Punching Tickets: Book Five in The Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  Not daring to risk the elevator, Conor banged through the door into the stairwell and bounded down the steps. He passed Boorman's body, then swung around the railing to the next flight of stairs. Ahead of him, on the landing below, was a startled two-man security team, one of them holding a radio up to his mouth.

  At less than twenty feet, Conor didn't even raise his weapon to his shoulder, instead shooting from the hip and sweeping the two figures with a burst from the sub-gun. Conor jumped the remaining stairs, dropping onto the landing beside the bodies. He paused for a moment to relieve them of their spare mags, shoving them into the cargo pockets of his pants.

  He couldn't understand a word of Chinese, but the urgent chattering on the radio led him to believe that this team had relayed his presence in the stairwell. If that was the case, there'd be another team waiting somewhere below to greet him. Time to change tactics.

  Conor scrambled down one more flight of stairs and yanked open the corridor door. He poked his head out and found he was on another deck of staterooms. The lights were on but he couldn't tell if this floor was occupied or not. A banging door in the stairwell several floors below him warned that it was time to get moving. Conor rushed into the hallway and randomly chose to turn right, toward the bow of the ship.

  He hauled ass up the corridor, swung a left, and located another set of steps. He opened the door to this stairwell and listened, not hearing anyone inside. He ducked in and descended the steps two at a time. Spotting a multilingual sign that he was now at the promenade deck, Conor paused to crack the corridor door open and listen. When he heard nothing unusual, he opened the door the rest of the way and stepped outside.

  Another multilingual sign pointed guests toward a variety of restaurants, lounges, and bars. Conor sprinted off in that direction. Because of the small passenger list and reduced hospitality staff, not all the amenities were open. The two bars he zipped by were closed, as was the fine dining restaurant. He swung around a corner and ran headlong into another member of the security team. They collided and both their submachine guns went sliding across the deck.

  Both Conor and the guard still had pistols, but didn't go for them. They glared at each other for a second, each wielding their most intense mad-dog stare. The security man emitted a shrill cry, threw several brutal practice strikes, and snarled, striking a martial arts stance. Not to be outdone, Conor snarled at the man, whooped his own shrill cry, then whipped Fat's dagger from his belt, throwing it in one fluid movement. The knife plunged into the man's throat and stuck there.

  The wide-eyed guard wrapped both hands around the knife, struggling to decide if he should remove it or leave it. The outcome would have been the same either way, but the man chose to remove the knife and blood gushed down his neck, saturating his shirt. He swooned and toppled over like a felled tree, his eyes glassy as the life poured from him.

  Conor leaned over and cleaned his knife on the man's shirt. "Fuck it, buddy. I'm not going to fistfight if I don't have to. Learned that as a teenager."

  Conor sheathed the knife and grabbed his submachine gun. He picked up the weapon the other man had dropped and flung it overboard before continuing down the row of establishments. In the distance, Conor spotted the first open door he'd seen and picked up the pace. A green placard outside the door had a message written in chalk that mango-avocado-kale smoothies were the special of the morning.

  Slowing his pace, Conor peered through the open double doors and saw a man in shorts and a lilac polo shirt sitting at the juice bar. Conor stepped inside and closed the double doors behind him. He threw the latch to lock the door and the metallic clank echoed through the still room.

  The juice-tender, or whatever the hell those people were called, held a finger up at Conor. "I'm sorry, sir, but that door has to remain unlocked while the juice bar is occupied."

  Conor raised the submachine gun toward the juice-tender.

  The young man gave a broad smile. "Or maybe it doesn't."

  Conor winked and returned the smile.

  "Care for one of the mango-avocado-kale smoothies?" the man in the lilac shirt asked.

  "I'd rather drink cat vomit than that hippie bullshit," Conor mumbled. "You must be Prince Abbas."

  "I am. And you must be the Mad Mick."

