Brutal Business: Book Three in the Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  “No idea. What’s it for?”

  Flaco studied the label. “Dude, I think it’s for your udders.”

  Thomas shook his head. “Fucking farmers.”

  2

  Thomas woke to the smell of frying ham and pork bellies, the remnants of a pig Buddha Boy killed two days ago. The farmer who owned the pig complained and Buddha Boy dispatched him the same way he took the pig. A single round between the eyes. Thomas hoped they made biscuits and gravy. Nothing said good morning like biscuits and gravy. Eggs would be nice too. The only eggs they had were powdered but it sure beat the hell of out of no eggs at all.

  He was a latecomer to the magic of a good breakfast. He didn’t realize until he got older what he’d been missing all his life. He couldn’t recall ever having had a homemade breakfast during his childhood. Usually in his house it was the “find it your own damn self” system. Kind of like a buffet except without the food. Most days he got his breakfast at school. Later, when he started earning on the street, he could buy his breakfast. That was when he got introduced to the Waffle House and learned what breakfast was all about.

  The previous night he’d made his bed out of a half-dozen bags of goat feed. His men had laughed at him as he’d tested sacks of grass seed, chicken feed, and Purina Catfish Chow for their relative comfort. He found that goat food was his preference. It was firm without shifting too much when he moved. It also had a sweet molasses scent that reminded him of cookies.

  They’d run perimeter security all night, four men with night vision, body armor, and select-fire M4s. Things had been quiet. Sometimes gunfire of the type they’d unleashed when evicting the previous tenants brought visitors either searching for vengeance or to scavenge from the dead. Thomas had fully expected a few shots in the night, either warning or lethal, but there had been none.

  He crawled out of his sleeping bag and sat up, yawned, and reached for his boots. The military had taught him to be a creature of habit, to develop personal systems that allowed him to function at optimal efficiency. He always slept with his rifle to the left side of his body. The boots were also at the left, at chest level. One boot held his Beretta M9 and the other held an unsheathed Cold Steel combat knife. Both the pistol and the knife were ready to grab and fight if it came to that.

  It was a gray day outside and dim light filtered into the room. Some men were sleeping. Others, like him, were stirred to wakefulness by the daylight or force of habit. There was no hurry. They had nowhere to be other than where they wanted to be. Nothing to do other than that which they wanted to do. No orders, no training, and no bullshit.

  One of the men added a log to the fire. The room was cool but a good bit warmer than a tent. Certainly warmer than sleeping up under the truck, which they had to do sometimes. Thomas emptied his boots of weapons and slid them on. They zipped up the side which saved a lot of time lacing. He stood and made his way to the stove, drawn to it like a cat to a sunbeam. Moments like this made settling down look like an attractive prospect. There was nothing comfortable about life on the road. You always had to be on edge, always waiting for the next challenge, the next attack.

  He’d grown up that way, though, and knew no other life. He’d never been comfortable, never seen home as a warm, safe place where you could back up to a fire and hang out with people you cared about. That was a fairytale for soft people and the sheep they preyed on. He had no intention of getting soft. No intention of giving into the temptation of having a comfortable bed to settle into each night. He’d stay hard, stay sharp, and stay free. That was his life.

  Thomas had found his family, his brotherhood, on the streets. When he’d become an adult, that same family had asked him to join the military. The gang wanted their soldiers to be trained like real soldiers. They wanted shooters who could really shoot. They wanted fighters who could bring warfighter skills to the street. Thomas had done what was asked of him.

  At first, he hated the Army. He didn’t like being told what to do. There were rules for everything and punishments if you fucked up. Many times he was tempted to kill men for the way they talked to him. He could catch them off base or have a training accident. He’d killed men for that very reason on the streets and held no fear of doing it again. If he got arrested though, or got his ass thrown out, he wouldn’t be able to return to his street family. He’d have failed them. They had big plans. Big plans for him and the others like him who hid among the ranks of the military. He’d bitten his tongue, learned discipline, and at some point realized his newfound discipline made him way more dangerous than he’d ever been before.

