Masters of Mayhem

by Franklin Horton

Johnny and Jason both nodded, and Jason said, “Small place. We all know each other.”

  "I might like to drop in on the Reverend White. Would you folks mind going with me? He might be more trusting if I have a familiar face with me."

  "Tomorrow would be a good day," Johnny said. "They actually have a sermon tomorrow so there’ll be a good turnout.”

  “What time would be good?”

  “Maybe three in the afternoon,” Johnny said, looking at his son for confirmation. “They’ve moved the service up since people are walking and not everyone has batteries for flashlights, and it’s getting dark earlier. They’ll have the sermon and then everyone will eat before heading home.”

  “What time would we need to leave here?” Conor asked.

  “Be here around 2:30 and that should give us plenty of time,” Johnny said.

  “The whole family go?” Conor asked.

  Johnny shook his head. “Can’t leave the house empty. Someone has to stand guard. Small community but it has its rogues.”

  “I’ll see you gentlemen tomorrow,” Conor said. He gave a wave and nudged his horse into a trot.

  7

  Barb was working on a new chicken house. The day had warmed to the point she was shedding layers, though still breaking a sweat. She decided to stop for a drink of water and maybe a snack. She found Ragus in the kitchen making himself a sandwich.

  “Whatcha having and where’s mine?” she asked.

  Ragus built a sandwich with the same intense look of concentration she saw on her dad’s face when he was constructing one. "One of those fancy sandwiches your dad is always going on about. Thin sliced goat with goat cheese and a pickle on flatbread."

  Barb nodded. "My dad does love his food. He calls that one the Goato Cubano.”

  "I never had goat before moving in with you guys. It’s good. Can I make you one? I've got all the stuff out already."

  "No, but thanks. I’m going for canned tuna. I’m suddenly starving."

  "You must have the metabolism of a teenage boy,” Ragus said. "You eat nearly as much as I do."

  Barb cocked her head at him. "Listen, kid, when you start training as hard as I do every day you'll have room to talk. You try one of my workouts and your arms will be shaking so hard you won’t even be able to hold that Goato Cubano to your lips.”

  Surprising Barb, he shot back, “I might like to take you up on that sometime. After seeing you in action I’ve realized it might do me some good to learn some of the things you know. I used to be a wrestler but it’s nothing like the way you fight."

  “Grappling is just one tool in the tool belt, Ragus. When it’s all you have, it’s like trying to fix every problem with a set of pliers. Learning multiple martial arts gives you more to draw on. Jujitsu, Krav Maga, and Tae Kwon Do give you other tools to use.”

  Ragus finished the construction of his sandwich, folding the flatbread over with the same precision one might use when carefully placing a processor into a motherboard. He dusted his hands off, then took his sandwich to the table. He sat down, admiring his sandwich again before raising his eyes to Barb. “I’m serious. You were impressive.”

  They had not discussed the kidnapping and rescue, especially just between the two of them. Most of what had been discussed on the trip home was Conor asking questions and them providing answers. The whole experience made Barb uncomfortable on several different levels, not least of which was that she now felt obligated to the boy in front of her. It was a position she didn’t like to be in. He’d risked his life to come after her.

  "Look, I've been meaning to bring that up. I appreciate you coming after me. I honestly do. I know I can be a bitch sometimes. I've never said it but I appreciate it. You didn't have to do it. With all the times I’ve smarted off to you and given you shit about things, I’d have completely understood if you just turned away from the whole mess with the kidnappers."

  Ragus flattened his sandwich beneath his palm, trying to keep the whole conglomeration together and reduce it to a size that would fit his mouth. When he was done, he looked up at her. "There was no choice. I had to do it. How could I live with myself?”

  His response made Barb feel like she owed him an explanation for why she treated him the way she did. She could be a hard person but she didn’t like to leave things unsaid. She understood the fragility of life better than some.

