Ultraviolent: Book Six in The Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  "I'd feel shitty."

  "Damn right you would."

  "Shannon was thinking it might have been someone sent to make sure Conor had really gone after this Powell man."

  Shannon nodded. "It's an idea."

  Wayne considered that for a moment. "Knowing this Browning fellow, he could have been here to kidnap one of you. He seems to know that other people are living at the compound. If he had a prisoner, he'd have leverage over Conor. He could threaten to kill the prisoner if Conor didn't do as he was told."

  "I hadn't thought about that possibility," Shannon said, stunned at the thought.

  Wayne gave her a supportive pat on the back. "It's nothing to worry about right now. It's just a reminder to stay hidden until we know what's going on. Keep a low profile."

  Everyone fell silent after the serious turn the conversation had taken.

  "So what are you guys doing now?" Wayne asked.

  Ragus pointed toward the livestock. "We decided we'd go ahead and knock out our chores since we were here."

  "How are things at the mine?"

  "Damp, dirty, and bug-infested," Shannon said. "I can't wait to be out of there."

  "Hopefully it won't be long," Wayne said.

  Shannon gave a doubtful smile. "I hope you're right."

  "If you guys are fine, I'm going to head back to Johnny's. He's probably a little nervous that I charged out of there so quickly. I just wanted to investigate that chopper."

  "Nothing to see here," Ragus said. "They're gone."

  "Then I'll see you guys again in a couple of days. Let me know if you need anything."

  Ragus and Shannon gathered their gear while Wayne collected his horse, then they all left together. They stood somberly around the gate while Ragus snapped the padlock shut. This didn't feel right to any of them. Each wanted this dark period behind them. In a world already upturned by terror attacks and political upheaval, this only added further injustice. They wanted their world back. They wanted their lives back.

  In unspoken agreement, each of them wanted the thing that would make that happen. They wanted Browning dead.

  28

  The Valley

  Russell County, Virginia

  The day after making contact with the Wimmers, Conor and Barb spent another less-than-exciting day monitoring their targets in the valley. Each stayed glued to their spotting scope, mindlessly tracking the movements of the valley residents as they went about their daily chores. Finally, Barb had enough. She rolled away from her scope, laid on her back, and stared up at the canopy of brilliant green leaves above her.

  "Jesus, Dad, how much longer are we going to do this? I am not cut out for this surveillance gig. I don't think I've ever been so bored in my life."

  Conor pulled away from his scope and studied Barb laying there on her back in the forest litter. He thought she looked like she was eight years old again, a child stretched out in the yard asking him some unanswerable question as to the nature of why things were. "You can't act without intel."

  She raised back up to a sitting position, leaves clinging to her hair. "I totally get that. We have to fight smart. I'm just not sure how much more useful intel we can get with this approach. We've confirmed our target, right? Are we in agreement that we are probably watching Jim Powell, his family, and his allies?"

  "I believe so."

  Barb flung her hand toward the valley in a gesture of frustration. "We already talked to that old lady who hates his guts and got a little more insight into the man. We've watched the house long enough that we kind of know who he interacts with on a daily basis. What else can we learn from this staring at them all day long?"

  "Perhaps nothing."

  Barb groaned. "Exactly! So why are we wasting our time?"

  "I'm not sure, Barb. I guess my mind isn't only occupied with Jim Powell. I'm thinking about Browning as well."

  "Waste of time, Dad. What can you do about Browning from here? From the minute we got back from Israel that man has hung over us like a dark cloud. We moved gear out of the compound and set up fallback positions in case he's serious about blowing up our compound. There's nothing else we can do. Not a single thing."

  Conor sat up from his scope and stared at his daughter. "Then what would you have me do?"

  She again flung her arm in the direction of the valley below them. "Bloody get on with it! If we're going to kill the man, let me take the shot today. Then we can pack our crap and go home."

  Conor let out a long breath. "I'm not sure that's the right move here."

