She managed to get off a single shot before dropping the rifle and Pete could only hope he'd been able to throw off her aim. Now he had the sinking sensation that he'd climbed onto the back of an extremely dangerous bucking bull. Before he even knew what was happening, she'd rolled over onto her back, pinning him beneath her. She threw her head backward, snapping off a head-butt that flattened Pete's nose with a nauseating crunch.
Pete tasted blood in the back of his throat and on his lips. The pain was blinding, but he had no choice other than to hang on for dear life. He tightened his grip, pulling his head to the side with hopes that would put him out of reach of another head-butt.
Barb had no intention of finishing him with another blow to the face. She raised her leg and snatched the Huse push dagger from her boot. Pete caught the flash of the blade in the sunlight and he knew it was over for him. He'd given it his best shot and now he was about to die.
She jammed the blade upward, shoving it into the gap between Pete's wrists. She pressed the blade against the flex-cuffs and tore outward, cutting Pete free of his bonds and releasing her from his grip. Before he even knew what was happening, she'd reversed her position, and now they were face-to-face.
Pete saw rage and hatred in her eyes as she jammed a forearm beneath his chin. He gasped, unable to breathe as she shut off his air. She clutched the push dagger in her white-knuckle grip and shoved the blade against Pete's throat, stopping just against the delicate flesh. She pressed harder and the blade poked into the skin, releasing a drop of blood.
"My father was always the one holding me back," Barb whispered. "He told me there were times when one should demonstrate mercy. In losing him, I surrender all conscience. There will be no more mercy."
The clatter of hooves on dirt reached them and Barb whipped her head up to find Randi and Gary on horseback. Both had weapons trained on her.
"Let him go," Randi said. "He's just a boy."
"You won't get away," Gary said. "You move a muscle and I'll shoot."
"I saw what you did to my father," Barb spat. "Any expectation of mercy is a bit late. I'm going to kill this lad and then I'm going to kill the two of you. It'll happen before you know it and you won't even see your death coming."
While Barb's words had a chilling effect on the pair, she didn't expect what the woman said next.
"Your father isn't dead," Randi said. "When you got shot, he flipped out. Jim hit him in the face with a radio and knocked him out."
"You're a lying bitch!"
Randi raised her radio to her mouth. "Jim, you better put that guy on the radio. His daughter needs to hear his voice."
"I don't give a damn what she wants!" came the reply.
Randi fired back at him. "Jim, this is a matter of life and death. Right now and no arguing."
There was an uncomfortable pause during which no one dared move a muscle. A moment later, the voice Barb needed to hear spoke into the radio.
"I'm here, daughter. I'm fine. You can stand down now. I think we're going to address this like adults. That right, Mr. Powell?"
The next voice over the radio was that of Jim. "He's right. Everyone stand down and come to the barn."
Barb reluctantly sheathed her knife and climbed off Pete, the effort of standing making her wince in pain. She walked it off, trying to settle her breathing and rein in her anger.
Randi rushed to Pete's side, pressing a bandana against his shattered nose.
Pete flinched and cried out. "Easy!"
Hugh rode up and reined his horse to a stop. "Guess I'm late to the party."
Gary shrugged. "You didn't miss a thing. Did you hear Jim?"
Hugh nodded. "It's over. Hopefully."
"Where's Charlie?" Randi asked, her voice belying her concern.
"You need to go check on him. He fought me and I had to deck him. I took his rifle. He's pretty wound up."
Randi looked at Pete. "You okay?"
Pete took over holding the faded bandana against his nose. "Go check on Charlie."
Randi climbed onto her horse and trotted off. Gary helped Pete unknot his shoelaces. With a houseful of grandkids, he had a lot of experience at this. When he was free, they gathered their gear and walked together down to the barn.
Not ready for handholding and campfire songs this quickly, Barb kept to herself and followed behind. While she may be standing down, they all felt hate radiating off her like the sun off hot asphalt.
37
The Valley
Russell County, Virginia
Radio calls were pouring in from various members of Jim Powell's clan, wondering if it was safe to come out of hiding.
