Siman smiled. "That's true. Still working on the English."
"You're in good hands, Siman," Conor assured him. "Terry has got some miles on him. You won’t find many more experienced men in this business who still have their scalps."
Terry stretched his long hair out to the side. "And this hair would make a great scalp."
Noticing his daughter yawning, Conor said, "Listen, brother, we've had a long day and need to get some sleep. What's the security situation?"
"There’re a few groups camping out here on the island besides us, and also people who kayak over during the day to fish and explore the island. We've been keeping a watch at night. We've not had any issues but I'd rather not chance it."
"We'd be glad to rotate in," Conor offered.
Terry shook his head. "No worries, man. You guys save your energy. We've got it covered."
"Thank you," Barb said. "I'm beat."
"Same here," Doc said.
"We try to keep a low fire going," Terry said. "The bugs are vicious. Make sure you take that into account with your sleeping arrangements. Keep your face covered or you won't be recognizable tomorrow."
12
The Firehouse
The Dismal River Valley
Outside the cinderblock firehouse, Wayne sat on a log beside a campfire. At the farthest reach of his firelight, the six crude crosses stood vigil like accusers at a trial. Wayne couldn't stop staring at them. A metal grate was supported by four pieces of broken concrete, holding a skewer of horse kebobs over a layer of coals raked from the larger fire. Most evenings he'd have been surrounded by the din of conversation and the trill of laughing children. People would be asking him questions. At this late hour, darkness upon them, the group would be making plans for the next day's work. There was none of that now. Wayne was utterly alone in the camp.
His people were gone, having pulled out not long after Conor left. Whether they were motivated by their desire to get to their final destination or their yearning to flee this place didn't really matter anymore. Even his friend Pepe, the late arrival from Detroit, had gone.
They'd decided as a group that stopping here had been a mistake. It had been Wayne that pushed for it and now six young men were dead. They'd lost enough defending this place and decided the hills could take it back. Let the mountain swallow it and choke on it. They no longer cared.
Wayne had never wanted to be their leader but had risen to the role in the way those things typically happened. He was able to make decisions under duress, and he wasn't afraid to make hard calls. Early on, weary from travel, his group had supported the decision to stop at the firehouse along the creek. They'd been desperate, tired, and scared. They'd forgotten that now. Everything had been placed on Wayne's shoulders and they'd listen to him no longer.
He'd tried to dissuade them, warning of the possibility of being trapped by a storm or attacked by rogues along the road but his comments fell on deaf ears. Wayne worried about what they'd find out there. From what he'd seen locally, he knew there was no guarantee the family farms they were headed toward would still be there. Those relatives whom everyone was counting on could be dead and their farms overrun. Their houses might be burned to the ground and their families vanished. However, he hadn't voiced those concerns. His people had lost enough and he couldn't take that one sliver of hope they had remaining.
So they'd all gone. Every single one of them. There had been hugs and handshakes. Some had been embarrassed to meet Wayne's eye as they left, as if they were turning their backs on him. The bigger question was why he wasn't leaving and he wasn't sure he had an answer for that. They'd wanted him to come with them. They'd pleaded with him. Despite everything, they still saw him as part of their group.
For one thing, Wayne had nothing waiting on him further south. All of his friends and their families were acting on information exchanged in the last hours of working cell phone service. Several had relatives who'd offered refuge on their farms for assistance with labor and security. That had been months ago though and much could have changed.
This wasn't something Wayne saw himself doing. While he understood that staying in Detroit was a death sentence, he didn't want to be a farmhand. He also wasn't sure he wanted to suffer in the heat of the Deep South. There had to be another option. For him, that option was staying put until he came up with another plan.
He also didn't feel right about traveling with the group after the way they'd looked at him. After the comments they made. He didn't want to live in the shadow of their blame. He didn't want to watch their grief each day and feel responsible for it. Then there was the unfinished business here. Those six crosses, those six bodies, and the man responsible for it. Wayne wanted to find him. He wanted to find a big old stick of his own and return the favor.
He'd been surprised that no one else stayed with him. There were other single men among the group who had no more ties to the south than he did. He was certain that their decisions were complex, perhaps tied to fear and the herd mentality. Wayne had no reservations about being out here on his own, other than that he was probably going to have to leave the firehouse.
Though they'd laid in wood and built a decent system for heating the place, it was too much area for one man to secure. The firehouse was located on a remote stretch of road but there was still some local traffic. It was exposed. People walked by and engaged with them every day.
Wayne was certain the locals would quickly notice that there was no longer a large force holding the firehouse. As word spread, it was likely that someone would come along and challenge him, wanting to take the place for their own. If they tried, there would be no way he could stop them. He could fight back but it was too much for one man to defend. He'd only get himself killed. He figured he had a couple of days to think about it, then he was going to have to vacate the property.
