Brutal Business: Book Three in the Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

Shannon finished filling her bag and moved on to loading a second bag she’d brought with her. “What you don’t understand is that I’ve lived under pressure for years, Dad. I learned long ago that we were undercover and could be found out. I knew there were people who would kill us if they figured out who we worked for. I knew there were people willing to torture or kill me to get back at you. You don’t think that’s pressure? Do you know how many times I ran and hid because I imagined some random man on the street was after me? How many times I hid under the bed when UPS knocked on the door because I assumed it was the precursor to the door being kicked in?”

  “This is a different kind of pressure. Can you look into a man’s eyes, knowing that he’s going to die, and that any supplies you use on him will be wasted? Could you leave him to die and move on to the next injured person because you might be able to save them? I pray to God you never have to know what that’s like because it never leaves you. Never! You’ll hear that dying man’s cries for the rest of your life.”

  “I need to do this.”

  Doc Marty shook his head. “You’re my daughter and you’re all that I have left. You can scream and cry all you want but it changes nothing. You can even hate me if you want, but you’re not going and that’s final.”

  Shannon slammed her bag down, burst into tears, and ran out the door. Doc Marty called to her and started to go after her but stopped. He needed to calm down. She needed to calm down. Surely then she’d listen to logic.

  Walking briskly across the compound, sobbing, Shannon ran into Conor on his way to the stable. He needed some saddlebags for packing gear. Being a father, his first reaction to a crying young woman was to run in the other direction but he held himself steady and went with his second impulse, which was to see what was wrong. He shot out an arm and gently snagged her bicep as she stormed by him.

  “Easy there, Shannon. What’s wrong?”

  “My father won’t let me go on this mission. He thinks I’m a baby.”

  “Dads can be like that,” Conor said, unaware that Shannon was so intent on going. “You see what I just went through with Barb. We struggle. We care but we’re all thumbs when it comes to handling the emotions of our daughters.”

  They talked for several minutes, Conor listening as she vented her frustration. He patted her back and told her it would be okay, which was the main tool in a father’s toolbox.

  “Will you talk to him?” she begged.

  Conor squirmed uncomfortably. “I don’t mind to talk to him, my child, but he’s your dad. This is his decision, not mine.”

  “And I’ll tell you what I told him. I’m not a kid. It’s my decision. If I want to go, he can’t stop me.”

  “You don’t want to do it that way, Shannon. If you go, you want to do it with his support and blessing. You want to have him pulling for you. You don’t want to part in anger. If something were to happen to either of you, that memory would be something the other would have to live with forever. That’s a big burden to shoulder.”

  Shannon mulled that over and Conor could see he’d struck a chord. “I want a chance to help and this is a way I can do it.”

  “Let me talk to him,” Conor said. “You go find Ragus. I’ll come find you after we’ve talked.” He sent her away with a hug and went to the infirmary.

  He found a sullen Doc Marty sitting in an old wooden desk chair, elbows on knees, chin resting on his palms. Conor sat down in an orange cafeteria chair with rusty chrome legs.

  “I just talked to an angry young woman,” he said.

  “A pouting child is more like it. She had the nerve to think she was going north with your little army.”

  Conor shrugged. “Maybe she needs to. Maybe it’s time.”

  Doc Marty sat up straight. “Have you lost your fucking mind, Conor Maguire? You know what’s out there. You know what a battlefield medic goes through. You want that for my kid?”

  “I don’t want the experience of the battlefield for anyone, but I promised the people of this community that I would protect them. The only condition was they had to be willing to help. I have no doubt that I’ll have a couple of dozen men willing to go because they understand that obligation. I don’t want to see any of them hurt or killed but we have to find out if The Bond is coming this way. If they are, we need to make them see the error of their ways.”

  “I don’t have a problem with that. I helped you carve those stupid double ‘M’ symbols all over the damn place. I understand what this is about, but you can do it without my daughter. That’s final.”

  “That’s fine, as long as you understand you won’t be going either.”

