The Mad Mick: Book One of The Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  When the handgun ran empty and the slide locked open, Conor ejected the mag, dropped the slide on an empty chamber, and slapped home a full mag. He looked for his daughter through the smoke, the flickering firelight, and the gray night, spotting her by the bridge railing, waving a hand. He threw the pistol underhanded, letting it clatter to the pavement and slide to her feet. Before he waded back into the fight, he saw her retrieve the pistol and chamber a round.

  With Barb armed, Conor spun his horse and sprinted back into it. A hand shot from the smoke and grabbed him by the leg, trying to yank him from the saddle. He raised a heavy boot and stomped the figure square in the face, and the man’s nose gave way. Conor thought the man would retreat cradling his broken face but the man had more fight in him. He dropped a hand to his holster and came back with a handgun.

  Before he could level the gun on him, Conor yanked the tomahawk off his back and slashed downward in a single motion, cutting across the back of the man's wrist, nearly severing his hand. The useless hand could not hold the pistol and the man screamed, trying to hold his hand on. Blood flowed between his fingers like squeezing wine from a sponge.

  Conor wasn’t done with him. On his back swing, the hook end of his tactical tomahawk caught the man in the temple, penetrating his skull like a finger jammed through a Styrofoam cup. The man’s face froze and he fell over dead.

  Conor spun his horse, checking his surroundings, a hoof slamming down on the dead man’s face. There was more yelling in the smoke and chaos. Bullets whizzed by him but he wasn’t sure if they were aimed or fired blindly into the dense smoke. Conor nudged his horse into a run and sprinted between a pair of burning tires, their smoke forming a solid curtain. Men were in this direction, he could hear them.

  Bursting through the wall of smoke, Conor found himself squarely in the sights of an AK clenched in the hands of a terrified young man.

  “Oh shit!” Conor tried to raise his leg and slide off the back of the horse, putting it between him and the shooter. No sooner was his leg yanked from the stirrup than the AK opened up in full-auto. Conor's horse flinched and trembled as rounds zipped up its side.

  The horse stumbled, then bolted into the night to die, leaving Conor exposed. With the tomahawk already in his hand, Conor desperately heaved it in the direction of the shooter, knowing the whirling blade would force him into evasive action. The man broke off his aim to sidestep the tomahawk. As he did, Conor whipped up his own rifle and pulled off a three-shot burst that plowed up the man's chest and knocked him on his ass.

  A standing man was a dead man so Conor stayed moving, sending bursts of gunfire in the direction of any man he saw. He wanted to keep the atmosphere chaotic and terrifying. He did not want to give them time to calm down and think. The biggest flames came from the burning loader and it drew his eye. A trio of men was gathered there and he sent rounds in their direction, forcing them into cover behind the burning machine. He whipped out a fragmentation grenade and tossed it at them, dodging behind a tree as it detonated.

  One man staggered out, clutching his ears and disoriented. Conor dropped him with a shot to the side of the head. Two more came after that one, crawling away from the flames on stumps and destroyed legs. Conor launched himself toward them, stopping only long enough to scoop up his tomahawk from where he’d thrown it at the AK shooter.

  The crawling men were bleeding profusely. In better times, a tourniquet and advanced medical treatment would have saved their lives, but that was not happening today. These men would be dead soon enough but Conor wanted them to die with his blood-spattered visage forever burned onto their fading retinas.

  The tomahawk lashed out, the hook sinking into the side of one man's throat. Conor yanked hard, drawing his powerful bicep taut, and the throat ripped free. Blood and gore showered Conor. The surviving crawler screamed for mercy. He begged, backed away, and offered his surrender. Conor had nothing to say. No witticism, no jab, and certainly no acknowledgment of the request for mercy. He stomped his combat boot onto the man's head and swung the tomahawk into the top of his skull like he was hammering a croquet ball.