  Conor was completely taken aback. He hadn't understood the depth to which they'd been compromised until that very moment. Abbas should not know that name. That hadn't come from the double-agent on Cumberland Island because they hadn’t mentioned it. This operation had been compromised at a higher level.

  While Conor had no doubts about Ricardo, what about the people who'd hired him? Was there an enemy within the Saint Macallan Collective or somewhere else within the operational chain? There had to be. Unless the information was extracted under duress. Through torture.

  "Yes, I am the Mad Mick," Conor admitted. "I don't suppose you'd tell me how you came upon that name, would you?"

  Abbas chuckled and took a slurp of his smoothie. It reminded Conor of a cow slurping water from an algae-covered pond. Apparently he wasn't going to answer the question.

  "If you know who I am, do you know why I'm here?" asked Conor.

  Abbas placed his smoothie on the bar and slowly spun on his barstool to face Conor. He was in his early forties, not muscular but not gone to fat either. He had short hair with a neatly-trimmed beard. Gold jewelry contrasted sharply against his dark skin. He folded his arms across his chest. "I assume you're here to kill my companions. Probably on some idealistic mission to preserve the American way of life."

  "There's nothing idealistic about that. Some would find it a noble cause." Conor shifted the submachine gun on his shoulder.

  Abbas smiled again, that infuriating, smug smile of someone who assumed he knew more than the person he was talking to. "It's already a lost cause. You're too late. That world you cling to is gone already. That America no longer exists and it will never exist again. You people need to give up your cowboy fantasies and play along with the rest of the world. The days of the pioneer defending his family with his rifle are long gone."

  "We've killed three traitors today and we're not done yet. Five minutes’ worth of work and we can wipe out the rest of them on this ship, you included. It might not be enough to win this war, but it would certainly delay your cause. You made a big mistake in getting so many key players together in one spot. It made our job easier. That's a strategic failure on your part, Abbas. You should have been smarter than that."

  Abbas waved a dismissive hand. "I don't care what you do with those people upstairs. American politicians are like mosquitoes. Every two years some die off but more come along to replace them. And the funny thing is, no matter how naive and idealistic they are when they arrive in Washington, they always leave the same way—stained, filthy, and dirty. Compromised."

  Conor diverted the barrel of the sub-gun until it was pointed at Abbas. "And how can you be so certain that I won't kill you right now? If you know anything about me, you'll know that I hate nothing more than a smug bastard. There's just something about that look on your face that makes me want to dump a mag into it."

  Abbas didn't appear perturbed by the threat. Perhaps he'd stared down the barrel of a gun before. "Can we take a short walk? Before you make your decision, I have something I'd like to show you."

  "We can go," Conor agreed, "but if this is a trick, I'll shoot you in the knees and feed you to the sharks."

  Abbas got to his feet. "Fair enough, my friend."

  "I'm not your friend. Make that mistake again and we'll be back to me dumping a mag in your face."

  Abbas led the way to the double doors Conor had just locked. Abbas unlocked them and swung them open. A pair of security men ran by, apparently on the hunt for Conor, but Abbas made no move to signal them. He turned down a corridor and onto the open deck. He strode to the railing and shielded his eyes, looking about for a moment, before pointing off into the distance. "You see that?"

  Conor squinted and did
indeed make out something on the horizon. A boat maybe. "Yeah, what is it?"

  "That is one of your American Arleigh Burke-class destroyers. Actually, it used to be one of yours. It's one of ours now, part of the Western Fleet of the Saudi Royal Navy."

  "What's it doing here?" Conor was certain he was not going to like the answer.

  "I requested it. They're here to arrest the terrorists who've attacked officials of the legitimate American government. Once word gets out, there'll be a surge in international support. Your allies can forget about any attempts to subvert our work, Mad Mick. It's not happening. We've already won."

  Conor shook his head. "I'm not going anywhere. I'll not be arrested while I have a Saudi prince as a hostage."

