The Mad Mick: Book One of The Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  There was a lot Barb could have said at that moment. She considered her options. She could have thanked him for coming after her. She could have acknowledged how well he did in tracking her and in dealing with the men he encountered. It wasn’t her way, though. She was appreciative but felt this was not the time to let down her guard and have a kumbaya moment with this young man who was clearly so enamored with her. She’d thank him when they were safely riding home.

  “I would expect my dad tonight if he hasn’t encountered trouble,” Barb said. “If the boy you sent to him relayed the message and he got on the road the same day, he probably wasn’t far behind.”

  “I left him horses and directions,” Ragus said. “As long as nobody took them from him.”

  That brought a smile to Barb’s face. “No one took them from him, lad. There’s no one out there more dangerous than my father.”

  “That’s comforting, in a strange way.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” Barb agreed. “I feel exactly the same way.”

  The smell of wood smoke reached them. Whoever was on cooking duty was starting a fire. Other men were refilling water bottles, collecting firewood, and setting up a secure perimeter.

  “What should we do if your dad shows up?”

  “When,” Barb clarified. “When he shows up.”

  “So what should we do when he shows up?”

  “Join him.”

  “We shouldn’t take advantage of the distraction and make a break for it?”

  Barb shook her head. “He’s not coming here to create a distraction so we can run. He’s coming for revenge. He won’t stop until every kidnapper is dead. So to answer your question, you take up a weapon and join the fight. Just don’t get in his way.”

  Ragus nodded.

  “You look scared,” Barb observed.

  “I am, a little,” Ragus admitted.

  “No shame in acknowledging that,” Barb said. “Best to be honest. Just don’t let fear control you. You’re braver than you think.”

  “If fear controlled me, I’d be dead already.”

  “Good point.”

  “Stick with me,” Barb said. “We’ll fight our way out of this together. Just stay on alert. Watch for anything unusual, any indications he’s out there and the fight is starting.”

  Ragus frowned.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure I chased you all this way to let you get killed. I’m not anxious to let you get in the middle of a gunfight without a gun.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “First, it’s not up to any man to let me do a damn thing. I do as I please. Second, I’ll have a gun by the end of the fight.”

  Ragus looked at the ground and shook his head. She understood what he was thinking. He was letting the heart crowd out the gut. She put a hand on his forearm. Ragus moved his eyes to it but didn’t let them meet hers.

  “I know what you’re thinking. Don’t let this get into your head. You relax, you rest, while you can. You fight the fight when it’s in front of you. There’s nothing to be gained by trying to fight it now inside your head. Take it a minute at a time. That’s all you can do.”

  “I’m still not sure about this.”

  “It’s not up to you to be sure,” Barb said. “It’s only up to you to fight your best fight. And I recommend staying out of my way.”

  She smiled at Ragus and he knew she wanted him to smile back but he couldn’t do it. His gut was twisted with anticipation, anxiety, and worry.

  25

  Conor's unique line of work, building specialized weapons and explosive devices, brought him in contact with a wide range of experts and operatives. Being a gregarious Irishman, he liked a good story, but was also interested in tidbits of information he might utilize in a future project. He recalled a story he once heard from an operative, a former member of the U.S. Special Forces who had been involved in an operation in Afghanistan.

  The operator, whose name was Rich, was part of a small team being pursued by a group of Taliban riding in technicals, which were often a Toyota pickup with a mounted weapon in the back. Rich and his team were on foot, travelling through a narrow gorge with little room for anything but the road both they and the technicals were following. When it was clear they were not going to escape the Taliban forces without an engagement that could end badly for his vastly outnumbered team, Rich called out to his team to deploy a BFR.

  His team, all highly experienced field operators and soldiers, looked at him in confusion. When Rich didn't elaborate, just continuing to stare at his team, one of them finally broke the deadlock.

  "Dude, we don't have time for this bullshit. What the hell is a BFR?"

  Rich broke into a grin. "Big Fucking Rock."

  It took them less than five minutes of rushed searching to find the right rock, which was probably the size of two Volkswagen beetles welded bottom to bottom. The rock was big enough to put a serious hurting on any pursuing Toyota but small enough that the team of men, with their legs and backs in it, should be able to dislodge it.

  The men waited until the first technical was crawling its way around the corner. They picked this particular section of road because it was steep enough that the rock should roll into the road and then continue rolling back down the road. This removed some of the burden of trying to time the falling rock exactly right in order to crush the technical against the opposite wall. This way, even if they missed, the rock would keep going down the road until it wedged itself against a vehicle, hopefully cutting off all vehicle traffic.

  They gave themselves a head start in their effort to dislodge the rock. They didn't know how firmly seated it would be. Rich lined his team up with their backs against the rock and everyone planted their legs wherever they could find a foothold.

  "Let's give it a test push first. See if we can budge the fucking thing."

  The test push exceeded their expectations. With their adrenaline pumping, each man shoved with all he had and the precariously balanced rock began tumbling down the hill.

  "What do you assholes not understand about a test push?" Rich growled.

