On The Edge: Book Three in The No Direction Home Series

by Mike Sheridan

  Around the camp, Mason’s crew was slowly rising. Jonah passed two men entering the square from the direction of the parking lot, rifles slung over their shoulders. One of them grinned at him as he shambled by. They looked sleepy, but didn’t have that bloodshot, hangover look etched on their faces. The men were returning from guard duty, he guessed.

  He passed the dining hall. Through the window, he saw that three women had set up a gas stove and were serving breakfast. He caught a whiff of eggs and bacon, and smelled coffee too.

  Coffee!

  More than anything, that and a glass of cool water was what he needed most in the world.

  He pushed through the door and hoarsely asked one of the women for a glass of water. A small, birdlike girl in her twenties with bleach-blonde hair wearing cutoff shorts and flip-flops chuckled as she poured him a large tumbler full of water from a plastic container.

  “You had a hell of a night, didn’t you?” she said. She poured him out a coffee. “You feeling well enough for ham and eggs?”

  “Please, miss,” Jonah croaked, then gratefully knocked back the tumbler in three gulps. That was better. His throat loosened up and his tongue no longer stuck to the roof of his mouth, though the bhoys with the kango hammers were still working away like good-o inside his skull. He heaped several spoonfuls of sugar into his mug, mumbled his thanks, and sat down at one of the bench tables nearby.

  He took a sip from his coffee and placed it down on the table in front of him. Then he pressed the palms of his hands together, closed his eyes, and said a little prayer quietly to himself.

  Dear Lord…Brendan Murphy here—you know—Jonah. Look, I know it’s been a while, and by rights I shouldn’t be asking yeh anything right now, especially not after the amount of gargle I drank last night. But it was me nerves. I hope yeh understand that, and God knows, I’m paying for it now. Ah silly me, you’re God, of course yeh know.

  Eh…where was I? Ah yeah…please Lord, look over Colleen and make sure she stays safe. That’s the thing that matters most to me in the world. After that, if you could spare this auld sinner a few minutes of yer time, I’d be grateful. I’m not such a bad bloke, and I’m hoping yeh might see yerself to help me out of this mess. I don’t know how many Hail Mary’s it’ll take, but I’ll rattle one off now. Show yeh I mean business.”

  Glancing to either side of him, Jonah crossed himself. “Hail Mary, full of grace…hallowed be thy name…”

  CHAPTER 20

  The Benton council met at 9 a.m., convening in the patio area under the shade of the trellis. During the day it was the best place for them to sit, rather than in the stuffy heat of the farmhouse. It offered a little more privacy too.

  Almost as soon as they’d sat down, the four members of the Eastwood War Committee appeared, appointed by Walter that morning. Seeing as the discussion at hand was on how to retake Camp Benton, he’d deemed that there was no point in involving anyone else in the talks other than those experienced with weapons.

  “Most of you already know Cody,” Walter said, introducing his men. “This here is Ralph and Clete. Two key members of our group.”

  Like most people meeting Ralph for the first time, the expressions of those around the table took on a mixture of surprise and alarm as they observed the tangle of scars that took up almost the entire real estate on his face. The ruby-eyed silver skull that adorned his right hand, along with the Motorhead T-shirt, skinny black pants, and motorcycle boots only added to the effect.

  “Good to meet you both,” Rollins finally said, before going on to introduce his own team.

  “All right, Sheriff,” Walter said as he grabbed one of the extra chairs that had been brought out by Rollins earlier and sat down at the table. “How about you guys bring us up to speed on your thoughts about taking back the camp. I’m sure you’ve already done plenty of thinking about it.”

  Rollins gestured to Granger, sitting across the table from him. “Ned, take out the map and let’s go through the camp layout with Walter and his men. They don’t know it as well as we do.”

  Granger leaned over one side of his chair and produced a brown leather satchel. He opened it up and pulled out a large sketchbook, the type an artist might use. Flicking through the pages, he selected one, then placed the pad at the center of the table.