"Stay put just a little bit longer," Jim said. "I think we're on speaking terms here but let's not get ahead of ourselves." All of this was said in Conor's presence, Jim making no attempt to hide his feeling that this temporary truce didn't exactly mean that the hostilities were over.
Jim slid a knife beneath Conor's bonds and cut him loose. He stopped short of helping Conor to his feet, preferring to keep some distance between them at this point. Conor yanked the bloody pillowcase from his head and squinted against the bright sunlight.
"There's some water over there," Jim said, pointing to a rain barrel sitting beneath a downspout. "You might want to clean up. You look like shit."
Jim glanced off into the distance and watched the group descending from Outpost Pete. He assumed the woman who'd caused this mess was in that group too. It pissed him off. "You know, we were getting to the heart of things, Conor. I'd have cut you loose once I was certain you weren't a threat."
Conor cupped his hands in the warm water and gingerly scrubbed his face. When he straightened up, water ran from his face and dripped onto his chest. He dried his face with a clean corner of the pillow case he'd been wearing, finding that his nose was still seeping blood. He pulled a bandana from his pocket and held it against his face. "My daughter is as tough as they come but she can be a bit of a firecracker. She's protective of me. As a father, you can probably understand that."
Jim did understand, but he also knew she was the one responsible for sending this whole interaction off the rails. "She almost got us all killed. Not only did she take a round, but that last shot she got off almost capped me."
Conor sighed heavily beneath his bandana compress. "Yeah, but did you die? Words like 'about' and 'almost' don't count for anything these days. There's no point in worrying about the rounds that don't hit their mark. So let's all get into the shade of this barn and talk it out like grown-ups. You people need to hear what I have to say."
"But did I die..." Jim mocked. "What a smartass." He understood Conor's point but that was a pretty cavalier attitude.
Conor went inside the barn while Jim checked on the progress of his people. When he saw Pete in a bloodstained shirt, a bandana pressed against his face, he ran to meet them.
"What the hell?"
"It's okay, Dad," Pete said in a nasal voice. "I got my nose busted. It's no big deal."
Hugh gave a doubtful shake of his head. "It's more than busted, Pete. It's broke."
"Mom is going to kill me," Pete moaned.
Jim glared at Barb with venom in his eyes, knowing she had to be the one responsible for this. All the promises he'd made Conor to put their guns down and talk like grown-ups were about to go out the window again. Jim was ready to swing his rifle up and put a round in her face. He could deal with a lot of things in this world, but violence directed against his children blinded him with a white-hot rage.
The others sensed his rising fury, could feel the heat of wrath pouring from him like opening the door to an oven. Barb paused and stared at him, waiting to see where this was going to go. If he wanted to go there, she'd dance with him. Fists, knives, or guns, she didn't care.
Hugh stepped between them, resting a hand on Jim's shoulder. "Let it go, Jim. We need to hear what they have to say. Let this play out and then we can see where it goes."
"This isn't over," Jim growled.
"You bet it's not," Barb said, throwing Jim an infuriating wink.
"We were fighting, Dad. She was trying to shoot you and I jumped on her back. She head-butted me."
Gary glanced at Jim. "He probably saved your life."
"He did." Barb glared at Jim. "I had my crosshairs on your forehead and I don't miss."
Jim struggled to dial down his rage and several moments passed before everyone was comfortable that a fight wasn't going to break out. At this close range, with everyone armed to the teeth, people would most certainly die and Jim didn't want that. He finally put his arm around Pete and led his son toward the barn.
"Where's Randi?" Jim asked Hugh. "And that little bastard Charlie?"
"Charlie got an attitude when he was asked to stand down. He fought me a little bit and I knocked him on his ass. I took his gun and left him sitting there all pissed off. Randi went to check on him."
"I'll be dealing with him later," Jim said. "I'm done with him."
"What are you going to do to Charlie?" Pete asked, concerned for his best friend.
"I don't know yet," Jim admitted. "But I'm not sure he can stay with us any longer."
