Brutal Business: Book Three in the Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  Conor nodded. “Noticed that, huh?”

  “She’s been with us less than twenty-four hours but yes. She’s pretty...” Johnny struggled for the word.

  “Switched on?” Conor offered. “Intense?”

  Johnny snapped his finger and pointed at Conor. “That’s it exactly.”

  Conor climbed the steps, only bringing the M4 he was carrying. He propped it beside the door, removing his hat and gloves. “I can’t stay long. I’ve got on too many layers for bandying about inside a heated house.”

  Johnny handed Conor a cup of coffee. “You think you’re hot now? You’ll be sweating bullets when you pour this down your neck.”

  “Thanks.” Conor took the hot mug. “I just wanted to go over some details.”

  Footsteps on the stairs stopped Conor in his tracks. Barb bounced into sight, fully dressed.

  “You sleep that way?” Conor asked.

  Barb nodded. “Yeah, why?”

  “No reason. I was just telling Johnny that I wanted to go over a few things about this operation.”

  “You want some coffee, Barb?” Johnny asked.

  “Thanks.” Barb smiled. “I can get it myself. I also brought some with me to contribute to the cause.”

  “That’s always appreciated,” Johnny said. “I saw a shirt once that said I Run On Coffee and Hate. Mine would be more like I Run On Coffee and Bacon.”

  Conor’s mind floated to the coffee mug Barb had given him but he didn’t bring it up. “I’m on my way to catch up with Wayne. He and I will try to catch up with The Bond and do some recon. I’ve got a good radio with me but it’s of limited use in these hills until anyone is close to us.”

  “And you don’t want me going with you?” Barb confirmed.

  “I’d prefer you lead the larger force. It will be made up of folks from Wayne’s camp and the pastor’s camp.”

  Barb grinned wickedly. “Oh, they’re going to love that. The pastor’s folks are not going to want to take orders from me.”

  “I’ll be talking to them on my way through this morning. They’ll know the score in advance. They can either come with you or not. It’s their choice and they have to live with the decision.”

  “I’ll be gentle,” Barb assured him. “Though I’d much rather be going with you and Wayne. I love sneaking around.”

  “Shannon will be coming with your group. If Johnny doesn’t mind, I was hoping you could put Shannon and Doc Marty up for the night.”

  It was Barb’s turn to appear questioning. “You sure Shannon is up for a trip like this?”

  “Might be handy to have a medic,” Conor said.

  “We have Doc Marty,” Barb said. “You think we need two medics?”

  “Doc Marty isn’t going.”

  “Okay, you’ve lost ever-loving mind, old man. You’re sending this teenager with me instead of a real doc? I hope to hell no one gets hurt.”

  Conor took a sip of his coffee. He was indeed starting to sweat, both from the caffeine content and the layers he was wearing. “There’s several reasons for that. Doc Marty is a valuable asset to the community, perhaps too valuable to send off into combat. We did a lot of operations together over the years but the man is more of a white-glove operator than a grunt. He’s kind of soft.”

  “So he just allowed you to send his daughter in his place?” Johnny Jacks asked. “That surprises me.”

  “More complicated than that,” Conor said. “The whole thing was her idea. I just planned on you guys running with no medic but she was determined to go. There was a lot of drama and bullshit, but by the end Doc Marty understood this was important to Shannon. She wants to contribute. She needs to contribute.”

  “All these daughters rebelling on you old men,” Barb teased. “We don’t fit in your little molds and you start to lose your shit.”

  Conor ignored that comment. “I’m supporting her in this opportunity like I’m supporting you in taking on more responsibility. She’ll need your support too. More than you’ve ever given her before.” That wasn’t asking for much, Conor knew, because she’d never really given Shannon any support before. She just barely tolerated her. Any support was an improvement over nothing.

  “Understood,” Barb said.

  Conor hoped it was really that simple.

  “Doc Marty and Shannon are welcome to stay here,” Johnny said. “No problem. I’m out of beds but they’re welcome to roll out sleeping bags by the fire.”

  “That’s more than enough,” Conor said. “Doc Marty will be staying with you a few nights since he’s not going on the operation. I wanted to keep him in this end of the community so he’d be close if we had wounded who needed his attention. I also don’t know what Sam and Jason worked out. Doc can lend you a hand around the place if one or both of them goes.”

  Johnny’s smile disappeared and his mouth tightened. He took a sip of coffee before letting out a long sigh. “They’re both going. I’m not happy about it but I understand. They can’t sit this one out.”

  “I get that,” Conor said. “Sam’s in better physical condition but the boy is tough. They’re a good team.”

