Punching Tickets: Book Five in The Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  Barb wasn't the maternal type. She wasn't good at comforting people and certainly didn't feel it was warranted simply because someone did the right thing. Still, she was at the mercy of this woman's good graces so she tried to be supportive. "You did the right thing. You could have lashed out at the congresswoman personally but what would that have accomplished? Instead, you struck at her operation. That's much more powerful."

  Dana sighed. "I don't know what good it's done. I've been providing information for months and nothing has happened. I don't know all the details, but I was under the impression that your mission was to eliminate these traitors. Now we're halfway across the world and from everything I see, the mission has failed."

  Barb shook her head. "Don't be so pessimistic, dear. There's a reason they call my father the Mad Mick. He's one of the best at his particular brand of mayhem. And I might not have as cool a name as he does, but I'm known to be one bad bitch."

  That made Dana smile. "Then what's the bad bitch's plan?"

  29

  The Shandong

  Mediterranean

  Conor regained consciousness in the ship's conference room. He was seated at the very table he'd crawled around under the previous night, imagining how he might plant a charge there. Funny how plans changed sometimes with no warning whatsoever. Conor made no move to get up, but he flexed his arms and legs to test his bonds. His wrists were zip-tied to a high-backed leather conference chair. His feet were free but he was uncertain how useful that might be at this point.

  "Perhaps you should introduce yourself," said a cool, reptilian voice.

  Conor struggled to focus, his eyes finally settling on the woman at the other end of the long conference table. She was dressed in a business suit, but it looked like she'd been wearing it for hours. She'd spilled something on it and there was thick makeup caked around the collar. Her lipstick was smeared and clown-like. Her words had a flat quality to them, sounding as if she somewhere between drunk and exhausted. Conor recognized the woman. It was Congresswoman Shoe.

  "Yeah, that's...classified," Conor said. "You don't have the clearance to know who I am."

  The congresswoman gave him a wry smile. "I'm on the House Intelligence Committee. Trust me. I have the clearance."

  "I don't recognize your authority. You're a traitor to your nation. The blood of millions is on your hands."

  The congresswoman took a sip of coffee from an embossed cup and pursed her lips. "That probably makes you a freelancer then. Some gun-for-hire mercenary or hitman. Little better than a two-bit hood."

  Conor grinned. "Sticks and stones."

  The congresswoman laced her skeletal hands together, the loose, veiny flesh belying her age. "We'll get to that, my friend. Sticks and stones are already on the agenda. Who do you work for?"

  When Conor didn't reply, there was a blur of movement to his side. The head of the Chinese security team smashed the butt of his submachine gun into Conor's skull. Conor was stunned, but the blow wasn't serious enough to knock him out.

  "That's enough of that," the congresswoman replied. "I have a man on the way. He's a skilled professional and he'll get to the bottom of this. He extracts information for a living. I suspect you're on the payroll of some rogue intelligence agency. They love thugs like you."

  Conor snarled at the guard who'd struck him, his eyes making a promise that there'd be payback coming. The security man knew that look and puckered his lips to make a kissy-face at Conor, sending his own message. Bring it on.

  "Where do you want us to hold him until your people arrive?" the captain asked.

  "Keep him here for now," the congresswoman replied. "I'm going to get the rest of the guests together. I need them to see that the threat against us is real. I've explained it to them a dozen times and they think I'm being paranoid. Maybe this will convince them."

  Conor had all kinds of smart-ass comments he wanted to make, but he choked them down. The more docile he acted, the more they'd let their guard down.

  "And after you parade him around?" the captain asked. "What then?"

  "Do you have some secure hold you can lock him in?"

  "We have a room that doubles as a holding cell in emergencies,” said the captain. “We occasionally have to detain a drunken guest for unruly behavior."

  The congresswoman smiled at Conor with her thin lips. "I think the presence of a hired killer onboard certainly qualifies as an emergency." She stood up, swayed a moment, and placed both hands on the table to steady herself. "I need to find my aide, Dana."

