"Then he turned back up?"
Mrs. Wimmer stared at him. "Like a heat rash."
"You've seen him yourself?"
"You bet I have. You see, while he was gone my boys built a new bridge into town to replace the one that Jim Powell blew up nearly a year ago. Then someone came along and set our new one on fire. Burned it right to the ground. We suspected it was some of Jim's bunch but we never could prove it. Then a few weeks ago he shows up on my doorstep pretty as a picture, talking all sweet and neighborly. He told me not to worry about that bridge because his people were going to rebuild it. Sure enough, they did."
Other heads around the porch bobbed in agreement, as if the reconstruction of that bridge was the most amazing event to happen in these parts in some time.
"But you still don't trust the man?"
Mrs. Wimmer looked at Conor like he was an idiot. "Naw. Naw, I don't. ‘Cause he was the sonofabitch what blowed it up in the first place. He should have left well enough alone a year ago. He wouldn't listen to anyone. He was always running around doing whatever the hell he wanted. Blocking off roads, blowing up bridges, and running off anyone he didn't like the looks of."
"Sounds like he might have been trying to protect you folks," Conor mused. "Did you ever consider that possibility?"
"That's what he said," she replied. "But my husband's family has been in this valley for over a hundred and fifty years. I didn't take kindly to some newcomer running around changing things. Once he blew up that bridge into town, I didn't get a lick of company and I ain't had no Amazon packages since."
Conor smirked "That might just be a coincidence."
"Coincidence, my ass! I don't trust him no further than I can throw him and he's a big son-of-a-bitch. If he fixed the bridge into town it's only because he's got some wicked reason doing it. But yes, he's alive. Now if that's all you want to know, why don't you haul your happy ass out of here and let us get back to our evening. We're working folks here and we're all a mite tired."
Conor held up a finger. "Only one more question, my dear. There's another gentleman we've seen moving around your community here. Tall, lanky fellow. He's usually on a horse and wearing a floppy camouflage hat."
Mrs. Wimmer resumed stringing beans. "Reckon I've seen him too. He ain't from here and I don't know where he rests his head at night. I assume he's some sort of vermin come in on the back of Jim Powell."
"Very well," Conor said. "You've left no doubt as to the high regard you hold for Jim Powell. If I get the opportunity I'll pass on your good wishes."
"You can tell him to smoke a turd in Hell for all I care," she replied without even looking up.
Conor was amused at the appalled looks from the women on the porch in response to Mrs. Wimmer's comment. He decided that the old woman must be getting to that age where she said whatever was on her mind, regardless of who it offended or made uncomfortable. Conor certainly didn't care, nor did Barb. That was pretty much how they acted most of the time.
Conor tipped his helmet at Mrs. Wimmer. "Then we'll be seeing you."
"I hope to hell not," Mrs. Wimmer spat.
Conor and Barb retreated in the direction of the barn but saw no evidence of anyone following them. They put a hill between them and the house to cover their egress, then trudged back up the mountain. It was full dark when they found a logging road and followed it until it crested the ridge. It made traveling easier than climbing straight up the side of the mountain, but moving by nightvision was never easy when there were obstacles present. There were still rocks, protruding branches, and leaf-hidden hazards that made the simple act of walking a challenge.
They didn't talk as they climbed back to their camp, needing all their breath for the effort the mountain required. When they finally reached their camp, they'd sweated through their clothing and saturated their web gear. They removed their nightvision, eager to get the helmets off their overheated skulls, then switched to headlamps, using the red lenses that would preserve their night sight. They removed their heavy plate carriers and hung them over tree branches, though there was no hope of their clothing or gear drying in this high humidity.
Barb took a swig from her water bottle, frowning at the unsatisfying gulp of eighty-degree water. She turned and spat it to the side. "I think I'm going to check the horses and refill our water bottles. I can't drink this bathwater."