  “What?” Doc Marty asked in surprise.

  “Can’t risk it. While you’re technically only a bloody dentist, you’re the closest thing we have to a doctor around here. Plus, if I get killed, I need someone like you to take command of this bunch. They won’t follow Barb yet. I’m not sure they’ll follow Wayne either. You’re it.”

  Doc Marty stared at Conor incredulously. “You would actually take my daughter into battle with you?” He couldn’t fathom the idea. He couldn’t believe they were even having this conversation.

  “I’ve taken my own daughter into battle, Doc. It’s never easy, but it was time for her to make her own decisions. Your daughter has a good basic knowledge of ditch medicine and she handles pressure well. She could do this, if you’d let her.”

  “Did you two conspire together behind my back to set this up?”

  “No. I played no part in it. I didn’t plan on taking a medic at all. We’d lose a lot of men that way though, if they were injured. If Shannon is up for this then I think we should give her a chance. We can’t force them to be children forever.”

  Doc Marty got up from his chair and went to a cabinet on the wall. He removed a bottle of Scotch, a shot glass upturned over the lid. He set it down on the countertop and placed the shot glass beside it with a clink. He unscrewed the lid and poured a shot. Instead of drinking it, he held it out to Conor.

  Conor started to refuse – he rarely drank – but he understood he couldn’t refuse this. To drink this shot was the natural course of things. It was where this conversation, this transaction, had to go. He took the shot and tipped it back, closing his eyes in deference to the memories associated with the taste. Drinks to dead friends, drinks to celebrate making it home when the odds were against you, and drinks to toast the anniversary of a wedding that felt like it was a thousand years gone.

  He passed the glass back to Doc Marty and watched him down his own shot.

  “She’s all I got, Conor.”

  “Same here, my friend. It’s just Barb and me.” Conor gestured at Doc to retake his seat. Conor brought the bottle, pouring Doc Marty a second shot.

  Doc drank it and set the glass down heavily. “She’s just a kid.”

  “They’re all fucking kids,” Conor said. “Barb, Ragus, Shannon, the lot of them. Not a one over twenty-five years old. But we’re looking at it through the eyes of old men. Old protective fathers. How did you feel at twenty-five?”

  “Like I could tear the devil’s head off and piss down his neck,” Doc Marty said with a bitter smile.

  “And we did. We made our bones and these kids have to do the same. Crazy as it sounds, they could be the hope for the nation. Who knows what it’s going to be like when we come out the other end of this disaster. They could be facing some totalitarian state. Americans might need people who can fight, who can slip between the cracks and lead a revolution if it comes to that. Our kids would be willing to fight, to bleed, and to die to make it happen because that’s how we raised them. They know what this country is about and they won’t settle for less.”

  “I’m not ready for this, Conor.”

  “Our parents might have said the same of us but we had our wars. We learned from those wars. Now we aren’t just warriors but also teachers.”

  “I don’t want to teach my daughter about war,” Doc Marty said.

  “Like it or
not, if she’s your daughter she’s already a warrior,” Conor pointed out. “That’s why this has come to a head. She knows this is her war. Fighting for what’s right, for her community, is her cause. She feels that in her heart. You can see it. Barb is the same way. They were raised with that sense of honor and those values. I’m proud of that. I’m proud of the kids we raised, two old bastards like us.”

  “And you want her to go?” Doc Marty asked.

  Conor could read between the lines. What Doc Marty was saying was that he would forever blame Conor for her death if this ended badly. “This decision isn’t on me, my friend. I won’t make her go, but I won’t allow you to go in her place. I’ve already explained why. She has to make her own way in the world and you’ll have to accept that eventually. I will make you this promise though. I will watch her like she was my own. I won’t hesitate to give my life for her.”

  “What if I forbid it?” Doc Marty asked.

  Conor gave him a tired smile. “Then you’ll lose her.” He left the building, leaving Doc Marty alone to think.