  Abbas smiled at Conor. "In several minutes a team of Saudi operators will board this ship and rescue us, old chap. Once we're on board that destroyer, it will do what it does best. It will destroy. They'll blow up this ship and everyone on board. You'll be killed, Mad Mick. So will your precious daughter. Barb? Isn't that her name? My government will issue a press release that you chose to blow up the entire cruise ship rather than be taken alive."

  It was all Conor could do to restrain himself. He wanted nothing more than to put a bullet in Abbas's head at that very moment and send his body rolling over the railing. Let the sharks choke on him. He had to be strategic though, and it wasn't always his strong suit. Everyone had their specialty in this business. Conor was a hammer, not a calculator. Scheming at the larger level of international politics was not his jam.

  He grabbed Abbas by the arm. "Let's take this upstairs."

  34

  The Shandong

  The Mediterranean

  On their way to the penthouse level, they ran into two more teams of Chinese guards. Both hesitated to shoot with Abbas so close to Conor. Conor didn't have the same concerns, taking out both teams with well-placed bursts. As the hot brass casings showered Abbas, he winced at the noise and the eruption of violence.

  "Did you really have to do that?" Abbas asked. "I could have made them stand down."

  "They're standing down now," Conor said, ejecting the spent mag and replacing it with a fresh one. "Or laying down, rather."

  When they reached the penthouse level, Conor banged on the door where Barb and Dana were holed-up with the prisoners. "It's me!" When Dana opened the door, Conor gestured for Abbas to enter the room. "Sit down."

  Abbas took a seat on one of the sofas, staring with a degree of revulsion at the unkempt Congresswoman Shoe. She looked a bit rough with her missing teeth, blown-out hair going in all directions, and dressed only in a bathrobe.

  Conor waved Barb over. "Did you ever get Ricardo on the phone?"

  "No. I got Shani though. She said she'd try to send help."

  "We're going to need help. And fast. There's a Saudi destroyer bearing down on us. They want the remaining prisoners or they're going to send a team on board to take them."

  Barb's eyes went wide. "What do we do?"

  "No idea, but there may not be a choice here. We may have to give up the prisoners. We can't stand up to a well-equipped team with tear gas and breaching charges. Not while trapped on a ship with nowhere to retreat."

  "Shit," Barb spat, more angry than scared at this point. She didn't like to be outdone.

  Conor held out his hand. "Give me the phone. Let me try Ricardo one more time. You keep an eye on the prisoners. Especially Abbas."

  While Barb was digging the satellite phone from her pocket, Abbas's own phone rang. He pointed at his pocket and looked at Conor. "May I? This might be important. For all of us."

  Conor flashed a wry expression and nodded.

  Abbas fished his phone from his pocket and took the call. "Hello?"

  Even the smooth, relaxed timbre of Abbas's voice angered Conor. Sometimes the tiniest things could set him off if they hit at the wrong time. This could be one of those times. The smug bastard felt untouchable, and with the backing of an entire nation at his fingertips, he practically was.

  "Yes, I've made contact with the terrorists," Abbas said into his phone, winking at Conor. The man knew exactly what he was doing. That wink, that use of the word "terrorist", were done to infuriate Conor. "They understand their predicament. I think I'm making progress in the negotiations."

  As whoever he was speaking to responded to his comments, Abbas nodded, not breaking eye contact with Conor. It was at that very moment that Conor put all the pieces together. He had no idea who the original instigator of the terror attacks against America had been. Syria? Pakistan? Iran? It could have been any of them.

  Whoever it was, this man Abbas had been the intermediary between those terrorists and the traitors in this room. He may not have set up the attacks, but he'd used them to his advantage. He'd secured the cooperation of the Chinese and the Saudis. He'd given the Americans in his pocket advance warning that the attacks were coming. Now these members of congress, these lobbyists and bureaucrats, were all pawns in his game and it was Abbas who was moving them from square to square. He was the mastermind behind this shift in power.

  Conor wanted to kill Abbas at that very moment, but there was only one thing he wanted more. That was to keep his daughter alive. In some elementary way, he knew their fates were all bound together at the moment. If Abbas died, they would die too.