  None of the gang’s larger plans were going to happen. After the collapse, his gang had been wiped out by a rival. Now all he had was the others like himself. Men he’d identified in the ranks through their tattoos and the way they greeted each other. Before the shit hit the fan, he’d found over a hundred others like himself. They shared a history and a common upbringing. They shared a bond even beyond that the military instilled in them. Thomas built on that to establish the name by which they identified themselves. The Bond.

  The name didn’t immediately identify them as gang members. Anyone who overheard them using it might have assumed that, due to their uniforms, it was simply referring to their bond as servicemen. Though some of them had come from different gangs, none of them had been direct rivals, otherwise Thomas’s effort to build these men into a team probably wouldn’t have worked. But it had. They all had similar backgrounds, they all knew the same world, and they shared the same values.

  When the world crapped out on them the military was in shambles. There was no longer a cohesive mission, and desertion rates skyrocketed. For those who remained behind, commanders followed along party affiliations or other, less obvious, allegiances. Bases became entities unto themselves. There had been such a division in Washington that it seemed like commanders had been waiting for an opportunity like this.

  The men of The Bond stayed in touch with each other through an encrypted chat app up until that quit working. When it did, they fell back on the plan they’d been working out over the past weeks. They stole a fleet of surplus multi-fuel trucks from their base, then stole weapons and supplies that members of The Bond had access to. Funny thing was, their base was in such disarray that no one cared. People were looting gear and selling it to civilians or smuggling it to family. People were disappearing from the ranks every night. Before long, there would no one left but those who only knew military life.

  Thomas held a meeting each morning. The only men excused were those who had just come off sentry duty and needed sleep. Everyone else had to be there. Today, the men gathered in the main room of the farm supply with paper plates heaped with steaming food. Thomas didn’t believe in being stingy with food. Feed the men well and they’d follow you. They had bacon, fried ham, powdered eggs, and biscuits with little jelly packs they’d found in a fast food restaurant. There was some grumbling about the lack of gravy.

  “Done spoiled you assholes,” Buddha Boy said. “You miss one day of gravy and you think it’s the end of the world.”

  “Yeah, pretty much,” Lawdog agreed.

  “You eating good, aren’t you?” Buddha Boy asked. “Ain’t no need to grumble.”

  “He’s right,” Thomas pitched in. “Probably ain’t nobody for miles got this good a breakfast in front of them right now so y’all shut the hell up and listen.”

  The men fell silent. The meetings were good-natured and casual but when Thomas told them to get quiet he meant it. Men had died to get that point across and it was embedded in everyone’s mind with a crystal clarity. He was the boss and his word was law.

  Thomas took up a piece of ham in his hand and tore at it with his teeth. “What’s the fuel situation?”

  “Between kerosene, home heating oil, and off-road diesel there was enough to top off the trucks but none for the tanker,” Mundo said.

  “You find anything in the bulk fuel records?”

  “Didn’t even have to use
the computer. They had a detailed paper log with receipts, gallons delivered, and the account information. There’s some big farm accounts taking a thousand gallons at a clip. Running them big tractors and combines, I guess. If those people ain’t farming and they’re sticking close to home, they can’t be burning fuel that fast. My guess is we could hit one or two of those bigger accounts and fill the tanker.”

  Thomas chewed and processed. “Filling that tanker is priority number one. The next stop is Chillicothe, and I bet there ain’t shit left there. Too many people. Not enough food and fuel to go around. They gonna be some desperate assholes.”

  “I like desperate,” Shootah said. “Desperate women do about anything a man wants.”

  “Desperate women are about the only kind that will hook up with the likes of you,” Thomas cracked. “But forget women. We talking business now. Lawdog, you and Mundo figure out which of those big fuel accounts are the closest. Pick three of them and send a two man team to scout out each of them. You’ll go on foot and report back with what you find. Physically verify they got fuel left and how much. Try to avoid conflict. You know we’re all about peace and shit.”