  Barb rolled her eyes. "If you want to go down there, hold his hand, and skip around singing songs, then you can get on with that too. Whatever it is that you want to do, figure it out and let's do it. This delaying – this indecision – isn't serving any purpose other than pissing me off."

  Conor smiled and shook his head. "What doesn't piss you off, Barb?"

  She considered. "Tacos. Tacos don't piss me off."

  "Even if I make them with goat meat?"

  She curled her lip in disgust. "No, those piss me off. That's taco blasphemy right there."

  "I guess you're right."

  She finally smiled back at him. "About the tacos or about everything else?"

  "Everything else. I know what I need to do and I just need to do it. I'm struggling to commit to the decision. It could mean the destruction of everything we've worked to build for the last decade or so."

  "So we lose a ratty old building. We'll find another. I suspect there are plenty available right now. The important things are already out. The people and gear are safe. If Browning wants to come looking for us in person, let him come. He doesn't know the terrain and he doesn't know our people. I suspect he'll get his ass handed to him. And when he doesn't make it home alive, I suspect that will be the end of it. You're probably some little pet project of his that no one else gives a crap about."

  "You're right," Conor admitted. "Besides, with Ricardo dead, I'm out of a job. I guess it's time to reestablish myself. Maybe this time I'll actually be a welder and a machinist. Maybe I'll hang up me rifle and explosives."

  Barb smiled but this time there was no mischief, no edge, and no sarcasm. "Maybe you should, Dad. You've had a good run of it and you still have your scalp. Maybe you just retire and be happy about it. You move on to the next phase of your life and accept it with no bitterness. You've earned a little peace, haven't you?"

  Her words made Conor think back over the course of his entire life, searching for a time there had been peace. Perhaps when he'd first married Barb's mother? In the years before she lost her life to the drunk driver? There had been peace then, but little before and little afterward. Violence had always been present in his life to one degree or another. It was like the smell of salt air at the beach, a pervasive undercurrent you barely noticed when you lived with it every day. From living with bombers in the family to living in a safehouse with killers, to eventually becoming a bomber and a killer himself.

  What a ride it had been. What a journey. Was it over? Could it ever be over?

  Maybe it was indecision that anchored him in place on this mountain, preventing him from acting. To take the next step, whatever it was, would irrevocably change things forever. It would be the first step onto whatever road lay before him and there would be no turning back. Once the gate closed behind him, it was shut forever.

  If he shot Jim Powell, Browning had him. His old life would be over and he would be in Browning's pocket from that point forward. His life at the compound would be over just the same as if Browning blew the place up. He would no longer be his own man.

  On the other hand, if he defied Browning, it would be war. If he couldn't find and defeat Browning, he'd lose his compound and perhaps even his life. Worse yet, he might lose someone he cared about.

  Inevitably, there was nothing he could do here to preserve the life he'd once had. There was no salvaging it. With Ricardo dead, things had changed whether he wanted them to or not. With nothing to lose,
maybe he needed to talk to this Jim Powell and see what he had to say for himself. Perhaps he'd be a good ally. If not, Conor could just kill him and be done with it, as Barb had suggested.

  "Okay," Conor said.

  Barb raised an eyebrow at him. He'd been sitting there mulling things over for so long that she'd forgotten where they'd even left off. "Okay, what?"

  "Okay, I'll get on with it."

  "Meaning what? We haul Jim Powell into town and hang him as Browning asked? We put a bullet in his head and tell Browning that's the best we could do? Or do we pack up and go home and tell Browning to pound sand?"

  "I want to talk to this guy. I can't go home without doing that."

  Barb looked off toward the home in the distance below them. "Not sure there's much point in that. I can't imagine them greeting a chap like you with open arms. It's not like you're the UPS man. If I'm looking out the front door and see a man like you coming across the yard, I bloody well know my number is up. It's kill or be killed. Maybe you should send me?"