  "I'll tell them," Abbas said, ending the call. "The captain of the destroyer says you have ten minutes to make your decision. If he doesn't hear from me in ten minutes, he'll assume that you've chosen not to cooperate and a team of Saudi Marines will board this ship. You'll be overrun and killed."

  "Dad?" Barb said.

  He looked from Abbas to Barb. She was holding the satellite phone in her hand, waiting for him to take it. He grabbed it and stepped into the hall, keeping the door to the room propped open with his foot. He tried Ricardo's number again, not getting any answer. This was unprecedented and left him with the sinking feeling that something bad had happened to his old friend.

  With the clock running, he wasted no time dialing Shani's number. Again, there was no answer. Conor swore and shoved the phone in his pocket. This wasn't the first time he'd been left to his own devices, but never when the stakes were this high. He was on his own.

  He rushed back inside the room. "Where's my pack?"

  "In my room," Dana said. "One deck below."

  "Take me there. Barb, you got this?"

  Barb nodded, sweeping her weapon around the assembled prisoners. "On it."

  "Run," Conor said when Dana joined him in the hall.

  They sprinted to the stairs and down to Dana's floor. She had her key out by the time they reached the room. When she unlocked the door, Conor burst inside and grabbed his pack. Seeing Barb's rifle laying on the bed, the familiar sight of one of his custom-made .300 blackouts, he wanted to switch weapons but every second was critical now.

  "You get back to the room and help Barb keep watch," Conor said.

  Dana ran off and Conor stood there for a second, strategizing. Ideally, given more time, he'd rig tripwires and explosives in each stairwell but there wasn't time to do it right. He'd have to focus his efforts on the penthouse deck. Conor jogged up the steps and began to set charges on each door leading from the stairwell into the penthouse corridor.

  He had no time for anything fancy. These were simple anti-personnel charges fastened to the steel doors with double-stick tape. A contact trigger was fastened to the door frame with the same tape. When the door was opened, the contact within the switch was broken and the bomb exploded immediately.

  Conor flew up the corridor like a madman, setting the charges as quickly as he could. When he was done, his watch told him that he had three minutes before the Saudis boarded the ship. He needed to get back to the room and come up with some tactic to delay them. He needed some more time to brainstorm a way out of this mess.

  His mind was racing by the time he reached the room and banged on the door. "It's me!" He tapped his foot impatiently while wai
ting for them to unlock it.

  When Dana pulled it open, Conor stormed inside and pointed at Abbas. "Get that destroyer on the phone now! Tell them to give us ten more minutes or I kill one of you."

  Abbas was extracting his phone to make the call when an explosion shook the deck beneath them.

  "Dammit!" Conor yelled, flinching at the blast. It was the stairwell door. He should have expected this. The Saudis had asked for ten minutes and breached at eight. "Get away from the door!"

  Conor grabbed Barb and Dana, slinging them toward the farthest end of the penthouse suite. "We need to be behind cover when they break down this door." Conor made everyone duck behind the furniture, their backs to the wall of glass that looked out onto the sea.

  Conor had his weapon leveled over the sofa, ready to start pouring rounds into the door if the Saudi Marines applied a battering ram to the other side. His heart was pounding so he focused on slowing it. He needed to use the surge of adrenaline to his advantage, not let it push him into panic. He'd been in the shit before and walked out of it. He could do it again.

  A strange sound reached his ears. It was an unfamiliar thrum, nearly as deep as the roar of the ship's engines. As it became louder, Conor was torn between focusing on it and listening for the sound of pounding boots in the hallway.

  "Uh, Dad?" Barb muttered.

  "What is it?" Conor asked. "I'm a little busy here."

  "Behind us."

  Conor turned his head, keeping his rifle pointed at the door. Less than a hundred yards behind him, a chopper was moving steadily toward them. Conor swore again, imagining a Saudi sniper with a Steyr or H&K PSG1 preparing to send a round in his direction.