He leaned forward and used a gloved hand to pick up the skewer of meat. He held it aloft and let it cool some, a heady mix of steam and cooked meat aroma wafting off it. When the night air had cooled it sufficiently, he bit into a chunk and found it cooked to his liking. As he chewed he stared out into the dark. Beyond the ring of light, beyond the vigil of crosses, the roiling river continued on its way. He'd read somewhere that humans found the sound of moving water so appealing because it reminded them of the first sound they ever heard, the sound of their mother moving while they were suspended in the fluid of her womb. Whether that was true or not, he did find some comfort there.
One option if he cared to remain in the area, was to see if he could work out something with the Jacks family. They had a lot to take care of and Johnny wasn't back to one hundred percent after the injuries he'd sustained when his farm had been attacked. Maybe they could use a hand around the place.
In the morning, he'd get his gear together. He also needed to go through the gear his people had left behind. Traveling on foot, they hadn’t been able to take everything they owned. Some of the items they'd left behind might be useful or could be bartered for other stuff he needed. He'd load up his horse with what he could carry and find some safe place in the woods to cache anything he had to leave behind.
If Johnny wasn't interested, that greatly restricted Wayne's options. He didn't want to join up with Pastor White's group because he couldn't imagine the clannish bunch opening their doors to him. That also left Conor and his mountaintop compound, which was a better option than the pastor, but a lot more intense than Johnny Jacks' place.
Plus, living with Conor meant living with Barb and Wayne wasn't certain how he felt about that. Even the thought of her brought up a feeling that he'd never experienced before and could scarcely define. It was a mixture of anxiety and confusion, mixed with both intrigue and fascination. What did a man do with a feeling like that? Wayne had no clue, other than to avoid it and hope it went away.
Before he left the area, Wayne was going to return to the men's house, to the scene of their death. He wasn't an investigator by any means but he wanted to take a bette
r look around. Perhaps there was some clue as to who had done this. If not, maybe there was information to be gleaned from imagining the attack. If he could bear to do it, maybe he could put himself in the head of the attacker and try to learn something of the nature of the man. It would be unpleasant but it might be worth the trade-off. There was nothing Wayne wanted more at this moment than to kill the man responsible for those six crosses.
13
Cumberland Island
Coast of Georgia
Conor was up early, rooting around through the hard cases for the MREs. Terry had a hanging water bladder in place that filtered water as it was dispensed. Conor filled his titanium pot and set the water to boil on the fire. While the water was heating, Conor reviewed the documents Ricardo had given him at Oceana.
While he was reading, Siman strode into camp with a second bladder of water. "There's a source nearby but it has to be treated," he explained.
Conor nodded but didn't engage. He was trying to concentrate on his documents. Not taking the hint, Siman took a seat by Conor's side and leaned over to see what he was looking at. Before Conor could say anything, another voice spoke.
"You best give the man some space," Terry said. "The Mad Mick doesn't take to people breathing down his neck."
"My apologies," Siman said, scooting away. "I'm new to this. Anxious to learn."
His English was functional, but a little awkward. It made Conor wonder what had brought him into the special operations world. Did he have some special talents or was his presence here just the result of dumb luck? Sometimes in their little world, all it took was one especially bold, high-profile killing to launch a career. That was essentially what had happened to Conor when he killed the man responsible for his wife's death.
Terry settled into the sand beside Conor. "When do you intend to launch?"
"Two nights from now would be best," Conor said. "No moon."
"Do you have a plan?"
"It's hard to develop one from here,” said Conor. “I have no idea what I'm working with because I can't get eyes on the targets until I'm aboard the ship. We're just going to have to board it and come up with a plan once we're there."
"That's sketchy as shit."
"Amen to that," Conor said. "I don't know what else to do though."
"So what's the plan for today?"
"Ricardo packed these hard cases. I don't know what all is in there. Food, ammo, and some toys, but I don't know what kind of toys. We might need some of it, but those Hardigg cases are too noisy to haul up the side of a ship. I need to sort through it and put the things we'll need in dry bags."
Conor's water started boiling and he made a cup of coffee. He offered some of the water to Terry, who waved it off.
"Go ahead, use it for your breakfast."
Conor took the suggestion and added the water to a freeze-dried meal. There were several in the ration box and they were considerably more appetizing than the MREs. Some of the dehydrated fare was practically gourmet-level.
"What do you know about the mole on the ship?" Conor asked.
"She's a congressional staffer. She's had the job for a while, but somehow had reason to believe that her boss knew about the terror attacks in advance. She reached out to someone and got in touch with the right people."
"The Saint Macallan Collective?"
Terry nodded. "I don't know the asset's name, but I've been in communication with her. Everything we know about the Shandong comes from her."
"Will we able to make contact with her and use her to our advantage during the operation?"
Terry shrugged. "I can ask but that's all. No guarantees."
"Well, I'm going to finish my breakfast and start repackaging the gear. You might want to file a report and let Ricardo know I'm here. He gave me a phone but said not to use it unless it's an emergency."
"On it," Terry said, getting to his feet.
"Get up, ya lazy louts!" Conor shouted, trying to stir Barb and Doc Marty from their slumber. "Time’s a’wasting."
14
Cumberland Island
Coast of Georgia
Conor was divvying up explosives, det cord, triggers, and other explosive goodies into waterproof baggies when Terry came jogging up.