  The captain nodded. "I can take care of that. I'll see to it personally."

  "Excellent." The congresswoman headed for the door. "I need to go freshen up. Tell her I'll be in my suite."

  Once she was out of the room, the captain addressed the security man. "Mr. Fat, I assume you can keep an eye on our guest while I retrieve the congresswoman's aide?"

  Rey Fat nodded.

  "Do you need me to send in another of your team as backup?"

  "I don't need any backup for this one," said Fat, his voice indicating he was offended by the suggestion that he wasn't capable of looking after the bound man by himself.

  "Then I'll be back shortly." The captain stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him.

  Rey Fat walked around the table and took the congresswoman's seat. He leaned back in the chair, propped his feet on the table, and laid his submachine gun across his lap, the barrel aimed at Conor.

  Conor frowned at being in the man's sights, but then a grin spread over his face. He nodded his head at the security guard. "So you're Mr. Fat?"

  Rey Fat narrowed his eyes at Conor.

  "As in Fat Ass?" Conor asked. "As in your momma is so fat?" Conor knew it was juvenile but he was intentionally provoking the man. Angry men made bad decisions.

  Rey Fat cracked a grin that Conor assumed was less than genuine. He picked up the congresswoman's china coffee cup from the table and gently placed it to the side. In a lightning-fast movement, he snatched up the empty saucer and spun it at Conor's face like it was a throwing star.

  Due to the length of the table, Conor had time to dodge the porcelain projectile, whipping his head to the side and shrinking down in the chair. That movement perfectly covered his true objective, which was finding an opportunity to extract the sharpened spike hidden beneath his belt. By the time he sat back up straight in his chair, it was clutched in his fingers and he was working at the zip-tie binding his right wrist to the chair arm.

  "Whoa there, Mr. Fat. I'm sorry about that. I didn't realize your name was such a sensitive topic. I'm sure kids probably made fun of you growing up, didn't they? If not for your name, then certainly for your looks."

  While he spoke, Conor gently pushed the point of the five-inch handle-less spike into the zip-tie until it severed and dropped loose from his wrist. He couldn't cut the left hand loose yet, since moving his right enough to transfer the spike to the other hand would give him away. He needed another diversion. He needed to keep Mr. Fat rattled.

  "Is your mother fat too?" Conor asked. "I mean, is she fat where it counts?"

  Rey Fat's eyebrows furrowed in a mixture of anger and confusion. He didn't understand entirely what Conor was saying but he understood the intention was to insult him.

  Conor winked. "Does she have a big butt?" He started humming and tapping his foot to a familiar beat, then launched into the lyrics. "I like big butts and I cannot lie."

  This was too much for Rey Fat. He launched himself to his feet and tore around the table, rage in his eyes. Fat had left his sub-gun on the conference table, intent on using his fists to teach Conor a less in respect.

  The angry guard was already drawing his fist back when he came around the end of the table. Conor spun his rolling chair to the left, facing his attacker. To Fat's surprise, Conor shot his legs out and wrapped them around him, drawing him in tight. It was the opposite of what he expected. The move startled and confused Fat, making him hesitate to throw the punch he'
d already loaded. Then Conor's chair turned over and he landed on top of Fat.

  Fat wasn't worried at this point, assuming he'd get his hands on Conor's shoulders and throw the bound man off him. That didn't go as planned. Conor snapped off a head-butt, breaking Fat's nose and making his eyes water with pain. Then he felt the sensation of rapid, almost gentle punches on the left side of his chest.

  For a moment Fat was confused by the sensation, then the wetness and pain hit him at the same time, along with the awareness that each of those short punches sank a sharpened spike into vital organs. Fat issued a groan and tried to toss Conor off him, but he no longer had the strength. He was fading, the blood his heart pumped no longer reaching his muscles.

  When the man was no longer struggling beneath him, Conor rolled off Fat. The one arm that was still tied to the chair was twisted awkwardly behind him, nearly wrenched from the socket. With a grimace, Conor struggled into a position where he could use the steel spike to punch through the plastic tie.