  “He won’t let her go without him,” Johnny added.

  “I need to get out of here,” Conor said, delivering his cup to the kitchen. When he returned he patted Johnny on the back, then hugged his daughter. “Doc Marty and Shannon will be here tonight. They’ll be bringing some food to fuel your people, more ammo, and some gear. You guys be careful. Keep your radio on and listen for us.”

  “Got it, Dad. Be careful.”

  “You know it, baby girl. If we’re lucky, this will all be for naught. We’ll get to Huntington and find The Bond went another way. You’ll find Wayne and me riding home with smiles on our faces, singing a tune.”

  “I’m all for that,” Johnny said.

  “Only because you haven’t heard his singing,” Barb cracked.

  33

  Conor wasted no time at the pastor’s camp. He’d been there enough that the sentry knew what he wanted, leaving wordlessly to get the pastor upon Conor’s arrival. The pastor, clad in a red flannel jacket and orange hat with ear flaps, came to speak with him at the gate.

  “Do you have volunteers?” Conor asked.

  “Seventeen men.”

  “They need to head to the firehouse in the morning, prepared for two weeks in the field,” Conor said. “My daughter Barb will be leading that force.”

  The pastor mulled that over a good while, finally settling on, “That’s probably best.”

  Conor understood that the pastor could have stated it that way because he thought Barb was a murderous she-devil, thereby making her the most appropriate choice for leading an army. He could have meant a lot of things, but what was important was that they were sending men and those men would know Barb was in charge.

  “Then I’ll be leaving,” Conor said.

  “And I’ll be praying,” the pastor replied with a nod.

  The next stop was Wayne’s camp, and Conor arrived at the first sentry post with a stick of deer jerky hanging from his mouth like a cigar. The sentry waved him on without a word, barely taking his eyes off the jerky. Conor thought the man looked like a dog with a treat just inches above its nose, chin quivering and salivating. Not wanting to get ambushed for his breakfast, Conor stuck it in a pouch on the side of his plate carrier. While this pouch could have held a grenade, like the pouch beside it, or some other especially wicked piece of kit, it was Conor’s snack pouch. It was packed with jerky, protein bars, and jellybeans.

  He tied his horse off outside the barricade of junk cars and wove his way through the maze of an entrance, heading toward the fire circle. The firehouse was so crowded that men were always outside gathered around a fire. Sometimes it was alongside the river, other times in the parking lot. They were desperate to escape the congested interior where they spent too much time with both their families and the families of their companions.

  This morning was no exception. They had no coffee or
tea left but there was a steaming pot of an herbal brew suspended over the fire. The men stood watching the pot heat in silence. They had little left to talk about that had not been covered already. Without news and the latest television shows to spur conversation there was only the weather, and everyone was beyond sick of talking about that.

  “I was hoping to see a Hardee’s bag in your hand with coffee and biscuits,” Wayne quipped when Conor walked up.

  Conor turned his nose up. “Bloody hell, man, it’d be the fecking Bojangles is what it would be. Have you men never had a proper biscuit before?”

  The men laughed. People usually had more of a routine around breakfast than they did for any other meal, likely because they weren’t awake enough yet to make rational decisions.

  “Bojangles, huh?” Wayne asked. “Never tried it.”

  “Damn right, Bojangles. And not with coffee, either. I recommend two bacon, egg, and cheese biscuits with a big honking vat of sweet tea the size of a human lung.”

  One of the men, a disturbed expression on his face, cleared his throat. “For those of us that have never seen a human lung...”

  Conor held his hands apart, one above the other, like he was measuring the height of a squirrel. “About that feckin’ tall.”

  “Got it,” the man said, sharing a wary glance with his companions.

  “The pastor is sending seventeen men,” Conor said. “Add Barb and Shannon to that. How many do you have going with the team tomorrow?”

  “Eleven,” Wayne said.

  Conor nodded. “The odds will suck but they always do. One gets used to it.”

  “I’m a little worried about leaving the camp without much protection,” Wayne admitted. “They’ll be vulnerable.”

  “Doc Marty will be arriving at Johnny’s house tonight. He’ll be staying there until we return. Let your people know he’s available to assist should they need more manpower here. He’s pretty resourceful. We’ve worked, uh...known each other for years.”

  “Well, since you didn’t bring biscuits, I guess we might as well be going,” Wayne said.

  “At a minimum I can promise you a change of scenery,” Conor said.

  “Then let’s get on with it,” Wayne said. “I’ve stared across this fire at you peckerwoods long enough.”