  “The reason I've always treated you like I do is because I know you've had a little crush on me and I was trying to discourage it in the best way I knew how. I don’t have a lot of experience with men. Or boys. I was trying to be a bitch so you would quit chasing after me.”

  Ragus raised an eyebrow at Barb over a mouthful of sandwich. "Really?" The expression on his face was one of amusement.

  She shrugged. "What?"

  Ragus set his sandwich down and wiped his mouth. "You honestly think I did all that for you? Seriously?"

  She looked at him as if he'd gone mad. "Of course you did. I know that's why you came after me. I could see it in your eyes every time you looked at me. Why else would you have risked your life like that?"

  “For your dad.” He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

  Barb was floored. “My dad?”

  "Barb, I want us to be friends and get along. But I tried to rescue you for your dad. He saved my life by taking me in. As far as you are concerned, I know you’re a bad ass and all, but you're just not my type of girl. It’s nothing personal, and I still hope we can be friends."

  “Friends?” Barb asked, her mouth nearly agape. She made a harrumph sound, and spun on her heel to leave. “I've got work to do."

  “That is what you wanted, right?” Ragus called after her. “Friends?”

  She didn’t answer him and it made Ragus smile. She was right. As much as he worshipped Conor, he had pursued Barb because he had a crush on her. He knew the age difference between them was significant to her. She saw him as a young kid, but it wasn't that much of a difference, only a couple of years. He’d had time to think about this, and he’d arrived at some epiphanies.

  He knew that some women, when pursued, behaved like prey. It was their instinct to flee. Sometimes it was subconscious, a purely instinctual reaction, but at other times it was more contrived and done to see if the man pursued. In one of their more personal conversations Conor pointed out that his daughter was not like most girls. If Ragus pursued Barb and she fled, it was most likely so she could circle around behind him and snap his neck. Conor warned that he should never expect her to behave in the manner of girls her own age. Her life experiences had just been too different. She was her own unique creature.

  Ragus made the decision that he would not humiliate himself further by chasing her around and nipping at her heels like a puppy. In fact, he decided he would do much more than give her space. He decided with much glee that he would pretend as if the whole thing was in her head. He wanted to see how she would react if he started moving away from her instead of toward her. He’d been waiting for the opportunity to broach the topic and it had finally come. She’d even been the one to bring it up. While he didn’t want to jump to conclusions about the effect this conversation might have on her, he was certain that what he’d said was provoking a reaction. She was questioning her instincts now, and that was exactly where he wanted her.

  It was the most conniving and manipulative thing he’d ever done in his short life and he was quite proud of himself.

  8

  The next morning Conor was drinking his coffee and considering his breakfast options when something got his attention. It took him a moment to process that it was both a sound and a feeling. His body pulsed while his ears registered the sound of rotors.

  Chopper.

  Already dressed for the day he walked back into the kitchen and set his coffee mug back on the counter. “Guests are here!"

  Neither Ragus nor Barb had stirred yet and they needed to be up for this. Not just for the spectacle, either. You never knew if things were e
xactly what they were promised to be. You always had to be ready for things to slip sideways. Being ready meant being armed.

  Conor pulled on a fleece jacket, grabbed a gun belt from a hook by the door, and took it out onto the porch with him, strapping it on. Not only was there the concern that the chopper might be bringing someone or something other than what he agreed to, there was also the concern that the noise of the chopper might bring folks toward his compound. They might assume the chopper was dropping off supplies they could steal. Anything out of the ordinary was a chance for the world to screw you. Conor had learned that long ago.

  When the Chinook came into sight Conor let out a low whistle. Since moving to this compound deep in the Virginia hills, he couldn't recall the number of times choppers had landed on his property. In fact, it had become sort of a routine occurrence around the place. Sometimes it was commercial jet helicopters bringing in supplies or picking up completed projects Conor had whipped up for a job. Other times it was an Apache or Blackhawk dropping off someone that Conor needed to train on a special weapon he’d put together.