Everyone tied their horses off near a trough then stepped into the shady recesses of the barn, appreciating the respite from the powerful midday sun. Conor was sitting in a folding chair, sagged against an interior wall. With the bandana pressed against his nose, he and Pete looked to be in a similar state. The two stared at each other, each taking stock of the other's condition. Despite the oppressive tension surrounding them all, there was something about the sight that almost amused the both of them. They found a kinship in the shared pain.
"Hurts like a bitch, doesn't it?" Conor finally said.
Something in the man's voice, in the remnants of his Irish accent, triggered a memory in Pete's head. Pete lowered the bandana from his face. Conor stared back at Pete, now seeing something familiar beneath the crusting blood and swelling.
"Is that you, kid?" Conor whispered.
Pete grinned. "Holy shit, Dad. That's the Mad Mick!"
"The who?" Jim said. Then the name rang a bell with him. He recalled the overlapping letter "M"s that he'd seen on a recent trip, written on highway signs and carved into trees. He recalled the stories that people along the way told around campfires of this mysterious Mad Mick that claimed to protect the area. Could this actually be him?
"How do you know this guy, Pete?"
Barb was shaking her head in shock. Her voice was low, as if she were talking to herself. "My dad knows one kid in the whole area and I flatten his snout. What are the odds?"
When Pete didn't answer, Jim repeated his question with more urgency. "How do you know him, Pete? Has he been here before and you didn't tell me? You know better than that."
"Easy, Mr. Powell," Conor said. "I was through these parts before you even made it home from your trip. I was checking on someone over in the town of Damascus. I came through here on an electric bicycle. I guess I got carried away with my speed because I busted my ass good and bent up one of my wheels. I stopped to take a break so I could feel well and properly sorry for myself. I was contemplating my long walk home pushing that heavy bike. It turned out your kid there had him a sniper hide in the brush alongside where I was pouting. He popped up out of there and threatened me at gunpoint."
Jim was confused. He'd never heard any of this before. He pointed up the hill to Outpost Pete. "That doesn't make any sense. Were you up there?"
Pete shook his head. "No, it was on the main road down there at Rockdell Farms. I was waiting for you to come home and I wanted to be the first to see you." He pointed at Conor. "This guy came through and his wheel was all messed up. I kept my gun on him the entire time, but there was something about him being on a bicycle that reminded me of you. You used to ride a bike a lot before the collapse. So I helped him."
"Darn right he did,” said Conor. “He did well. He kept a gun on me so it wasn't like he let down his guard. He radioed your wife and she threw an old bicycle into the back of a UTV. She wasn't all that happy about your son helping me, but I changed out my tire and went on my way. They saved me days of walking and I was grateful."
"He gave me a note, Dad. A scrap of paper with his address on it. It said that if we ever needed help to let him know. I still have it somewhere in my room."
Jim looked at Conor in surprise. "Is that true?"
Conor nodded. "I didn't expect you'd make it home if you had to cover any distance. Most folks didn't. I wanted the lad to know I'd help him out if he needed it. Kind of return the favor, you know. I never heard from him, of course, since you clearly made it home. Always wondered what became of him."
Jim was slowly shaking his head, unable to believe what he was hearing. "I can't believe no one ever told me this."
"It was chaos when you got home, Dad. I guess I forgot about it. It never crossed my mind again until I heard his voice a second ago. So much has happened."
Jim sat down on an upturned five-gallon bucket and rested his face in his hands, sighing loudly. His head was already reeling and he knew they hadn’t even got to the reason for the man's visit yet. He removed his cap and ran his fingers through his sweaty hair, then wiped his forehead with the tail of his shirt. He plucked his radio from a pouch.
"We're good here," he said. "Everyone can go back to normal."
Even using the word "normal" made Jim smile. He had no idea what normal meant anymore.
38
The Valley
Russell County, Virginia
Jim excused himself to deliver Pete into the house. Knowing his wife Ellen was going to be pissed, he and Pete agreed it was best, for now, to simply tell her that there had been a scuffle and Pete accidentally got hit in the face. If they told Ellen the truth, she'd be out there wanting to kill Conor's daughter and they couldn't afford that right now. Things had finally deescalated and they didn't need for them to get ramped back up. There would certainly be a reckoning later for the lie, but he'd deal with that when the time came.