  He couldn’t even say it without a smile. His men agreed, cracking up and laughing.

  “Yeah, I been thinking about trading my cammies for tie dyes,” Mundo said. “Start listening to Phish.”

  “Fish?” Buddha Boy asked. “Like bass and trout kind of fish?”

  “It’s a band, fool,” Mundo said. “Hippie shit. Like the Grateful Dead. Woodstock. All that business.”

  “What the fuck I know about that?” Buddha Boy asked. “I’m a soldier. I ain’t no fucking hippie expert.”

  “You a soldier of The Bond, not the United States,” Thomas reminded him. “Don’t forget that. None of us work for the government anymore. We work for ourselves. We work for each other.”

  Lawdog shoved the last of his bacon, ham, and jelly biscuit in his mouth and tossed his plate off to the side. “Speaking of work, what you want the rest of us to do?”

  “Toss this place,” Thomas said. “I ain’t sure what farmers use that we might need but I think I saw propane tanks outside. Buddha Boy needs that for the stove, so make sure we got plenty. Otherwise you’ll be eating cold pop-tarts instead of biscuits. Check for tools, hardware, ropes, chains, vehicle maintenance supplies, anything you think we might need. If you find something better than what we’re carrying, toss the old shit and take the new. There’s also more people moving around in the day, so we’ll need perimeter security.”

  “When we track down those fuel accounts, we going to go collect it as a team?” Mundo asked.

  Thomas nodded. “Once we find enough fuel for the tanker, we’ll secure the fuel. We keep going until the tanker is full.”

  “Got it,” Mundo replied.

  “Any questions?” Thomas asked.

  There were none.

  “Everyone clear on what they’re doing?” he asked.

  There were nods around the room.

  “Then get on with it. Let’s make shit happen.”

  3

  The Ashford family was getting ready to sit down to a dinner of venison stew made from a deer Mr. Ashford had hanging in the barn. The stew had been simmering on the woodstove all day, torturing the family of six with the aroma. Mrs. Ashford was frying cornbread in a skillet over the same stove. She called it Johnny Cakes and her children were intrigued by the idea. They thought the little round cakes resembled pancakes that should be eaten with syrup, not stew, and they were eating them nearly as fast as she made them. They’d had a good day, considering the state of things. The family was warm and they had food. They were confident they would survive whatever was going on with the country. Then they heard a horn.

  Mr. Ashford was sitting in his recliner by the woodstove, reading an old farming magazine. He bolted from his chair and ran to the window. He carefully pulled the curtains aside and peered out. He turned back to his family and found them staring at him, eyes wide. “There’s someone at the gate. It looks like an Army truck. Everyone in the basement now!”

  The family knew not to argue. They’d done this same thing, both as a drill and because of unexpected visitors, many times. Mrs. Ashford ran to the kitchen and threw open the basement door. She grabbed a shotgun from where it stood beside the broom in a corner. The children were already filing down the dark stairs, one of them carrying a flashlight. She gave her husband a nervous glance and he smiled at her.

  “It’ll be okay,” he said.

  She tried to smile back and failed, then fell in behind her children, locking the basement door behind them.

  Mr. Ashford picked up his deer rifle and tugged on his farm boots. He was preparing to go onto the porch and address the visitors when the back door was kicked open. The jamb splintered and the door swung hard, banging off the wall. A man in camouflage fatigues and web gear stepped through the door. He was moving with practiced fluidity, a rifle raised and following his eyes as he scanned the room.

  Mr. Ashford awkwardly threw his rifle up but was too slow, too awkward. A short burst of gunfire exploded in the tight quarters of the home, the rounds stitching up Mr. Ashford’s chest. He fell backward into the window, shattering it outward with a flailing arm before sagging into the floor.

  The shooter advanced into the living room, a second man following immediately behind him. It was Mundo in the lead with Body Bag behind him.