  Silhouetted now by the blazing loader, Conor began taking fire from several directions. He shoved the tomahawk into his belt. Rounds sang off the thick steel of the loader body. A bullet shattered against a hydraulic cylinder and fragments sprayed the back of his body armor. He couldn’t stay there. He bolted to the opposite end of the loader, paused long enough to whip another grenade from a pouch on his plate carrier, and popped smoke. Added to the smoke and hellish flames from the burning tires, this would provide Conor with even more concealment to move within the fragmented group.

  Low smoke filled the encampment while he ran forth in a maddened fury. He’d built his career on calculating and precise attention to detail, but tonight was none of those things. Tonight was chaos. It was a blood frenzy. It was a maddened berserker creating centuries of legend in one night. Conor no longer saw or heard, he no longer thought. He only reacted. He was a primal machine set to kill.

  A man burst through the smoke, running full blast. He didn’t seem to be charging Conor. Maybe he was trying to escape and Conor simply got in the way. Either way, escape was not an option. The man was too close to shoot so Conor slammed the butt of his rifle into the man’s face. It was a like a pool cue smashing the cue ball on a break. The blow clotheslined the man and he dropped on his back. Conor pummeled him with more blows from the buttstock of his rifle. Only when a puddle formed in the middle of his face and blood splashed did Conor let up.

  He straightened at the sound of more men running through the smoke. He dropped one with a burst of gunfire to the chest. The second was destined for the same treatment but Conor's rifle ran dry. He efficiently ejected the mag, pulled another from the carrier, and slammed it home. He’d done this a million times and could run drills with the best of them but there just wasn’t enough time to do it. He didn’t get the bolt released and a round chambered before the second man went airborne.

  He was a big son-of-a-bitch and wrapped Conor in a bear hug, trapping his arms. Conor released his hands from the rifle but the sling kept it trapped against him. Conor staggered forward, testing the balance and grappling skills of the man latched onto his back. The man had both. He released his grip around Conor’s chest and moved an arm up into a chokehold.

  While Conor’s bulky plate carrier made it difficult for him to maneuver, it also made it hard for the man to get a proper hold on Conor. Despite that, a chokehold could be dangerous even when wielded by an unskilled opponent. The window of time in which he had to react was small. Conor’s hand found the ball peen hammer he’d picked up in the shop up the hill. He whipped it from his belt and swung it into the man's shin.

  The man screamed, a high-pitched bellow of pain, and dropped to the ground. He rolled around cradling his shattered leg. The man’s brain was so overloaded with signals from the damaged nerves that he could not find the words to beg for mercy. It would have been a futile effort anyway. Conor gave no quarter and accepted no surrender. He swung the hammer into the man’s temple like Thor shattering stone. Conor drew back to strike again and saw there was no point. The hammer had sunk inches into the man’s head, creating a basin of flesh and bone that filled with a vile stew of blood and brain matter.

  Conor could hit him ten more times and he would get no deader.

  27

  Conor's attack on the camp brought a mixture of terror and relief. Ragus was terrified by the chaos but tried to mirror the bravery he saw in Barb. She appeared completely unfazed by everything going on around her. He tried to keep an eye on her to watch that she didn't do something impetuous. When she saw her father and called to him, Ragus experienced a moment of panic, concerned her yell may draw attention in the form of gunfire. When Conor tossed a handgun in their direction, both Ragus and Barb reflexively lashed out a hand to take hold of it.

  Ragus looked at Barb with surprise. She looked at him with pure aggravation.

  "
Seriously?" she asked.

  "I need to protect you."

  "If you don't take your hand off that weapon, you’re going to need protection from me."

  Ragus let his hand linger there for a moment, gauging the seriousness of her statement. He found no humor in her eyes so he withdrew his hand reluctantly. "I didn’t come all this way to watch you die."

  JoAnn came crawling over, panic written all over her face. “What’s happening?”

  “It’s my dad,” Barb said. “I told you he’d rescue us.” She shot a glance to the far end of the bridge, away from all the chaos and fighting. There had been a guard there before but she didn't see him now. He was hiding or had had the good sense to run.

  "Get all the prisoners. Move them in that direction. Tell them to stay against the edge of the bridge and crouch down. I don’t want anyone catching a stray bullet."