Jim returned to the barn with a cardboard box stacked with cups and glasses. He handed them out to anyone who wanted one, then directed them toward the overflow pipe coming out of the springhouse. Everyone took him up on it, filling their cups beneath the constant stream of cold mountain water. With their thirst sated, they returned to the barn and Jim found seats for everyone. It was a motley assortment of milk crates, buckets, and odd chairs but they did the job.
"So I guess you know that I'm Jim Powell," Jim stated. "You know my son Pete. The tall guy over there is Gary. He was on my work trip with me and we walked home together. The woman who was with him earlier is Randi. She was on that same trip."
"You did well to get home," Conor said. "I'm sure it was a pleasant stroll through the countryside."
Jim cocked an eyebrow. "Hardly. The guy over there in the boonie hat is my old friend Hugh. I've known him since high school."
Conor studied the lanky fellow, understanding that this was the mystery man they hadn’t been able to find much about. They'd never discovered where he lived in all their surveillance of the valley.
Hugh winked at Conor. "I believe we ran into each other last night, right here in this very spot."
Conor grinned. "Aye, we did. And luckily we both escaped unharmed."
"But that wasn't the first time we met," Hugh continued.
Jim snorted. "You help him fix his bike too?"
Hugh shook his head. "Nope, but that Mad Mick call sign rings a bell."
Conor studied Hugh more intently, trying to dredge up the man's face in the well of his memory. There had been so many people he’d crossed paths with over the years. Some of them stood out, but not all. He couldn't place this man.
Hugh stroked his beard. "I didn't have this scruff on my face and I had a buzz-cut at the time."
Conor shook his head, the memory not coming to the surface. "I don't recall."
"Years ago, in another life, when I was youn
g, stupid, and wanted to see the world, I took a job as a contractor with Catalyst Security. This would have been the late 1990s. Catalyst dressed me in a generic uniform, gave me some bullshit job description, and stuck me in Central America with Ruger Mini-14 folder."
Conor's ears perked up, having spent a lot of time in Central America himself. "Where in Central America?"
"Honduras," Hugh replied. "Little outpost near the border with Nicaragua. Spent a lot of time loading and unloading American planes. There was this one job where some folks were going to blow up the head of a cartel. I was on security while the hit team got trained to use the explosives." Hugh let that last bit of information hang out there, certain that would be enough for Conor to understand where they'd once crossed paths.
It was.
"Geez," Conor muttered. "I remember that God-forsaken place. And you worked there?"
"I did. They called us 'support staff', which meant we did anything that needed done to support base operations."
"That's crazy we crossed paths back then. It was a lifetime ago."
"Your call sign was kind of distinctive.” Hugh grinned. “A name like the Mad Mick sticks with you. I was there in the jungle for eighteen months."
"Sorry to hear that," Conor said.
"Eh, I was young and it was an adventure. Never regretted a minute of it, though Catalyst and I eventually parted on bad terms. Kind of a shitty company to work for."
On a hunch, Conor posed his next question. "You ever recall a shady bastard by the name of Billy Browning?"
Hugh nodded. "Oh definitely. He was in and out of there regularly. Rumor was that he was running side-action out of there. Everyone knew the CIA was smuggling cocaine so it was easy for a man like Browning to slip under the radar."
Jim cleared his throat. "Can you guys tell war stories later? I'm still waiting to find out what the hell this is all about. Why are you here?"
"As I was telling you before things went to shit, my boss ordered me here on a mission. That boss just happens to be the same Browning that your friend and I were discussing," Conor said. "He killed the man I used to work for, probably on orders from the acting government. He was probably supposed to kill me too but he chose to keep me alive and toy with me instead. I suspect this mission is a test to see how I react to taking orders from the new sheriff in town."
Ultraviolent: Book Six in The Mad Mick Series Page 29