  Conor barked out a laugh. "Then he's dead for certain. You're like the bloody lunch lady of death. Have you not forgotten that you broke Pastor White's jaw just because you felt he was disrespectful toward women?"

  Barb raised a finger in protest. "Have you not forgotten that I only broke his jaw? I could just as easily have sliced him from stem to stern. I've probably got more people skills than you, truth be told."

  Conor laughed again. "Oh, do you now? Skills at stabbing people? Skills at choking people? Skills at shooting people? Those kinds of people skills?"

  Barb snarled in concession. "I guess you have a point. Maybe diplomacy isn't my strong suit."

  Conor gave a knowing nod. "Yeah, maybe you should leave this part to me."

  "Then have at it, father dear."

  "Tonight. I need the cover of darkness. Gives them less time to get twitchy and take a potshot."

  "That goes back to my comment about not looking like the UPS man. If I saw you coming, I'd get twitchy too."

  "Which is why you'll be providing cover. If they get wound up, you lay down some cover fire and I'll make my graceful retreat."

  "You understand that we have different definitions of cover fire, right?"

  "We do. I'm referring to the type that doesn't generate a body count."

  "Thanks for that clarification. I can accommodate."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Positive," she replied. "Cover fire, no bodies, got it."

  For the rest of the day, they alternated taking naps while conducting loose recon on the valley. Barb took off for a while to make sure the horses were okay and to refill their water bottles. With the understanding that tonight should bring this operation to a head, the atmosphere around their camp was different. Contrary to what one might expect, the tension in the air was gone and they were more relaxed. It said something about the two of them that it wasn't charging into the unknown that scared them, but indecision.

  Hours passed and the sweltering day turned into a humid evening. The sky reddened like a blood orange, then blushed to paler hues, a sky of orange sherbet, of coral, of the pink of cooked salmon. Finally, mercifully, it retreated behind the horizon and soon stars were poking through, the moon rising.

  Conor gathered his gear, which Barb took as a signal and started preparing too. A resignation hung over them. While there was a peace that came from determining a course of action, there were unknowns as well. They wouldn't completely understand what lay ahead of them until they were into the thick of it and utterly committed. That's when the ballet would begin.

  Conor and Barb down-climbed the steep shoulder of the high ridge. Halfway down the slope the pair picked up the remnant of another old logging road. There were signs it had been maintained when fuel was available, perhaps mowed with a tractor once a year to keep it passable. Even since the collapse there were indications of foot traffic, likely hunters searching for the deer, bear, and turkeys that preferred forest over farmland.

  When their logging road emerged onto the cleared slopes of high pasture, the pair stopped and glassed the area one last time to determine their final strategy. They'd observed that most days the group had a communal evening meal at Jim Powell's house. It was a potluck affair with each household contributing something.

  "So have you worked out the details, father dear, or are you just going to wing this with your typical flair?"

  "I don't want to do anything too publicly dramatic, like jumping out of the darkness at their bonfire. That’s a good way to get punched full of holes."

  "I would agree," Barb replied. "Poor strategy."

  "I'm inclined to hang out in the shadows and watch for the opportunity to catch Jim Powell by his lonesome. I'll approach him all non-threatening-like and we'll have a tender moment talking about our feelings."

  Barb gagged. "Excuse me while I vomit."

  "Maybe not our feelings, exactly, but it’s the best strategy to me anyway. Catch him alone, without his entourage. Without prying eyes."

  "Without armed backup?"

  "Hopefully."

  "What if he has a dog and it comes looking for you. You're getting a mite ripe. I suspect anyone with a snout might smell you from a good ways off."

  "If the dogs come sniffing around I'll toss them a little jerky and charm them with me personality."

  "Why doesn't that ever work for me?"

  Conor winked. "You're trying to rely on your charm alone, my daughter. Maybe you need to supplement it with a snack of some kind."

  "You won't ever see me handing out jerky just so people will hang out with me."

  "Not sure jerky would work for you anyway. With the kind of people we associate with, you might be better off giving away free ammo or spare magazines."