While she was gone, Conor sat listening to the night sounds around him. Owls hooted in the deep forest. At times he heard distant steps, the patter of small animals moving around the woods. Other times he heard heavier steps that he assumed to be larger game, but he didn't investigate. As long as whatever it was kept moving away from them, there was no need to force a confrontation. He kept his weapons at hand just to be on the safe side.
Conor considered what he'd learned from the Wimmer lady. It sounded like Jim Powell was probably taking reasonable precautions, sealing off their community when times got tough. He could understand an older lady like Mrs. Wimmer not getting it. She'd probably been deferred to as a matriarch of the community in better times. She was used to being respected and listened to. When Jim Powell put his own needs above hers she took it personally. Conor couldn't imagine that any amount of reasoning would work with Mrs. Wimmer.
Of course, that left the question of who Jim Powell was actually serving. Was he serving himself or his community? Was he some kind of warlord who'd cut himself off to build a fiefdom or was he some kind of patriot with deeply-held beliefs that what the government was attempting to do with aid, power, and comfort camps was inherently wrong?
If so, Jim Powell and Conor Maguire might have something in common.
25
Banks Compound
West Virginia
Ricardo was wearing a backpack with fifty pounds of sand in it when he staggered back into camp. Banks was working on a tractor but stopped to watch Ricardo, grinning at the sweat-soaked and miserable man. Late summer afternoons in the Appalachian Mountains could be like living in the jungle, the humidity so thick that you could almost scoop it from the air with your hands. Most people didn't find it to be the best time to go on a long, tortuous hike, but Ricardo wasn't most people.
"I could ask why you do shit like this but I guess I know the answer," Banks said. "How's the leg?"
"Hurts like a bitch," Ricardo said. "I don't know if that will ever go away so I might as well get used to working around it."
Since he'd arrived at the compound, unconscious and near death, Ricardo had had a rough go of it. There had been infections from the stab wounds, then his broken leg had been slow to heal. The veterinarian had done his best but he wasn't an orthopedic surgeon and he didn't have any of the sophisticated imaging equipment that a large hospital would have. That he even saved Ricardo's life was a miracle in itself.
It had taken months to get back on his feet, and now Ricardo was determined to get himself back into shape. His fervor at avenging the attack on his company had not subsided during his months of healing. If anything, he was more determined than ever. Knowing what lay ahead of him, he wanted to be at his highest level of conditioning.
"You're lucky to still have that leg," Banks noted. "I didn't think my buddy was going to be able to save it. It was a nasty break."
"Your veterinarian friend has impressive skills. If a dog or cat ever asks for a referral, I'll send them his way."
"I'm sure he'd appreciate that. You're a pretty determined man. I think you'd still be out here tearing up those trails even if you'd had to carve yourself a peg leg out of a chunk of firewood."
"Absolutely," said Ricardo. "If I had to drag myself along with both hands, I'd do it. There's no motivation quite so strong as vengeance. What's Valeria up to?"
Banks tipped his head toward the training building. "Taekwondo. The kid is a sponge. She loves training."
With little else to offer her while Ricardo was healing, Bank had teamed Valeria up with one of his men who held belts in several different martial arts. Even
if Ricardo's plan was to use her in the office, Banks knew it never hurt for a person to know how to defend themselves. He'd hoped it might distract the young woman from being stuck in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of straight-laced old veterans.
The training ignited something in Valeria, sending her down the path of wanting to strengthen her body. In addition to martial arts training, she starting working out with weights and running each day. She'd gradually transformed herself from the shy, blue-haired girl who'd shown up with Ricardo to a strong young woman empowered by her growing physical abilities.
Ricardo unslung the sandbag pack and dropped it on the porch. Banks’ eyes widened at the heavy thud the pack made when it landed on the boards.
"Damn, you're a glutton for punishment, Ricardo. Ain't hiking in this heat enough of a workout?"
"I want my body to be capable of what I demand of it. Speaking of which, do you have any updates?"