  “The basement!” Mundo barked. “I saw the door closing when I looked through the window!”

  Body Bag advanced on the closed basement door and tried the handle. Locked. Instead of standing off the side of the door like he was trained to do, Body Bag stood directly in front of it. In the basement, Mrs. Ashford knew what those gunshots and what that rattling knob meant. It was up to her. She fired her shotgun and a cluster of buckshot pellets punched a fist-sized hole through the door. Those same pellets ripped a chunk from Body Bag’s face and neck. He staggered backward, holding his neck, falling into the kitchen table, blood spraying. The table tipped, dumping him into the floor.

  “Shit!” Mundo yelled, flattening himself against the living room wall.

  There was a second blast from the shotgun, lower this time. Whoever was down there wasn’t taking any chances. The round punched out more of the door but didn’t hit anyone.

  “You with me, Body?” Mundo yelled. When there was no answer, he peered around the corner and saw his friend dead on the kitchen floor. One eye was missing, along with a good part of the right side of his face.

  “Assholes!” Mundo screamed. “Fucking assholes!” He yanked a grenade from a pouch on his gear, pulled the pin. He ran toward the basement door and shoved the grenade through the splintered hole like he was throwing garbage in a garbage can.

  In the basement, the Ashfords had no idea what was about to happen. Mrs. Ashford was trying to wield the shotgun while one of her children held the flashlight from a safe vantage point. All she heard was something heavy clattering down the steps. It sounded like a can of soup. She never had the chance to figure out what it was.

  Mundo flew out the back door at full-tilt and leapt off the porch. The grenade exploded and the basement level windows blew out in a spray of glass. It was too much pressure in too small a space. Trying to run while keeping an eye on the house, Mundo ran straight into a swingset. At the last minute he tried to jump one of the dangling swings but the seat hooked both feet and he face-planted in the mulch.

  There was a loud crash from a different direction and Mundo pushed himself up, trying to figure out what was going on, but it was his people. The tanker had crashed through the gate and was charging up the driveway. Somehow the gate had become hooked on the undercarriage of the truck and was dragging along behind it, rattling like a loose tailpipe dragged behind a car.

  “Mundo! What the fuck?” came a burst across his radio. “What’s going on?”

  Mundo heard a whooshing sound, followed by a single, high-pitched scream. He glanc
ed back toward the house and saw smoke pouring from the windows. The grenade must have ignited something, perhaps an oil tank in the basement. The house was on fire, smoke and flames pouring from the basement windows.

  “They got Body Bag!” Mundo shouted into his radio. “They were holed up in the basement and I had to frag’em.”

  “Good job,” Lawdog said sarcastically. “People will see that smoke for miles and want to know what the hell is going on. You might as well have sent up a flare.”

  Mundo got to his feet and waved toward the tanker. He jogged toward a nearby tree, wanting to keep something between him and the house in case there was anybody alive in the upstairs. He’d not had a chance to clear the house before things went south but they’d be dead soon enough. The house was fully engulfed.

  The tanker swerved in his direction, cutting across the lawn, then slowing as it approached him. Lawdog rolled down the window and killed the engine. It was hard to talk over the noise of it. “Where to?”

  Mundo and Body Bag had done the recon on this place earlier. They were the team that found it and located the bulk fuel tank with the remaining fuel. He pointed to a small barn-like structure made of corrugated steel situated away from the larger equipment barn. “Fuel shed. There’s a solar panel powering a twelve-volt pump setup. We can pull right up to it and start pumping into the tanker. Their pump might be too slow, though.”

  “We’ll figure it out. Hop on. We better get moving. That fire is sending up smoke signals and neighbors might start showing up.”

  Mundo knew he was right but he’d done what he had to do. He climbed onto the running board and hooked his arm through the open window, switching his rifle to his offhand. Lawdog restarted the engine. Just as he began to ease forward there was the sound of gunfire coming from the house.