  In thick black marker was a neatly drawn plan of Camp Benton and its surroundings. The group spent the next fifteen minutes going through it in detail, discussing perimeter posts, Papa One through Five, with each of their strengths and weaknesses, the layout of the Ring around the square, both the North and South Beach defensive positions, and the fallback route along which the camp’s evacuation had taken place.

  “Right now, Mason is probably making some changes. He knows we know exactly how everything is laid out,” Granger finished up. “That’s what I would do in his position. He might well guard the perimeter more securely. Breaking through it was what ultimately led to the camp’s fall…” He trailed off as he wrestled with his emotions.

  Walter looked up from the map at Granger with a resolute expression. “Listen, Ned, at the moment of our choosing, we’ll retake the camp. And when we do, we’ll show Mason and his men no mercy, that I can assure you.” He glanced over at Mary Sadowski, who gave him a grim nod of approval.

  “I appreciate your words, Walter,” Granger said, who by now had composed himself. “Speaking of the moment of our choosing, there’s been a recent development that might influence any plans we make. Believe it or not, we have a spy in Mason’s camp. Someone who will keep us up-to-date with his activities.”

  Walter stared at him blankly. “A spy in the camp? You’ve lost me, Ned.”

  Granger smiled briefly. “Over to you, Bert.”

  Olvan spent the next few minutes going through the events of the previous night, explaining to Walter and his team how one of their men, an Irishman by the name of Jonah Murphy, had been mistaken for one of Mason’s new recruits and was now firmly embedded at the camp.

  “How are you communicating with him?” Cody asked once Olvan finished speaking.

  “I gave Jonah my radio,” Olvan told him. “I’m due to contact him today at noon. Then me and a fellow by the name of Kit Halpern will take turns staying in contact with him.”

  “These radios only have a short range,” Walter told him. “You’ll need to find someplace safe where the two of you can change shifts easily.”

  Olvan nodded. “I know of a good spot near Devil’s Point on an abandoned forestry track. We’ll be real careful coming in and out on the changeover to make sure no one spots us.”

  “Good…” Walter said slowly, thinking through the implications of this unexpected news. “You know, with this guy Jonah at the camp, we should also get advanced warning if and when Mason decides to come looking for you guys. Us too, for that matter.”

  “Absolutely,” Granger agreed. “We should work on a few different scenarios around that. Perhaps plan our attack while he’s out searching for us. Take it while it’s less guarded.”

  “Great idea. This is guerrilla warfare. We need to start thinking more tactically.” Walter tapped the side of his head. “We need to get into Mason’s head, start playing against his weaknesses, not his strengths. In this case, his natural aggressiveness.”

  Ralph, who had been sitting quietly all this time, chose that moment to speak. “I’ve got another scenario to put on your list, call it the snake’s head scenario.”

  Everyone turned and stared at him.

  “All right,” Rollins said. “How does that go exactly?”

  Ralph leaned his bone-hard frame back in his chair and stretched out his long, gangly legs. “From what I’ve heard about this Mason character, I think I know the type. Hell, even had them as cellmates. A tough guy that rules by fear, but one that’s got personality too. It’s how come he’s managed to build up his gang so quickly. ’Course, in my experience, it’s a lot easier to recruit badasses than the good guys.”

  Sitting
beside him, Clete sniggered. “Too much jail time’s made you cynical, Ralph, that’s all.”

  The bank robber shrugged. “Can’t deny that. One thing I know is that with a guy like Mason, everything centers around him. No one does jack shit without his say so. Whack Mason, and the rest of his gang run around like headless chickens. Makes getting your camp back a whole lot easier.” Ralph stared at Rollins. “With your boy Jonah on the inside, we should know the next time Mason intends sticking his nose outside the camp. Put a hit team in place, and bang! We ace the mother,” he said, clapping his hands loudly. He turned to Mary Sadowski and grinned. “Pardon my language, Miss. Didn’t mean to offend.”

  “None taken,” Sadowski replied coolly. “Not in this particular case.”

  There was an animated look on Granger’s face now. “Ralph is correct. From what I saw, Mason’s got no real chain of command. If we get advanced warning when he next leaves camp, we can set up an ambush. Give the bastard a taste of his own medicine.”