  Barb rolled her eyes and mumbled some words Conor didn't catch, but he didn't ask her to repeat herself. He assumed they were insults directed at him. Far below them, a bonfire was lit in Jim Powell's backyard, which Conor took to mean the visitors might be sticking around a while.

  "Let's go," he said.

  They moved slowly but steadily, targeting a remote hay barn that sat high in the cleared pasture as their next rally point. They each carried a sparse loadout with a few spare mags, their spotting scopes, night vision, and water. They had a few sets of flex-cuffs tucked away, though they had no intentions of using them unless things went seriously sideways. Regardless of what Browning wanted them to be, they were not there as kidnappers—at least not yet.

  When they reached the isolated barn they removed their helmets from their packs, clipped their nightvision into place, and strapped the helmets onto their heads. They were bulky and hot on the humid night, but there was no better way to wear the nightvision. They headed for the paved valley road, descending by way of a natural ravine that ran nearby. It was a grassy ditch-like fold in the mountain that allowed them to make good time while being hidden from view.

  The ravine led all the way down to the road that bisected the length of the valley. A drainpipe allowed any run-off cascading down the ravine in the spring rains to pass beneath the road. The pipe was high enough that both cattle and kitted-out operators could pass through it. Conor ducked inside, waving Barb along behind him. She grimaced but followed.

  When they emerged from the other side, she wiped at her face and sputtered. "Bloody spiders."

  Conor ignored her complaining. "We're heading for the front of the house. I saw a big old maple tree about two hundred feet away. You'll stay there and cover me. Watch for everything—people, dogs, even kids. Don't make a sound. Don't risk getting caught. These people are well-armed, hardened by the shit they've been through, and will probably shoot if they hear anything. Got it?"

  She nodded in understanding.

  "I'm going to head for the front of the house. There's an outhouse off to the side, near some kind of storage building. If I station myself there it might be a good place to catch Jim Powell. I'm going to give it two hours and then I'll reassess if h
e doesn't show up. Give me a shout on the comms if someone comes up in my blind spot."

  "What if everything goes to shit and this blows up?"

  Conor tilted his head in acknowledgment of that very real possibility. "Then we meet up at the barn we just stopped at. If I don't show up there in a couple of hours we'll have to play it by ear. We'll be in unscripted territory."

  "It wouldn't be the first time," Barb quipped.

  Conor patted his daughter on her arm. "Be safe, child."

  He crept off at a walking pace, his focus swinging back and forth between the path he was walking and the area ahead of him. He didn't want to step on anything that might make noise or trip him up, but neither did he want to walk into someone that might be coming his way. At intervals, he paused and focused on his surroundings. It was easier to hear the other sounds in the night if he wasn't moving and making any noise. Even if he walked with utmost stealth there were internal sounds that filled his ears, like the jarring of his footsteps against the ground and the whisper of his breath moving in and out of his lungs.

  To break up his silhouette, Conor moved from object to object, pausing to monitor his surroundings at each stop. He went from a tree to crouching behind an empty wheelbarrow. From there, he stepped behind a pickup truck, then flattened himself against an SUV pausing to look for his next position. The moon was up by this point and the yard practically glowed in Conor's nightvision. Stars filled the sky to an extent no human eye ever picked up. In the distance, the laughter of children carried from the bonfire.

  He decided the barn would give him the best view of anyone approaching the outhouse. The rolling doors stood wide open and the dark interior offered multiple shadowy recesses where a man could hide. Conor held his rifle at a low ready as he moved toward the barn.

  He paused at the doors, scanning the interior. The space was crowded in a way that went beyond standard barn and farm clutter. These were piles of the excess belongings of displaced persons. Other piles clearly held the spoils of battle. Conor was sure there was a story told by these piles if a man had time to translate it. At the rear of the barn was a pair of doors matching those on the front and they too stood open against the night. Moonlight slanted in through the vast opening, illuminating a patch of dirt floor.