  Ragus and JoAnn did as they were told. Starting with the women huddled nearest to them, they got their attention and pointed toward the open end of the bridge.

  "Go! Go! Go!"

  The first prisoners, spotting Barb running ahead of them with a handgun, fell in behind her without further prompting. JoAnn and Ragus didn't have to do anything else. The movement of those first prisoners was like pulling the plug on a drain, the prisoners flowing in that direction of their own accord and escaping their prison on the bridge.

  Barb ran at the head of the column, a two-handed grip on the handgun. When her head moved, the gun moved, always ready to pull off a shot if the need presented itself. There was an abandoned car, which she approached cautiously and cleared. She took off again, waving a hand to urge the other captives forward. Up until the shooting started, the other guard had been walking back and forth in a highly visible position at the end of the bridge. She saw no sign of him.

  When she reached the end of the bridge she threw up an arm, halting the prisoners. The pistol had a rail-mounted tactical light to go with the laser and she punched the button. A powerful LED beam cut through the smoke and the fog filling the river valley. She was relieved, concerned the light may have been damaged when Conor threw it to her. She saw no threats and moved the women forward. She took a position at the end of the bridge and directed the prisoners toward an overturned police car.

  "Take cover there! Don't come out until I come back for you!"

  The women ran unquestioningly. They responded to the fact that Barb had a gun and seemed to know what she was doing. Until Bonnie showed up.

  She was the woman who'd been out in the woods with Lester and thwarted Barb's earlier escape attempt. She was the one who’d clubbed Barb over the head and took her out of the fight.

  Her expression venomous, Bonnie got up in Barb's face. "If that's one of your people, I hope they kill the bastard," she hissed. "Not all of us have a place to go back to. Being kidnapped probably saved my life and now you’re fucking it up."

  Barb lashed out with the heel of her palm and struck the woman in the nose. She felt it break under the crushing blow. The blow hurt Barb’s palm but she found it very satisfying. Bonnie crumpled backwards, her eyes rolling up into her head as blood erupted from her nose. Barb leveled the gun at her face. "You ever cross me again and I’ll kill you. This is the only warning you get. If I see you again tonight, I might throw your ass off this bridge, so I’d recommend you stay clear."

  The stunned woman rolled to her knees and started crawling off. Two other captives grabbed her by the arms and steered her toward the rest of the group.

  “Did you save her life just so you could kick her ass?” Ragus asked.

  Barb spun on him, her eyes flashing. “Did you save me just so I could kick yours?”

  “Point taken,” Ragus muttered.

  The encounter with Bonnie reminded Barb she had unfinished business beyond saving these women. Only two men from this group had struck her and she'd killed the first, Howell. Now it was Lester's turn. She hoped he was still alive so she could have the pleasure of killing him personally.

  Since the gunfire erupted, Barb had not seen Top Cat or Lester. They had been at their campfire with the other men eating dinner. When it became clear they were under attack, those two had disappeared in the ensuing chaos. She didn't expect they were gone yet. Whomever this man was back at the farm—the man who had sent him on this mission, and the one they discussed with such deference—held powerful sway over them.

  They were concerned about going back empty-handed, about screwing up this mission. She didn't think they would leave without their cargo of captives unless every one of them was dead. She tried to put herself in their heads. Once she did, she immediately knew where to start looking. That pair was a little sharper than most of the men running around getting killed in the smoke and chaos. They would have gone for the stacks of rifles and ammo where the horses were tied up. They probably had horses saddled and waiting in case shit went seriously downhill.

  When she confirmed all the captives were off the bridge she turned to Ragus. "I'm going after Lester. That bastard is mine."

  "I'm not letting you go alone,” Ragus said firmly.

  "I'm not taking responsibility for you.”

  "I didn't ask you to. But I'm going with you, either way. You’ll have to shoot me to stop me.”

