands bound, she was less certain of her abilities. If he chose to carry out whatever disturbed plan he was concocting, she may be powerless to stop it.

  She watched his eyes and saw he’d progressed. He’d passed the point of deciding to act on his thoughts. He was now struggling with how to initiate it. He was trying to get his nerve up. His indecision showed her he was not a career criminal. He was probably not someone who’d even committed a violent crime before in his life. He was just dumb and she was a target of opportunity. He was a weak man and could not resist the impulses of a sick, immature mind.

  Then he pounced, dropping heavily onto her body and straddling her. He sat on her stomach with a leg on each side. The impact stunned her, the pain in her ribs taking her breath and making her eyes water.

  "You don't have to do this," she said through gritted teeth, finally recovering enough to speak. Her voice was low but firm. Commanding.

  He grinned at her, his sense of reason, morality, totally gone. There would be no changing his mind. He was sure where he wanted to go and he would not be deterred. Howell placed one hand on her throat and with his other began unbuttoning her flannel shirt. He could only undo two without shifting his body lower.

  "You don't have to do this," she repeated firmly.

  Again, he did not answer. He was beyond answering. Not wanting to hear anything else from her, Howell raised his hand from her neck to her mouth and pressed down hard, mashing her lips painfully against her teeth. Howell leaned over and began kissing her neck. Still uncertain how to resolve this, Barb considered forcing herself to become sick again, to throw up on his head. It would not be difficult. His mouth on her neck provoked the same nauseous reaction that memories of the raccoon had.

  But how would he react if she became sick? Would it stop him or simply anger him? Would he then beat her, further injuring or debilitating her? Would he kill her?

  She studied his balance and his body position. The hand pressing so heavily on her mouth was his support hand. It was the pivot point from which all else was balanced. She jerked her mouth open as wide as it would go. With his weight on that hand, he could not yank it away immediately. Part of his hand slid into her mouth and she latched onto him with her teeth.

  She bit him hard, attempting to bite through the flesh of his hand, but she did not hang on. Yanking his hand away from her mouth was purely a reaction and it caused him to lose his balance. Losing the support hand was like snapping the leg off a tripod. He dropped awkwardly across her chest, right on top of her arms and bound hands, pinning them against her.

  In order to kiss her neck seconds earlier, he’d scooted his legs down her body and was laying directly on top her. She flung her legs apart now, wrapping them around his waist. When she did that, clutching him in her powerful grip, he reacted by putting both hands on the ground to either side of her body and trying to raise himself off her.

  That freed her bound arms from where they’d been trapped between them. She clasped her hands together, yanking them upward and to the left. By sweeping them to the side of her body she knocked one of his hands out from under him. Losing his balance yet again, his body tilted and he fell heavily on her chest. He was not a grappler and had no defense against her moves. Before he could recover, Barb rained devastating elbows down on his head.

  He tried desperately to push himself away, getting a hand beneath Barb's chin and pushing. That further dialed up the excruciating pain she was experiencing from her ribs. She did her best to block it out, using her adrenaline to mask it. She focused only on driving elbows down onto his head. Her blows were stunning but not entirely debilitating. Then one split his forehead open and blood began to run between them.

  Howell shoved angrily at Barb’s face but could not push himself back far enough to line up a punch. Another elbow shattered the bridge of his nose. Howell realized he had to get away from the elbows. He had to put distance between them because the blows were taking a toll. He tried turning his body away from her and she allowed him do it. In fact, she was relieved at his action.

  It was a crucial mistake and the one Barb had been waiting for. By rolling over and presenting his back to her, he’d set himself up for the choke. She looped her bound arms over Howell's head and drew her zip tied wrists hard against his throat. Too late, Howell realized his mistake and began clawing at her hands. He pried at her fingers, tried rocking to each side, anything to roll away from her, but her legs trapped him, kept him close against her body.