  Walter nodded. “‘Cutting off the snake’s head’ is a legitimate war strategy. The trick will be in setting up the roadside ambush just right. We’ll need several men in position to spray him with everything they got.” A look of concern came over his face. “One thing, though. Something like this is a dangerous undertaking for your guy. What’s this Jonah character like? Has he got the mettle for this?”

  “I think so,” Olvan replied. “As to his character, let’s just say he’s not the type you meet every day of the week. And he sure talks a lot, don’t he, Mary?”

  Walter was surprised to see the normally stern-faced Mary crack a dry smile. “You can say that again. Still, he’s tough to the core. If anyone can handle himself at Mason’s camp, it’s Jonah.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Jonah was on his third coffee when Gatto and two of his crew entered the dining hall. The three ordered breakfast at the serving counter, then joined him at the table.

  “I was wondering where you got to,” Gatto said. He sat down beside Jonah, plonking his coffee mug down in front of him. “Thought maybe you’d run out on me.”

  Jonah shook his head. “I’m not the ungrateful type. You saved me life last night, remember?”

  Gatto smiled. A woozy, half-drunk smile. “Seeing as you put it that way, guess I did.” He took a sip from his coffee and winced. “Jesus, did we party last night. My head feels like it got run over by a two-ton truck. Tell me, Murph, how do I look?”

  “Like yer fit for the knacker’s yard,” Jonah told him. “I’d drag yeh there meself, only I don’t have the strength.”

  Gatto chuckled. “I’m not surprised. You look like death warmed up too.”

  “And that’s after three coffees. Yeh should have seen me thirty minutes ago.”

  After some more banter, three plates of eggs and ham were served up to the new arrivals and they tucked into their food.

  “So what’s the plan today?” one of the men, a short, wiry man with curly hair and a deeply-lined face, asked. Jonah had spoken with him the previous night, but couldn’t recall his name.

  “We head back to our camp and pack up our gear. We need to move to the lodge ASAP,” Gatto replied, slouching over table and slurping runny fried eggs into his mouth. He lifted his head and looked across at Jonah. “Murph, your camp is over on the north side of the lake, if I remember right.”

  “Eh, yeah….” Jonah racked his brains. The previous night Gatto had mentioned something about where Mason had found Nate’s gang. “Later on, I’ll head over to Greasy Spoon Creek and fetch me gear too.”

  Gatto chuckled. “‘Greasy Spoon Creek’. You crack me up. All right, after breakfast we’ll go our separate ways and meet back at the lodge. I can’t wait to move in. It’s got six bedrooms, and Mason told me he left three travel trailers for us there too.” He looked around the table, grinning. “We’ll be living it up in style, boys.”

  “How about Mason?” Jonah asked casually. “He got plans for us later?”

  “No idea.” Gatto nodded in the direction of the serving counter. “But there he is over there. Why don’t we ask him?”

  Jonah jerked his head to one side to see Mason talking to the skinny birdlike woman. She stood close to him, smiling. It was obvious there was something going on between them.

  “Hey, Mason!” Gatto bellowed out. He waved a hand impatiently. “Over here!”

  Gatto was obviously one of those brash insensitive types. Jonah wouldn’t have dreamed of addressing Mason like that in a million years.

  The bandit muttered something to his girl, then came over to the table. “Yeah, Gatto. What do you want?”

  Gatto pointed at Jonah. “Murph here wants to know if you have any plans for us today.”

  Mason looked at Jonah coldly. “What’s it to you?” he asked in a surly tone.

  “Eh, just wanted to know if we’d be taking it easy today,” Jonah mumbled feebly, thinking of the first thing that came to his mind. “After all that gargle last night, I’m totally bolixed. Absolutely in bleedin’ bits.”

  Mason’s face turned from a dark frown, to confused, then broke out into a large smile. “You’re from Ireland, aren’t you? I’d recognize that accent anywhere.” Before Jonah could reply, Mason waved his hand toward the counter. “Tania, bring my coffee over here!” he yelled over to the skinny girl. “I’ll take it with Murph.”

  Jonah’s heart leaped as Mason grabbed a chair from the next table and sat down opposite him. The last thing he needed was the bandit’s direct attention on him. It was hardly keeping the low profile Olvan had instructed him to take.