The compound had two fifty-thousand-gallon fuel bladders in which they stored avgas and jet fuel. Despite the shortage of fuel for the public market since the attacks, Banks had been able to get his base designated as a low-key refueling station for the steady stream of choppers shuttling people and materials around the country. He sacrificed some privacy by accepting air traffic at his compound, but being part of the recovery effort gave him a way to stay in the game. The pilots brought information and goods he could trade for. They provided him a way to smuggle people and gear in and out of the compound when he needed to. It might have been safer to stay dark, lay low, and hide out until this chapter in American history was over, but Banks couldn't pass up the opportunity.
"The group that landed this morning was a bunch of engineers headed for Tennessee. I jokingly asked them when the lights were coming back on because that's always a good icebreaker. They immediately started bitching. They said it might be a while because getting the bulk of the United Nations peacekeeping forces off the coasts and into the heartland of the country was taking longer than expected. Not only does every road have to be cleared of trees and stalled cars, but they're taking fire from locals who don't care for the UN troops passing through their neighborhood."
"Who can blame them for that?" Ricardo asked. "Did they think they'd be welcomed with banners and flower petals?"
"Some of them did. I guess the UN and the acting government expected they'd be welcomed as light-bearers. Gods of electricity."
Ricardo snorted. "The government certainly thinks they have God-like authority often enough."
Banks rolled his shoulders to concede the point. "True. Anyway, one of the engineers said the government had a new strategy to start sending strike teams out to deal with so-called insurgent hotspots. These strike teams have the authority to arrest or even kill anyone they deem a threat to national security."
Ricardo sat down on the edge of the porch and shook his head in disgust. "That has to be Browning's people."
"The engineers said that until those strike teams make some progress, until they quell any resistance, comfort camps and restoration of power will happen at a snail's pace. Apparently people are destroying those comfort camps as quickly as they build them. They're also cutting power transmission lines and shooting up transformers."
"I still need to know if Billy Browning is at the Catalyst Security training facility in Front Royal," Ricardo said. "That's where Terrence Long said he was working out of, but I've been here six months and that could have changed. If Long was telling me the truth, Browning is the man responsible for hitting my office and killing my staff."
"I've kept my ears open for anything that might be relevant, but I'm afraid to ask anything too specific. Those are the kinds of questions that make people nervous. They could report back to someone that I was asking questions. That might get me one of those kinds of visits you don't want to get."
"You've put yourself at enough risk," Ricard said. "I don't want to put you in any more danger than I've already put you in. I just wish I had access to my network. I'd like to know how many of my operators are alive versus how many got wiped out in Browning's mop-up operation."
"You said your phones were lost?" Banks asked.
Ricardo nodded. "I haven't said much about it in front of Valeria because she feels responsible, but somehow all of my phones were lost in that Hummer when you guys picked me up. I must have dropped the damn things when I lost consciousness and they got missed in the chaos. The numbers in those phones were never written down for obvious reasons. Now I don't have access to any of my people. I'd especially like to be able to talk to Conor. This is the kind of thing the Mad Mick excels at—revenge."
Banks yanked a handkerchief from his back pocket and mopped his brow. "If Conor is still alive and plugged in, he probably assumes you’re dead, like everyone else. Rumor is that his mission aboard the cruise ship went sideways and half their targets got away, but no one knows any details."
Ricardo perked up suddenly, struck by an idea. "You think I could hire a chopper to fly me to Conor's compound in Virginia? If he's alive, I could touch base with him. If he's dead, then I know it's up to me to take out Browning and finish this."
"The pilot who delivered you out here is a freelancer. Everyone wants to put him on the payroll, but he doesn't take any long-term contracts. He strictly works one job at a time for the highest bidder. I'm sure we could book a day with him but he'll want payment. He owed me a favor but I used that getting you extracted from D.C."
Ricardo smiled. "I've got gold. The universal currency."