  With all those landings he'd never hosted anything like the behemoth that he saw chugging over the trees. This was a massive cargo chopper with twin rotors, capable of transporting people or suspending loads beneath it. The ungainly craft looked more like a submarine than something you’d see suspended in the air.

  Conor reached back into the house and grabbed a pair of sunglasses from the table by the door. Although not safety glasses, they would still protect his eyes from dust and debris churned up by the rotor wash. He jogged to the flat employee parking lot off to one side of the facility, waving his arms until he was certain he had the pilot’s attention.

  The chopper squared off with him and approached to a distance of around fifty yards. Conor’s body was jostled by the turbulence created by the massive craft. His clothes flapped and he had to slap a hand onto his head to keep his hat from sailing off. A conex shipping container hung beneath the chopper, suspended by four steel cables. Knowing the chopper would have to drop its load before it could discharge any passengers, Conor was prepared to guide the chopper to drop the box and then direct it a short distance away for the landing, but that wasn’t what happened.

  The chopper descended gently and lowered the shipping container to the pavement with impressive precision. Conor was fairly sure that if there was a bottle of champagne sitting on a table inside it would not have been disturbed during the placement of the box. When the pilot was certain the container was safely on the ground he gave himself a little slack and then dropped the cables. Conor had a clear view of the cockpit and was certain the pilot could see him. He directed the pilot to the left for the landing but the pilot ignored him with a little wave, banking off to the right, and disappearing over the tree line.

  Conor was confused. Ricardo hadn't said anything about there being a gear drop prior to the passengers arriving. He made it sound like this was a one-shot opportunity to get these folks aboard a transport that just happened to be coming this way. That made sense. Conor watched the skies frequently and there was very little air traffic moving.

  "Where’s the people?"

  Conor jumped at the voice, turning to find Barb and Ragus standing behind him. He hadn’t heard their approach. He shrugged and took a couple of steps toward the container, looking for any markings or perhaps even a message that would communicate the plan to him. What he did not expect was a loud bang on the door of the container. It came from inside.

  He reacted by drawing his pistol. He wasn't about to shoot at the container itself. He knew he could damage it with a rifle, he’d done it before, but he’d never fired on a container with a handgun. He didn't have enough information to open fire on it at this point anyway but he wanted to be ready. There was still the lingering concern that it could be full of hostiles ready to burst out the door and open fire on them.

  With that thought moving to the forefront of his mind, Conor was preparing to retreat and direct his family back toward the house when a muffled voice came from the container. Besides the thick steel walls, these containers had gaskets around the door to prevent rodents and weather from infiltrating them. The effect was such that the voice inside sounded as if it was coming through a damaged audio speaker. He only managed to decipher a single word from the garbled speech.

  Mick.

  With his handgun still at the ready, Conor approached the container and placed his head to the door. “Hello?"

  There was a voice again. "Is that the Mad Mick?"

  The voice was still muffled but Conor was certain he'd heard every word this time. Whoever was in that container knew about the Mad Mick. Were the visitors he was expecting inside the container?

  It made sense in some ways. Maybe the pilot was uncertain as to whether to trust that Conor indeed had a landing pad capable of handling his craft. Also, by carrying the passengers in the container he could discharge them without landing, saving time. Conex boxes typically had to be opened from the outside so it was up to Conor to let them out.

  "Back up!" he directed Barb and Ragus. "Put yourselves back around that corner until we know who's in here.”

  Conor took one hand from the grip of his gun and approached the latch. He took a deep breath and unhooked it. There was a heavy clanking sound that echoed inside the box. He backed away slowly, pulling open the heavy steel door and shielding his body with it.