  “To answer your question, today’s kickback day,” Mason told him. “Tomorrow we go look for the Bentons. If they’re foolish enough to have stayed in the area, we’ll finish them off.”

  Gatto nodded approvingly. “Glad you’re not the kind of guy who leaves unresolved issues behind. Neither am I.”

  Mason ignored the comment. Instead, he stared at Jonah keenly. “You know, Murph, my great grandfather was from Ireland. John Joseph Bonner was his name.”

  “Yeh don’t say,” Jonah murmured politely, wisely declining to ask the obvious question, whether Jonjo Bonner was a complete skanger like Mason? Odds said he was.

  “He hailed from Spanish Point, County Clare. Ever heard of it?”

  “I know it well. Beautiful spot.”

  Mason’s eyes lit up. “You’ve been there? No fucking way!”

  Jonah nodded, trying to figure out whether this new development was a good thing or not. “There’s good fishing to be had there. Caught meself an eight-pound bass last time I was down. A couple of flounder too.”

  A delighted Mason slapped the table with the flat of his palm, spilling the coffee Tania had just brought over. “I’ll be damned. Ninety-eight percent of the country has fucking croaked it, yet here I am talking to someone from halfway across the world who’s been to the very town my ancestors came from.”

  Jonah smiled. “Looks like it’s still a small old world.” He paused a moment. “Yeh know why it’s called Spanish Point, don’t you?”

  Mason shook his head. “Never really thought about it…why?”

  Jonah was surprised that Mason lacked the imagination to have ever questioned the origins of such an exotically-named place. Despite his initial hesitance, it occurred to him that this was an opportunity to get onto Mason’s good side. Who knew where it might lead?

  “It’s because of the Spanish Armada,” he explained. “See, in 1588, one hundred and thirty galleons with thirty thousand men on board set sail to invade England. It was the largest naval invasion fleet ever for its time. Only sixty-seven ships returned. The Spanish got their arses handed back to them on a plate.”

  Though not the most academic of blokes, Jonah loved history, particularly Irish history. Perhaps that was because he came from a long line of Fenians, and could recite the names of the 1916 martyrs backward since the age of seven. The rest of his school grades had been dire, however, which was why h
e’d joined the merchant navy at nineteen.

  “Oh yeah?” Mason leaned forward in his chair. While he mightn’t have been interested in the history of his ancestral home until then, he appeared interested in it now. “So why did the Spanish want to invade England? And what the fuck does that have to do with Ireland?”

  “That’ll take some explaining. You got the time?”

  Mason shrugged. “I like a good war story. Why not?”

  “All right, I’ll give it me best shot.” Jonah settled into his storytelling role, something he was a past master at, even with a raging hangover. “At the end of the sixteenth century, Spain was the most powerful empire on the planet. They ruled half of Europe and all of the New World, where their conquistadors were plundering gold from the Mayans, Aztecs, and Incas, and bringing it all back to Spain. Only problem was that the English—geezers like Francis Drake—kept attacking their ships on their way home to Europe and stealing their loot.” He looked around the table. “Yis have all heard of Sir Francis Drake, haven’t yis?”

  Gatto’s wiry companion piped up. “I think so. Didn’t Errol Flynn play him once in a movie?”

  Jonah grinned. “Fair play to yeh, Curly, he most certainly did. Now Drake was what they called a privateer, basically, a pirate commissioned by the Crown to rob the Spanish blind. Queen Elizabeth…remember, she had the hots for Errol in the movie? Well, she didn’t want to use the Royal Navy to attack the Spanish, so she pretended that none of these attacks had anything to do with her. Ah, she was a sneaky wan all right.”

  Mason was getting the picture. “So the Spanish were stealing the gold from the Aztecs, then Drake was robbing it from them as they sailed back to Spain. That’s why the Spanish went to war with England, right?”

  Jonah winked at him. “Got it in one, bud. Yep, King Phillip of Spain got pissed off with a shower of English bastards stealing his hard-won treasure. Yeh can’t fault the geezer, can yeh?”