Banks slammed the hood shut on the tractor. "Then I'll make the call."
Ricardo shouldered the sandbag pack, wincing as the weight settled onto his sore shoulders. "I'm going to take Valeria to the range. You might put out word on the radio that there will be live fire."
Banks grinned as he fished a satellite phone from his pocket. "That's music to my ears, old friend."
26
Banks Compound
West Virginia
Two days passed before Banks could arrange the chopper time that Ricardo requested. When he'd been rescued from Northern Virginia, Ricardo only had the gear he'd been carrying in his pack and on his body. He had the weapons he'd need for the trip, as well as his plate carrier. He didn't have anything for Valeria though, and he wanted to take her on the trip with him. It would be an ideal training exercise for her.
Banks helped them out in that department. He had a good supply of different sizes of clothing. They found her a pair of cargo pants that fit, which she paired up with one of her own t-shirts and sneakers. They outfitted her with a plate carrier, but all Banks had to spare was a set of heavy steel AR500 plates. Valeria's eyes had bugged out with surprise when she slipped the rig over her head for the first time.
"I don't know if I can move around in this or not," she said.
"That's why we train," Banks explained. "You're a lot stronger than you were when you got here. I think you'll be surprised what you're capable of."
They set her up with an AR-15 and a half-dozen mags but no sidearm. Banks, Ricardo, and some other of the camp staff had been teaching her how to run the rifle. Everyone felt she was becoming very proficient with the weapon. Banks also set her up with an off-the-shelf ESEE 5 for a blade, an individual first aid kit for any emergency that might come up, and a radio with an earpiece so she and Ricardo could communicate if they had to split up.
Ricardo usually wore a ball cap with his long hair pulled back into a ponytail. Banks scanned his shelves and selected a camouflage cap that said Maker Bullets on the front. He held it up beside Valeria's head.
"Looks good with blue hair," he teased.
She smiled, took it from his hand, and tugged it onto her head.
Ricardo and Valeria both took thin knit masks that they could pull up over the lower parts of their faces and eye protection to guard against any debris blown up by the rotor wash. They'd wear the masks when interacting with anyone who didn't live at the compound. Although the chopper pilot
certainly might have already gotten a look at Ricardo and Valeria when he delivered them to Banks' compound, perhaps he hadn't. They also didn't know who he'd have with him this time. Wearing the masks reduced the chances that someone might be able to identify Ricardo and share the information that he'd been taken to visit a compound in Virginia.
When they were both geared up, Banks walked them to the chopper pad and waited with them. "You nervous?" he asked Valeria.
"More nervous about flying than anything else," she admitted. "That last time was my first. It reminded me of riding a roller coaster in the dark. I'm wondering if it will be different this time since I can see the ground."
"Yeah, this should be an easy trip," Ricardo said. "With the country in such a mess, you can't look at any trip as routine though. Crazy things can come up and cause a trip to go sideways. It happens all the time. You have to be prepared for anything."
"Is this the kind of thing I'll be doing regularly when I work for you?" she asked.
Ricardo smiled. "Not at all. But some of the things we'll be doing today might be skills you'll need at various times. Traveling by chopper, getting dropped in unfamiliar territory, possibly meeting with a new operator for the first time, and moving around when you're piled up with gear. Our work is never routine. Even if you work out of the office most of the time, the day can bring the unexpected."
"Absolutely," said Banks. "There are routine days and there are days that are anything but."
Valeria tugged the cap off her head and wiped her forehead. The midday heat was already turning the air into soup. "We'll be meeting with someone today?"
"Unknown. We'll be visiting a compound owned by one of my best operators. He was on a mission overseas when I got shot down. The last time we talked, he told me that the mission had been compromised but they were going to proceed with caution. We didn't understand the scale of the compromise until my chopper was shot down and my entire team at the office wiped out. Now I don't have access to my phones so I have no way of contacting him."
Ultraviolent: Book Six in The Mad Mick Series Page 23