  Using his superior weight advantage he did manage to roll onto his side and then his stomach. That accomplished nothing. Barb rolled with him and, despite getting a face full of dirt, she was now in an even more superior fighting position. Her legs were pressed against the ground, trapped between his body and the earth, which locked them into position. Howell was weakening, his arms pushing feebly against the ground, unable to do anything to counter her attack. Anxious to end this, she painfully arched and extended her back, pulling her cramping biceps as tight as she could, trying with all her might to rip his head from his body.

  The act was incredibly painful and she cried out, screaming with the effort, screaming to block the pain messages firing in her body. “Die, you fucker!” Tears welled in her eyes, both from the pain and the satisfaction. She could feel him struggling beneath her but less now. He was dying. He could not escape.

  From nowhere, hands were on her back and she knew there was now someone else in the fight. Taking Howell out required everything she had. She had nothing left for another attacker. If they wanted to kill her there was nothing she could do to stop them. She was not a quitter, but she’d given this fight her all. If the man at her back wanted to stick a knife in her, she was uncertain as to whether she could even raise an arm in her own defense.

  She could hear a voice but her heart was pounding so loudly it drowned out everything else. It was a freight train roaring through her mind. Through her murderous fury, it then hit her that the hands on her back had not pulled her away from Howell, nor was the voice imploring her to release him. It was just repeating her name, patiently.

  Barb whipped her head to the side and saw a face. It was familiar, but in her frenzy, in her rage, it took her a moment to put a name to it. Then she realized it was the boy. Ragus. She looked at him in confusion. Had it been him all along that had been following them, and not her father? Was it him nipping away at the men they left behind? Her arms finally failed her, so flooded with lactic acid she could no longer control them. She sagged onto Howell’s body.

  “What are you doing here, kid?” she breathed.

  He helped her disentangle herself from Howell's body and she flopped painfully over on her back, sucking in a breath. Ragus rolled Howell over, saw the ligature marks from where the zip ties had contacted his throat. There was swelling and deformation there, as if she had crushed his windpipe. His eyes were open, red and bulging. He was dead.

  Ragus crouched over Barb. He whipped out a knife and sliced her bonds. "It's okay, Barb. You're safe now.”

  She stared at Ragus
. He was different now. Or seemed different. He had risked his life for her. Had that changed him? Or had it just changed how she saw him?

  “It was you all along? Behind us?”

  Ragus nodded. He continued to gaze at her in a way she’d never seen from him before. Or never noticed. It was not a boy’s look. It was a man’s look.

  “My dad?”

  “I think he’s somewhere behind us. Probably not far.”

  She let out a gush of breath and almost smiled. That was good news. “What the hell kind of name is Ragus, anyway? Where’d you pick that up?”

  He smiled at her. “It’s my real name. If I told you what it meant, I’d have to kill you.”

  She did smile at that. “I’d have to let you. I got no fight left.”

  “Oh yeah,” Ragus said, remembering something. He dug a finger into his pocket and pulled out a gold chain, dangling it in front of her. “This yours?”

  “You found it,” she whispered, touching it lightly with a trembling finger.

  Ragus nodded, pleased with himself. Then there was a thud and Ragus’ head shook from an impact. His eyes glazed over and he fell forward across Barb's body. At first she had no idea what happened to him, then she saw Lester's grinning visage over the raised buttstock of a rifle.

  "I knew there was some son-of-a-bitch following us. I just couldn’t get ole Top Cat to believe it. But here he is, in the flesh. He’ll have to believe me now. I can't wait to see the look on his face when I haul this asshole into camp.”

  Barb would not give Lester the satisfaction of seeing her cry. The only other reaction she could muster was to glare at him with pure hatred. She would kill this man one day, perhaps even as personally as she’d just done with Howell, squeezing the life from him with her bare hands.

  Lester nudged the dead body beside her with the toe of a dusty work boot. "Shame about Howell," he said, his voice lyrical with mock sincerity. "He was such as an asset to the organization."