Over his career, Conor created pool cue rifles that were accurate to 250 yards with a 6.5 Creedmoor cartridge. A rifle scope was integrated into a second pool cue and the matched set was used for a wet work operation in Houston that never made any newspapers. He once made a music stand for a clarinetist turned assassin that transformed into a combat tomahawk. It was used for an especially brutal assassination in Eastern Europe.
He turned automotive airbags into shrapnel-filled claymore mines that replaced standard air bags in most vehicles and could be triggered remotely or by a blow to the front bumper. For another job, he’d created a pickup truck that appeared to have standard dual exhausts from the rear. In reality, one exhaust pipe was normal while the other was a rear-facing 40mm grenade launcher.
He routinely created untraceable firearms, suppressors, and unique explosive devices. His explosives contained components sourced from around the world which made it difficult to ascertain the bomber’s country of origin. It gave his employer plausible deniability. He had resources in every shadowy crevice of the world and they were always good to send Conor the odd bit of wire, circuitry, and foreign fasteners to include in his handiwork.
Like many bomb makers, Conor was fastidious in his level of organization and preparation. That carried over to his home life. His compound on the mountain had backup solar, available spring water, and food enough to last him for years. Even with those food stores, he maintained a little livestock just to freshen up the stew pot.
"What's on the agenda today, Barb?” he asked. “What do you have planned for yourself?"
"There's a girl at the bottom of the mountain, JoAnn, who I've become halfway acquainted with. It’s just her and her dad. Kind of like us. I ran into her yesterday and she said she was going to be doing some late-season canning so I offered to help. She’s canning things I’ve never done before, like French fries.”
“Canned French fries. That sounds bloody magical,” Conor said. “Plus I’m sure it would be nice to get some girl time, huh?”
Barb smiled back at her dad, a wee drop of mischievous venom in the expression, and yet another demonstration she’d been aptly named. "Actually, it would just be nice to be around somebody who’s not telling the same old tired jokes and boring stories all day long. Somebody who doesn't think they're God's gift to humor and storytelling."
Conor faked offense. "I always thought you liked my stories. I thought they were part of our familial bonding. Those stories are your heritage."
"You need new stories, Dad. I don't know if you've noticed or not but, when you tell a story, I’m usually sitting there beside you mouthing the words along with you. I know exactly how they all go. But I guess sitting there making fun of you also counts as bonding."
Conor looked smugly at his daughter. "I had a new story for you when I went over to Damascus and helped that girl Grace and her family. You were on the edge of your seat."
"Yes, but as much as I’m tired of the old stories I don’t want you putting yourself at risk just to bring home new material. Besides, you're getting too long in the tooth for those kinds of adventures. You’re not an operator anymore. Your days would be better spent puttering around the garden in a cardigan, half-drunk on Guinness, cursing at the beetles and weeds."
"Don't be so quick to put your old dad out to pasture, Barb. I've got plenty of good years left in me. And plenty of good fights."
Barb raised her cup of tea toward him in a conciliatory toast. "Well, here's to hoping those fights die on the vine. I hope you never have to use them."
"I'll toast to that," Conor said, raising his coffee mug.
"So what's on your agenda today, dear father?"
"I spoke to a man the other day who lives down in the valley near the Buchanan County line. Since the shit hit the fan he's been taking in horses people could no longer feed. Now he's got more than he wants to take care of over the winter. I told him I might be willing to trade for a few so I’m going to go look at them."
"Ah, a horse would be nice. It could take me an hour to walk to JoAnn’s house this morning. It would be half of that on a horse and a lot less effort."
"It will damn sure be easier to carry a load on a horse than on a bicycle," Conor added.
"So you've given up on your bicycles, have you? I’m shocked. I thought you were training for the Tour de Bojangles, twenty-one days of bicycles and biscuits?"
Conor shook his head. "I’ve not given up on bicycles but my tender arse has. It’s become delicate in my golden years."
Barb smiled at that. Despite her banter with her father, she loved him dearly. It was just the two of them in the world and that was fine with her. One day she may have room for a husband and children but she was in no hurry. She would try to wait the world out and see if things got back to normal one day.
"An hour is still a long walk," Conor said. "Take your full load-out."
Barb rolled her eyes. "You know I don't go out without my gear."
"It doesn't hurt to remind you. We check and we double check. That's what we do and that’s how we stay alive. Not just your rifle and your pistol, but your go bag and your radio.”
She gave her dad a thumbs up. "Got it, Dad."
“You better,” he warned. “Some things are joking and bullshit. This is not. This is life and death. Every single day.”
“Roger that.”
“Plates too,” he insisted. “Plate carrier and armor plates.”
Barb groaned. “It’s too hot, and it’s heavy.”
Conor gave a conciliatory smile. “Well, if you’re too weak to carry the weight…”
“I’ll take them,” Barb said, getting up from her seat. “You’re driving me nuts with this.” She went into the house to get her gear together. She had no intention of carrying those heavy plates. She would have to find a way to slip out without him seeing her.
This story continues in
The Mad Mick by Franklin Horton
Available on Amazon
The Ungovernable Page 29