  Doc sagged into the old office chair, the world completely still around him. Maybe the Mick was right. If he protected her forever, Shannon would never learn her strengths. She’d never know what she was made of. If he was going to let her venture out then perhaps the time to do it was now, when he and Conor were there to watch over her. There would be a time when he was no longer there for her and he had to make sure she was ready for that.

  He stood up and forced his legs to carry him toward the door. He was going to tell his daughter she could go and he hoped he didn’t regret it. He was going to tell the only thing he loved in this world that she had his blessing to walk into the mouth of hell.

  29

  Conor was gathering a few of his better radios for the trip when he spotted his satellite phone charging in his Faraday room. On a whim, he took it outside and punched in a number. It rang several times before a voice answered.

  “Conor Maguire,” Ricardo said. “I hope you’re not calling to tell me that you’ve killed Doc Marty.”

  Conor laughed. “Not yet, though he did suffer a bit for stealing my teeth that time.”

  “I expected as much. You calling to extort more supplies out of me for his rent?”

  “Nope. Not that either.”

  “Then what can I do for you?”

  Ricardo was Conor’s handler, the closest thing he had to a boss. When he’d been recruited it was never as an actual employee of any agency or organization but as a contractor on retainer. They paid him money and favors to keep him loyal and to assure his availability anytime they needed a job done that required his special skills. He was always free to take outside work as long as it didn’t conflict with the goals of his primary employer and as long as he was ready for work when they needed him. It was nearly the perfect job.

  The same man, long dead now, who had brought Conor into the fold had also recruited Doc Marty. After his death they passed through a rapid succession of handlers, none lasting very long, until they landed in Ricardo’s lap. He’d been running their operations for over fifteen years and they had a good working relationship. Indeed it was Ricardo who’d set Conor up in his mountaintop compound.

  “We had some folks wander into our community yesterday. They’d had a run-in on the road with a group calling themselves The Bond.”

  “The Bond? Never heard of them,” Ricardo said. “Kind of stupid name. Doesn’t exactly instill fear.”

  “These guys thought The Bond were military at first. They were wearing uniforms and had military gear.”

  “Anybody can get that shit. Means nothing.”

  “I’ve not personally laid eyes on them so I can’t attest to it. The informant said they were driving older military trucks. I suspect multi-fuel vehicles. That’s what I’d be doing.”

  “Again, that doesn’t mean shit. You can buy those things on the secondary market all day long for five to ten thousand bucks. They’ll run on anything from vodka to camel piss.”

  Conor chuckled, then stopped laughing, wondering why he hadn’t had the foresight to purchase one. “The only other bit of information was the witness said he saw what he described as a gang tattoo on one of the men.”

  “Hell, a lot of soldiers get tattooed. Means nothing.”

  “This guy was certain this was ink affiliating him with a gang in the Detroit area.”

  “Conor, I don’t usually work with the military directly, but I do have a friend who’s a JAG officer. He told me once about a case he was working, investigating street gang infiltration into military units.”

  “Why would those guys want in the military?”

  “The obvious reasons. They wanted weapons and tactical training that they could take back to the gang on discharge.”

  “I’ve heard rumors about such a thing but I figured it was just that, a rumor.”

  “Oh, it’s real and it’s fairly widespread. There’s been gang-related violence on bases. Some of these folks can’t leave the street behind even though they’re supposed to be undercover and keeping their noses clean.”

  “So it’s possible this could be a real military unit?”

  “Eh, it’s doubtful it’s an actual unit,” Ricardo said. “The odds of having a unit entirely built of gang members is pretty slim. It’s possible, though, that soldiers with gang affiliations have bonded together into a unit.”

  “Damn,” Conor muttered.

  “What?”

  “You hear what you did there?”

  “No.”

  “You said it’s possible that they bonded together,” Conor said. “I wonder if that’s where that name came from.”

  “Not a very tough name for gang members. You’d think they’d pick something that inspired terror like The Manglers, The Violators, or some shit like that. Either way, if you call me back with more info it’s possible I could ask around.”