  The operators all fell on their backs as the rock shoved out from behind them and started rolling, seriously gaining momentum with each revolution, going from zero to thirty miles to eighty miles per hour in mere seconds. They lay on their stomachs now, staring over the ledge and watching the massive boulder bound toward the approaching technical.

  They experienced a moment of panic when the roundish boulder passed across the road and started up the other side of the mountain. They thought they had overshot their target, the boulder possibly rolling up the opposing incline and becoming lodged there, but it did not. Without losing speed it returned to its channel in the road much like a bowling ball settling into the gutter.

  The approaching technicals had seen the boulder now. At least the first vehicle had, because it was trying to back up, but the second vehicle had no clue what was going on. The first backed into the second, causing the driver in the lead vehicle to stick his head out and scream at the second driver. The second driver, unaware of the impending danger, had his own head out the window, both questioning and cursing the lead driver. By the time he noticed the approaching boulder it was too late.

  The lead driver had been focused on the man behind them, trying to get him to move, and did not allow himself enough time to escape the oncoming rock. The boulder was moving like a freight train and crushed the technical flat like an alcoholic drywaller crushing his first beer can of the day. Rich thought the first technical may act as a wedge and bring the boulder to a stop but it did not. In fact, the boulder barely slowed at all, ramping over the technical and snapping off the heavy gun mount. The two Taliban in the second vehicle burst from each door as if they were spring-loaded just as the massive boulder crunched into their cab.

  The second impact slowed the boulder considerably and it only took a few more tumbles, snapping the gun off the second technical before dropping off the back
of the vehicle and coming to a stop dead center in the road. Rich and his team let out a small cheer. Their cry of victory echoed against the stony walls of the canyon and drew the attention of the half-dozen Taliban now gathered around the boulder. Rich caught this in his binoculars.

  "They've seen us. Somebody drop those assholes."

  They managed to hit most of the six and even place a few rounds in the technicals stopped further back before Rich called for a cease fire. "I don't think they're coming after us. Let’s get the hell out of here and call for an evac."

  The tale of Rich deploying the BFR became legendary among the special operations community. Over the course of the war, the story spread to where it eventually reached the ears of Conor Maguire. While Conor was not certain a boulder was the right tool for the job, he was certain something similar was in the cards. Disrupt the camp and cause chaos. There was a reason some folks called him the Master of Mayhem.

  By the time Conor reached the bridge, the sun was just dropping over the horizon. The kidnappers had stopped but he couldn’t tell how they were dispersed. Wanting a better vantage point, he looked for elevated positions. This being the steep Appalachian Mountains, folks lived and worked on terraced shelves as they did in mountain communities all around the world, whether it was Nepal, Peru, or West Virginia.

  On a bulldozed terrace high above the road were the rusty hulks of heavy equipment and box trailers. Conor found a winding road that led up the mountain and forced his horse upward at the fastest pace it could manage. His heart was racing now. The battle was upon him. He had to force himself to be strategic and methodical, to not just wade in shooting and stabbing. It was hard, though. Barb may be a woman now but she was forever a child in his mind. He saw her at four years old, a motherless child being fed by a father who did the best he could to fill all roles while never certain he was doing any of it right. With no other family in America, they were close beyond words. She was not just his daughter, she was his life.

  The horse was panting when they reached the gravel parking lot carved into the slope of the mountain. It turned out to be the repair shop for a mining operation. It reminded Conor of his own facility. A yellow pipe gate blocked a road that led further back into the property. Worn out and broken down equipment was crammed everywhere on the site.

  He eased to the weedy edge of the bank and stared down on the encampment. Using binoculars, he could tell the prisoners had been forced out onto the bridge, the captors taking advantage of the natural impoundment. A single guard was on the far end. Below Conor, men were building a bonfire and preparing a meal. The horses had been tied off to a single rope at the side of the camp. The saddles had been removed and stacked nearby. Except for the two men guarding either end of the bridge, it looked like everyone was around the campfire with a paper plate in their hands.

  A quick count confirmed that the numbers Ragus had provided on the foreheads of the dead men were fairly accurate. Perhaps fifteen kidnappers remained.

  Fifteen dead men walking.

  A yellow front-end loader, massive and covered in coal dust, stood to Conor’s left. He twisted the lever handle on the cab and pried open a reluctant door. He climbed inside, released the parking brake, and the machine started to roll. He stopped it using the foot brake and reset the parking brake. The shop door was open, the lock having been hacked off. Conor entered cautiously, shining his light around. He found a bin of shop rags and a couple of greasy moving blankets. He took them back outside and crammed them into the cab of the loader.

  Scouring the lot, he found a half-dozen worn-out heavy equipment tires and manhandled them over to the edge of the embankment looking down on the kidnappers’ camp. He stood each tire upright and used a rock wedge to prevent it from rolling off the edge. Inside the shop, he found two five-gallon buckets of a highly flammable liquid used for cleaning parts. Back outside, he splashed the solvent into the absorbent materials packed into the cab of the loader and then onto each of the loader’s tires. He took the remaining solvent and poured a puddle into the bottom of each tire. Not satisfied this would give him the flame he wanted, he found a bucket of hydraulic fluid and added that to the mix to thicken things up.