  When it snapped loose he got to his knees, resting his forearms on the table while he caught his breath. His sweating face ran with the blood from Fat's splattered nose. His shirt was soaked with the blood from Fat's chest. He got to his knees and stuck the steel spike back in its sheath inside his belt.

  Bending over Fat's body, he searched him thoroughly, coming up with a combat knife, several plastic keycards, a Chinese Type 77 pistol, and two spare mags. He shoved all that in a cargo pocket of his pants, threaded the dagger onto his belt, then retrieved Fat's sub-gun from the table. He'd prefer to have his own weapons but he didn't know where they'd put them.

  He stepped to the door and listened. When he heard nothing, he cracked it and listened again. Still nothing. He stepped into the hall. Finding the coast clear, he sprinted for the nearest stairwell. He needed to find Barb.

  30

  The Shandong

  The Mediterranean

  "What are you going to do?" Dana asked, watching Barb rifle furiously through her gear.

  Barb removed the staff uniform and spread it out on the bed, trying to smooth the wrinkles from it. There was a stain on one sleeve, gun oil from the looks of it, but there was nothing she could do about it now. She expected there'd be a lot more stains on her clothing before she was done on this ship. "I need to find my dad and we need to finish the job we were hired to do."

  She found a zipper pouch in Conor's pack and placed it on the bed beside the uniform. She unzipped it and dumped out a Ruger Mark IV .22 pistol with an integral suppressor. It was one of Conor's special projects from his own shop. There were two mags of .22 caliber subsonic ammo and a plastic baggie with fifty more rounds in it. Barb slammed one of the thin mags into the pistol and chambered a round.

  Dana wrung her hands nervously. "I'm new to this and it's freaking me out a little. What do you need from me?"

  "There won't be any questions if I'm seen traveling the ship with you," Barb pointed out. "I'm going to change clothes and then we'll leave together. You'll escort me to the places I need to go."

  Dana bobbed her head nervously in assent. Barb whipped her olive drab t-shirt over her head and was starting to button up the white blouse of the staff uniform when there was a knock at the door. She grabbed the .22, the closest weapon at hand, and directed Dana to look out the peephole.

  When she had, Dana turned back to Barb with panic in her eyes. "It's the captain!" she mouthed.

  Barb left the blouse hanging open, not a single button fastened, and held up a hand in an "I got this" gesture. She whipped the door open and raised the pistol to the captain's face.

  The Chinese captain was taken aback, his eyes immediately drawn to the strip of flesh on Barb's bare torso. Only when his eyes moved back to her face did he see the barrel of the gun and the broad grin behind it.

  "Step inside," she whispered. When he didn't move fast enough to suit her, Barb reached out and snatched him in by the necktie.

  Dana hastily closed the door, hoping no one had seen what just transpired. Barb slammed the captain against the wall and pressed the barrel of the pistol to his forehead. "What are you doing here?"

  His eyes wide with terror and his voice shaking, he replied, "Congresswoman Shoe sent me for her aide. She asked me to send her to the congresswoman's suite."

  Without taking her eyes off the captain, Barb spoke to Dana. "There's a pocket on the outside of my pack with flex-cuffs. Hand me a set, please."

  Dana was hesitant to open the pack, suspicious of what kind of goodies it might contain, but she located the flex-cuffs and held them up. "Got them."

  "You're going to turn around and face the wall, Captain," Barb told him. "Slowly. I won't kill you unless you resist."

  The captain did as he was told. Barb took the cuffs from Dana and restrained the captain. When his hands were secured, she found a single long zip-tie in her gear and bound his feet. A partial roll of duct tape took care of his mouth, assuring he couldn’t yell for help. When she was done, she dragged the captain to the bathroom and left him on the floor, shutting the door behind her. She hastily finished changing into the staff uniform.

  "Let's go," she said, tucking her shirt in.

  "Where?" Dana asked. "To find your dad or my boss?"

  Barb smiled. "Let's go meet the boss."