  Conor sighed. “I’m hoping my first contact with them will be my last.”

  “I’m presuming that your intent is for lethal contact?”

  “You would be assuming correctly,” Conor confirmed.

  “How about you make sure you bring yourself back in one piece, Conor.”

  There was something about the way Ricardo said it that made Conor suspicious, as if there were things left unsaid. “Why the concern, Ricardo?”

  “We can’t get into it now but business goes on. There’s a lot of activity out there, both in the United States and the world at large. There are things we’ve needed to do for years that we’re well-positioned to do now because of a certain lack of oversight. It’s interesting that one of the guiding doctrines in our business is that we don’t want to do something that’s going to make us the lead story on CNN. It’s very freeing to not have that concern at the moment. It’s kind of like the Wild West. I have a growing list of erasures.”

  Conor was intrigued but had other concerns at the moment. “How about this – if I survive, I’ll give you a call?”

  Ricardo laughed. “Oh, you’ll survive, Conor. I’m in contact with dozens of operators and I’m not sure any are thriving quite like you are. As that crass expression goes, you seem happier than a pig in shit.”

  “Goodbye, Ricardo.”

  “Later, Mad Mick.”

  30

  After a long talk, tears on both sides, and several hugs, Shannon was making final preparations to her gear. Her dad walked into the infirmary with a plastic tote.

  “How’s it coming, Princess?”

  “I think I about have everything.”

  “I’ve got a few tips and additions,” Doc Marty said. “Put this on.” He pulled a Molle vest with hard plates from the tote and handed it to her.

  She’d handled heavy plates before but hadn’t worn them very often. “I thought I’d just wear my soft armor.” She had fitted soft armor that was light and comfortable. Nothing like the heavy gear she was having to hold up with both hands.

  “You can’t wear the
soft armor into battle. You have to wear the heavy plates. These are Level IV. Conor may be a crazy man but even he wears hard plates into battle.”

  She slid the chest rig over her head and her dad helped her fit it. “You need to familiarize yourself with the layout of the pouches. They’re already packed with medical supplies. Besides what you have in your med packs, you’ll be carrying chest seals, tourniquets, Israeli bandages, rubber tubing, clamps, and shears. You also have a headlamp and spare batteries.” He went back into the tote and came out with a worn battle belt rigged with a thigh holster.

  “Will I be using my own handgun?”

  “Your Glock 19, yes. There’s spare mags on the belt, located where you’re used to finding them. Even though your primary mission is being a medic, you should never go anywhere without your sidearm. It’s easy to forget your rifle in this situation. You’ll lay it down to use both hands on a patient, then run to the next patient without remembering to pick it up.”

  With her dad’s help, Shannon adjusted the battle belt and strapped the thigh rig in place. She let her hands fall to the various pouches, making sure she could find and open them easily.

  “I’m not as knife-obsessed as Conor but a good knife is critical. There’s a Donnie Dunn tactical knife on the belt and a James Huse push dagger on the vest. Make sure you draw and handle them before you need them. I know you’re going to be focused on another mission out there, on saving lives, but things can change in a flash. One minute you’re rushing to the aid of a fallen companion, then the next time you look up you’re completely cut off from your unit. So you always have to be ready to fight, whether it’s with a knife or a gun.”

  “I could really have to fight with a knife? Someone could get that close?” The idea hadn’t occurred to her that she would actually get within blade range of a combatant.

  “You can be overrun easily in the heat of battle. It’s sheer chaos. That’s why you’re taking this instead of a rifle.” He handed her a customized pump shotgun. The barrel had been shortened and it had a folding stock. “It’s a twenty gauge so the recoil won’t be brutal. There’s spare buckshot in pockets spread around your vest to distribute the load. I’ve got more for your saddlebags. There’s a sheath that will fasten to the side of your pack and allow you to draw the shotgun by reaching back over your shoulder. That keeps it handy but out of the way.”