  The pair locked eyes and Ragus experienced a moment of concern. Perhaps he’d overplayed his hand. Perhaps she would shoot him. He was never certain what she was thinking. He was certain only of one thing, that she was perhaps the most violent, most dangerous woman he’d ever met.

  “Come on,” she finally said. “Don’t slow me down and don’t question what I do.”

  There was a burst of full-auto fire from somewhere within the hellish arena. Barb looked into the smoke, the muted flickering of flames reflecting off her face. Further discussion was a waste of time. She bolted and disappeared into the smoke, Ragus hot on her heels.

  He was scared but followed, his only objective to keep up with Barb. She was running at a full out sprint, her arms pumping, the handgun clutched in a single fist. The loud echoes of gunfire and the whine of bullets ricocheting off steel filled the air. There were shouts and screams, roars of fierce combat that Barb knew came from her father doing what he did.

  Barb popped out of the densest smoke within sight of the horses and immediately came under fire. A bullet whizzed by her, low and to the left. Two bullets struck the ground in front of her, chewing up divots of earth and spraying her with dirt. Not wanting to give the shooter time to zero in on her, Barb kept running, hoping Ragus would understand what to do. The scene was dark and ominous. The smoke flashed with pockets of firelight, like lightning seen through distant clouds. The sulfurous smoke from the tires choked them with hellish fumes.

  With her limited visibility Barb nearly ran into a heavy steel garbage can. It was a bear-resistant can, like you found in parks. If the shooter was using solid point rounds they might penetrate it but this was all she had. Any gunshot, no matter where it hit her, might be fatal. There was no evac, no hospital, and no medics. There was nobody but her dad to fix her if she took a serious bullet wound. Death was a likely consequence of any bad decisions.

  More shots came in her general direction though none were close. She caught a muzzle flash that time and saw that whoever was shooting at her was dug in behind the tall pile of saddles. She held her fire, knowing she didn’t have many rounds left in the 9mm pistol. It was just as well since the projectiles would not have significant penetration when hitting the thick leather saddles. She needed a certain shot.

  There was a lull in the battle and she called to Ragus. “You good?”

  "I'm not dead if that's what you're asking," he replied after a brief pause. The attempt at bravado fell flat when tinged with his obvious fear.

  There was another exchange of gunfire beyond the curtain of smoke, then another choked scream. Conor was hunting stragglers. Barb heard a sound and squinted in the direction of the saddles. She caught a flicker of movement, a shadow, a body up a
nd sprinting away. She popped off two shots at the fleeing body but couldn't bring herself to waste more ammo than that. It was possible she hit them but she was not confident. She dropped the magazine from the handgun, tipped it to the nearest source of flames, and thought she could make out the glint of at least two more rounds. She slammed it back home.

  "So, which asshole are you?" Barb yelled.

  The answer came in the form of four quick gunshots, closer than the last burst. There was a high-pitched whine as a round caught the edge of the garbage can. She had to assume he wasn't in the mood for discussion. She looked in Ragus’ direction, briefly considering trying to involve him in a plan but he was too far away. Anything she yelled, the man behind the saddles would hear. There wasn’t much cover, and she didn’t want Ragus to break and try to reach her. He’d just get killed and that would be lousy payback for all the effort he’d put into finding her.

  She thought her only option might be to get to the horses. The asshole behind the saddles might not fire into the herd. Not that the guy was an animal lover, but if he had any hope of salvaging this operation he would need those horses. She hopped back to her feet, into a sprinter’s position, and launched herself into the darkness, running as hard as she could. Her breath pumped as rapid gunfire erupted in the night. Bullets impacted around her but nowhere close. The man had no concept of leading a running target and she was thankful for that small blessing. Her running startled the horses and they shuffled about, making high-pitched sounds of alarm.

  When she reached them, she slipped into their midst. She tried to soothe them in her calmest voice. She stroked their flanks as she eased by, weaving her way through a maze of fur and flesh, trying to keep horses on all sides of her. Her plan was to work her way to his position, hoping that he could not get a shot at her without injuring his horses. It might force a reaction. He might run, but anything was better than a deadlock.