  The expression on Dana's face was complex but Barb understood. This was what Dana had wanted from the minute she began working against the congresswoman, but she probably hadn't anticipated being involved in a direct action against her. However, she didn't balk or protest that this wasn't what she'd signed up for. She took a deep breath and steeled herself.

  "Let's do it."

  Uncertain of how best to carry the suppressed pistol in the uniform, Barb opened the door and glanced down the hallway, spotting exactly what she was looking for. She hurried down the hall and dumped the dishes from a shiny room service tray, keeping only the tray and a clean napkin. She pocketed the spare mag and extra rounds, then laid the pistol atop the tray and covered it neatly with the napkin. It could have been someone's breakfast, a blue steel Danish of death. A pancake of pain.

  "Let's go," she said, waving at Dana.

  Dana stepped into the hallway and fell in alongside Barb. As they were walking down the hallway a door opened ahead of them and a man in a suit stepped out of a stateroom. In this hallway of aides and staffers, he looked out of place. Hearing their steps, he glanced in their direction and Barb recognized his face.

  "Is that...?" she asked.

  Dana shushed Barb, but nodded. "Senator Boorman," Dana whispered. "The room he came out of belongs to one of his staffers. She's been taking more than his dictation for years now."

  Ahead of them, the senator ducked into the stairwell.

  "He does this every day, but he takes the stairs because he thinks that throws us off the trail," Dana said, her tone making it clear what she thought of the man.

  Barb's mind was elsewhere. That man was on their list. "Be right back."

  She sprinted down the hall and burst into the stairwell. Above her, she heard the scuff of shoes on the stairs. She raised the pistol and leaned out into the open shaft that ran up the stairwell. "Senator?"

  The sound of the steps halted.

  "Senator?" she repeated.

  A creased face with thick eyebrows appeared in the opening one floor above her. Barb didn't hesitate. She squeezed the trigger and sent a .22 round into the bridge of his nose. The pop of the suppressed round echoed in the stairwell, but wouldn't travel beyond those walls. She sprinted the stairs two at a time until she reached the fallen man. He wasn't dead but he certainly wasn't hitting on all cylinders. She put another round in his head and sealed the deal.

  When she reached Dana in the corridor, she found the woman waiting on her with a curious look on her face.

  "What did you do?" Dana asked.

  Barb ignored the question. "Maybe we should take the elevator."

  That was all the answer Dana needed.

&n
bsp; 31

  The Shandong

  Mediterranean

  The sun was up now and conditions weren't ideal for moving around the ship, but Conor had no choice. The Chinese security team was aware of his presence and would launch a full-scale search for him as soon as they discovered what he'd done to Fat. He had to assume that others on the ship knew about him as well. The only thing he had going for him was that it was still early morning. A lot of people probably hadn't gotten out of bed yet. They hadn't gotten the news that there was an assassin in their midst.

  Conor's path to his stateroom was not as direct as it could have been. Fat had taken his map of the ship when he'd searched him and Conor was in an unfamiliar section of the ship. Once, he heard voices in the stairwell and had to duck out onto a floor to let them pass. Another time he came to a dead end and had to backtrack. After a few false starts, he finally hit a set of stairs that took him to the dark floor where he and Barb had been hiding for the last few days.

  When he burst onto the familiar floor, he hooked a left and sprinted to their stateroom, needing to warn Barb that their cover was blown. When he spotted the room number, he slid to a stop and tapped on the door. "Barb!"

  When there was no answer, he banged with his fist. "Barb!” he hissed. “Let me in!"

  Still no answer.

  Conor cursed and laid his head against the door, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. He needed to get his head together and come up with a plan. He wanted to assume that Barb was safe, but what if the security team had searched this floor and discovered her?

  "Hey!" came a loud voice.

  Conor flinched and threw a glance down the hall. Three of the Chinese security team had come in from the same stairwell he'd used. Conor raised the stolen submachine gun and unleashed a burst of fire in their direction. Two of the men were hit, one screaming as he writhed on the floor. The third man launched himself to his right, trying to take cover in a doorway.