"Looks like there's a change of plans, old man."
"I barely got a fucking plan," Conor said. "What's to change?"
Barb and Doc Marty were working alongside Conor, packing MREs and ammo into large military-grade dry bags. Everyone stopped working to see what Terry was going on about.
Terry dropped to his knees in the sand, catching his breath. "I just heard from our asset aboard the Shandong. Apparently, they were visited by a small freighter this morning and took on a lot of supplies. She said there's a rumor that they're about to set sail."
"Where?" Conor demanded.
Terry shook his head. "No clue, but she said they stocked up like they were going to be gone for a while. She's trying to find out something but hasn't had any luck yet."
"What does this mean for us?" Doc asked.
"I guess it means we go tonight," Conor said.
About that time, Siman joined them with another bag of water. "Anyone thirsty?"
Conor and his team refilled their water bottles, then Siman hung the bag from a nearby tree and joined them.
"Any developments?" Siman asked.
Terry filled him in on the accelerated timeline.
"That's not good," Siman said. "Can you still make it work?"
"We'll be fine," Conor said. "We just need to finish sorting this gear."
"Anything we can do to help?" Terry offered.
"You can inflate those paddleboards," Conor said. "There's three of them and a bag with a pump."
"Are we really going out there on paddleboards?" Barb asked. "At night? Wearing nightvision?"
"We are. And that's not even the challenging part." Conor went to another of the footlocker-sized Hardigg cases and pulled out a heavy black bag.
Siman looked curious. "What's that?"
"The climbing system. One of us has to scale the side of the ship and drop a ladder for the other two. We have to haul all the gear aboard while making sure we don't get killed by the armed security detail."
Doc was slowly shaking his head. "This is wrong. Just wrong."
Conor frowned. "I don't know what you're going on about, Doc. It's not like you'll be the one scaling the ship. It's more likely to be me or the daughter there. You'll either gas out or get tangled up, and we've only got the one set of climbers."
Doc scowled at Conor, not appreciating being tagged as the weak link.
"I'll do it," Barb said. "I'm in better shape than the lot of you."
There was no argument, both men in full agreement that this was the case. Barb could outrun, outswim, outclimb, and on a good day outfight even Conor himself.
Conor understood that the challenge played to her talents and level of conditioning. "I'm fine with that, Barb. We'll try to cover you from the paddleboards while you climb. When you top the rail, you'll need to make sure you're safe and then drop the rope ladder. I'll board second. While you cover me, I'll haul the gear up by rope. Doc Marty will stay below to tie it on. When we have everything on board, Doc will sink the paddleboards and join us on the ship. At that point, we drop the rope, the ladder, and the climbing system overboard. We're committed."
"What then?" Barb asked.
"We find our stateroom," Conor said. "We don't have that information yet but hopefully we should have it soon."
"What about surveillance?" Doc Marty asked. "Cameras?"
"The asset looked into that already and says they're not using the cameras,” Terry informed them. “The government officials onboard the ship are so concerned with their secret getting out to the American public that they don't want any images captured of them on the ship. The cameras are simply turned off."
"Then let's get cracking." Conor stood. "We need to square away this gear and get it lashed to the paddleboard
s—everything except what you're carrying on your person."
15
Cumberland Island
Coast of Georgia
With their gear staged and sealed against water, the team set up their paddleboards for the operation. They didn't know what kind of hours the people aboard the ship kept. They could be having late-night cocktail parties or rising early to work out. With no way of knowing, the safest bet was to hit the ship around 3 AM.
By early afternoon they had a plan in place and the gear prepped. They sat down for a meal, but there wasn't much conversation. Now that everyone knew the plan, each of them was individually running scenarios in their head, running the code to see if any bugs showed up. Though Terry wasn't going with them, he sensed their introspection and gave them the space to do what they needed to do. Only Siman seemed oblivious, chattering like a monkey until Terry finally asked him to knock it off.
When they were done eating, they piled the packaging from their meals into the fire-pit and wandered off to their tents to grab a nap. No one slept well in the daylight with their adrenaline beginning to flutter, but they'd be running through the night. If they could get a little extra rest it would help them power through.
Terry extracted a lighter from his pocket and burned the meal packets, erasing any evidence of the team's presence. Once they were gone tonight, he'd bury the hard cases and any other gear they left behind. For now, he needed to make contact with the asset aboard ship and nail down the details about the team's stateroom. This might be their last contact before the operation launched.
Terry was going to let Siman know that he was headed to the beach, the best spot for communicating with the asset, but the younger man was nowhere around. Terry assumed he'd headed back into the woods to refill the water bladders since the meals they'd cooked had used most of their supply.
He grabbed the specialized tablet from his pack and headed toward the beach. Even though he couldn't see the ship in the distance, the signal quality from the auxiliary antenna was much better when he got out of the trees. He was walking down the trail to the beach, near the place where Conor's team had staged their paddleboards, when he noticed movement in that direction. He paused to get a better look, then relaxed when he noticed it was only Siman.
Punching Tickets: Book Five in The Mad Mick Series Page 8