  He immediately noticed that the furthermost three-quarters of the container were packed solid with gear held back by a sturdy cargo net. The remaining quarter of the container, the end closest Conor, held two recliners strapped down to the deck with cargo straps. A passenger sat in each recliner with the cargo strap running across their lap like a seatbelt. The man in one recliner had a rifle in his hand, apparently having used the butt to bang against the door and attract Conor's attention.

  Reacting to the sight of the gun, Conor leveled his weapon on the man holding it, then recognized him. “Fuck me,” he muttered, pointing the pistol away from the man and turning away in disgust.

  The man in the recliner smiled broadly. "Don’t run away now. It’s a pleasure to see you too, Sunshine. I don't think you've met my daughter. This is Shannon."

  Conor turned back to find an attractive young woman, perhaps in her late teens, waving shyly to him. When there were no gunshots and Conor let down his guard, Barb and Ragus took it as a cue it was safe for them to approach. They reached the container about the time that Conor whipped his knife from his belt. It was a razor sharp Donnie Dunn custom. The knife was stout enough that Conor could have cut a man-sized hole in the side of the container with it if he wanted to.

  He waded in and approached the strapped down man. He observed that neither passenger was able to reach the release handle. Apparently neither had the foresight to bring a knife. Poor planning on their part.

  Seeing Conor approach, wielding the sharp weapon, the man suddenly looked scared. He threw up his hands. "Look, I'm sorry about Helsinki. We’re cool, right?"

  "We’re far from cool, my friend," Conor growled. He lowered the wicked blade toward the man's groin and then lunged with it, stopping the tip less than an inch from the bound man’s crotch. The man lurched and his body tightened with fear. He did not dare breathe. With a flick of the blade, Conor severed the taught cargo strap, freeing the man, then cut free his daughter, though in a significantly less threatening manner.

  The man laughed nervously. "You about had me there, Conor, old buddy. For a minute I thought you might be holding a grudge."

  "I am."

  Feeling emboldened at not having been castrated, the man looked around Conor to Barb and Ragus standing by the door. "Those your kids?"

  "You could say that," Conor replied. "That's my daughter Barb. The young man is Ragus. He's family too, but a newer acquisition.”

  "Barb…" the man replied as if the name stirred a memory from deep in the recesses in his mind. “She's grown."

  "Have I me
t you?" Barb asked, struggling to recall the face.

  The man shook his head. "No, but I've seen your picture. Seen several, in fact, but you were much, much younger."

  "Dad, who is this?" Barb asked.

  Conor turned to Barb with a look of exasperation in his eyes. "It's Doc Marty."

  "The Doc Marty?"

  Conor nodded as if he were once again the recipient of fate’s cruelty. "The one and only."

  Barb cackled. "This is rich. Oh, this should be good." Addressing Ragus she said, “I don’t know what went on between these two but I know it wasn’t good. We’ll see some sparks.”

  "So you all know this guy?" Ragus asked.

  "Oh, your friend the Mick here knows me well," Doc Marty said. "We've run many operations together over the years."

  Conor shot the man a bitter look. "If Ricardo had told me it was you, I would have said no."

  Doc Marty shrugged. "We expected that. That's why he left out some of the pertinent details. I knew exactly how to make the offer tempting—mention I had a daughter and that I was a doctor."

  "Except you're not really a doctor. You’re a dentist." Conor knew that was a sore spot with a man and he jabbed right for it.

  "Dentists are doctors," Doc Marty said, taking offense to the comment. "People address us as ‘doctor.’ We know the basics. We can save a life.”

  "A good dentist might be able to but you’re not even that good of a dentist. Not even second-rate, but some even lower tier."

  Doc Marty stood. "There's plenty of time to argue about that later. Are you going to allow me to stay or not? I brought all the things you requested from Ricardo. Everything you requested as payment for room and board is strapped onto a single pallet with your name on it. We brought our own food and supplies, and a ton of medicine and medical gear. We won't be any trouble to you at all. That’s a promise."

  "How long?" Conor asked.

  “How long are we staying?”

  “Yeah.”