  He went back into the shop and looked for a propane torch for lighting his goodies. Most shops had one for heating stubborn bolts. While searching for it, he found a beautiful ball peen hammer. As a machinist, a craftsman, he had an appreciation for a good tool. As a maker of tools of murder and mayhem, he had an appreciation for the destructive abilities of a good hammer. He tucked it into his belt.

  When he found the torch, he turned on the gas and hit the red igniter button. A blue flame burst to life. Conor checked that his horse was ready and confirmed his weapons were where he expected them to be. He used the torch to ignite the solvent soaked materials in the cab of the loader and then released the parking brake. The loader eased forward, dropping over the embankment and picking up speed as it freewheeled down the mountain.

  Without waiting for it to hit, Conor lit the puddle in each tire, then started them rolling down the mountain. The dispersal of the kidnappers and the captives could not have been more to his advantage. Trapped on the bridge, the captives were protected by the steel guardrails. The kidnappers, on the other hand, were completely exposed to the barrage of missiles bearing down on them.

  Conor tossed the torch to the ground and sprang onto the back of his horse. It was time. The hour of these men’s deaths was upon them and they had no idea the angel of death was coming. He galloped down the gravel road to the base of the mountain. The gloaming of twilight had crept up on him, the shadows lengthening until they yawed toward night. When the road leveled off, the horse found its rhythm. Conor readied himself. Once the men saw the flaming toys he’d sent their way, they would suspect an attack. They were probably getting ready for him but there was no way they could be ready enough. There was no way they could stop him.

  26

  Barb and Ragus sat against the guardrail on the bridge picking at soggy paper plates of boiled sausages and canned green beans. It was a nasty meal they ate only for the energy to fight back when the time came. When they heard sounds coming from the mountain above them, they first thought it was a rock slide. Then they saw the flames.

  “What the…?” Ragus muttered, spotting the loader barreling down the mountain fully engulfed in flames.

  The kidnappers had seen it too, realized it was headed directly for them, and scattered from their positions around the fire. Nearly at the bottom of the mountain, the loader got sideways and a tire dug in. The machine flipped and starting rolling down the hill. Nearly 40,000 pounds of steel bounced and tumbled, shaking the ground. The burning tires spewed molten, flaming rubber in all directions, starting scores of brush fires on the hillside.

  “There’s more of them!” yelled someone as the first tire came bouncing down the hillside.

  Anyone who’d ever rolled a tire knew that they started out rolling, then began bouncing as they covered long distances at high speed. A four foot high truck tire rolled through the fire and into a cluster of kidnappers, forcing them to dive away from the unpredictable missiles. One unfortunate man was hit square in the chest by a bouncing tire and knocked nearly twenty feet. He staggered back to his feet, stunned and injured but alive.

  The tires that hit the bridge, trees, or abandoned vehicles eventually rolled onto their sides, sprouting massive pyres that disgorged broad clouds of dense black smoke.

  “It’s him!” Barb hissed. “Stay down.”

  She and Ragus flattened themselves against the side of the bridge, taking advantage of the only cover available to them. She called to JoAnn. “It’s my dad! Come here.”

  Word spread among the captives that it was a rescue attempt and people stood, looking for aid.

  “Get down, you idiots!” Ragus yelled. “You’ll get your ass shot!”

  After the loader crashed and all the flaming tires stalled, the sounds of chaos dropped suddenly and ominously.
There was the crackle of flames, the rush of water beneath the bridge, and the sound of cicadas chirping on the looming mountainsides. There was the murmur of nervous men and the crying of fearful prisoners. There was the rattle of men readying weapons. Then there was a new sound. An ominous tapping that began like an impatient man rapping a fingernail on a wooden tabletop. It gradually grew louder, turning into the clatter of approaching hooves on the roadway.

  Conor burst through a column of smoke like a demon evicted from Hell. The reins of his horse were clenched in his teeth and he held a rifle in one hand, his pistol in the other. Flames from the burning tires reflected off his skin and illuminated the smoke around him. People were too stunned to react but Conor didn’t hesitate. He opened fire, his rifle spraying three-round bursts toward the scattering kidnappers. Some fell screaming, rounds sawing their flesh, while others threw themselves toward any available cover.

  His horse reared, overwhelmed by everything going on around it—the flames, the bursts of gunfire, the screaming from all sides. Grabbing for the saddle horn, Conor dropped his rifle but the sling caught it. Without breaking stride, he opened up with the handgun. The rail-mounted laser shot a piercing red beam into the night, stabbing through the smoke and finding targets. For several men, the appearance of that glowing red dot on their chest or forehead was the last thing they saw.

  “Father!” came a voice through the night.

  Barb! He’d found her.

  “Iníon!” Conor bellowed, the Irish word for daughter. He’d been raised to speak Irish Gaelic and had passed it on to his daughter. He spun his horse in her direction and galloped, still shooting.

  Conor did not lose focus that getting his daughter back was not the only objective of this mission anymore. It was also about devastating this group of men who had the audacity to take the only thing of value in his life. It was unacceptable and intolerable. It warranted a death sentence with no mercy and no reprieve.