  There were some good-natured jabs directed at Wayne. Conor stepped into the bushes, fought his way through several layers of clothing, and de-iced a circle on the ground while Wayne said his goodbyes. He was sitting on his horse, staring at the river, when Wayne joined him on his own mount.

  Conor swung his horse to the west, headed toward Route 23. Wayne fell in alongside him, their horses at a trot. They exchanged no words. Conor knew where the man’s head was at now. Saying goodbye to your family to go on an operation was never an insignificant thing. The odds of coming home, especially in current circumstances, were depressing to consider. Conor was probably a little more used to it than other men, having had to leave Barb behind since she was a toddler, even when she had no one in the world but him.

  How he missed those days. If he didn’t come home now, she’d be sad for a little while but she’d go on with her life. She’d probably find some poor man to marry and torment the way she’d lovingly tormented him. She’d be okay though. A man like Wayne, his family younger, their future uncertain, had a lot more to worry about.

  Conor left him alone in his thoughts. He’d come up for air eventually.

  34

  The Bond stuck around the outskirts of Huntington, West Virginia, until Thomas got the prickling sensation on the back of his neck that told him it was time to move on. The bounty they’d obtained from the vehicles abandoned at their roadblock hadn’t required much effort on their part at all. It was like a gift from whatever gods protected rogues, murderers, and thieves. They’d stuck around long enough to host several parties, something they rarely did since their parties had a way of turning public sentiment from fear to hatred. Perhaps that was what was triggering Thomas, the awareness that somewhere people were plotting against The Bond.

  They had a nice meal that morning. Fried Spam, powdered eggs with hot sauce, and hash browns, all of it from the trucks that had shown up on their doorstep. They were eating in the furniture store, literally having breakfast in bed, though it was not so posh as the term implied. The men were propped up on the store’s stock of mattresses, wearing their cammies and boots. They didn’t care if they got the sheets dirty.

  On one of their looting trips they’d found some of the propane heater heads that screwed directly onto propane tanks and had managed to heat the store’s interior to a comfy fifty degrees. Because of that, no one was anxious to rush outside and start packing up camp. They’d been spoiled and had gotten soft.

  “We leave today,” Thomas announced as the men ate their breakfast.

  “Awww, do we gotta?” Mundo whined, sounding like a kid asked to pick up his room.

  “We do,” Thomas confirmed. “I’m getting itchy about staying here and a man should always go with his gut. Learned that a long time ago. My gut says we been here too long.”

  “My gut’s asking if we got more Spam,” Droopy said, struggling to get up off the bed.

  “Your gut’s always asking for more,” Mundo said. “Your fat ass eats like a whole football team at a buffet.”

  “This body is a temple, asshole,” Droopy said. “Respect the temple.”

  “Hey, T,” Mundo said, “we might get more miles per meal if we leave Tubby, I mean Droopy, behind.”

  “And we’d get a lot more peace and quiet if we left you behind,” Thomas retorted. “Y’all got five minutes to finish up and get packing.”

  Grumbling, the men shoveled their food in at an accelerated pace. They were no strangers to having to eat quickly and had only become slack in that particular area since striking out on their own. Thomas was beginning to notice that, wondering if his force was losing its edge. He probably needed to rein them in at some point but it was a fine line. Push too hard and they might turn on him. Part of him wished Mundo had lost that bet the other night. If he’d killed the man in front of the group they’d remember that. They’d understand he had ice for blood and wouldn’t tolerate any bullshit.

  The furniture store also sold china and flatware. All week long soldiers of The Bond had eaten off fine china and expensive stainless steel, throwing the used plates into a pile outside the building when they were done. A few minutes after Thomas’s warning to finish up, plates were clattering into the pile and the men were gathering their personal gear. When that was stowed, some helped Buddha Boy and Shootah take down the kitchen.

  Packing was different now that they had an unanticipated surplus of gear. Some of the trailers that had been abandoned at the roadblock were better than the trailers The Bond was currently using. During their stay outside of Huntington they’d come upon a battery-powered grinder with a cut-off wheel and used it to cut off the hitch locks. They would leave two of their smaller trailers behind and take the larger twin-axle contractor trailers gifted to them by their victims. Several days of carefully going through the gear had allowed them to consolidate it down to the most valuable items. Everything else was left in a pile or burned.

  “Who’s doing the signature, Thomas?” Lawdog asked.

  Thomas glanced around the group. While all of the men were busy, those who heard Lawdog’s question did their best to appear even busier. No one, with the exception of Mundo, liked doing the signature.

  Mundo was jumping up and down like a second-grader who knew an answer for the first time. “Pick me! Pick me!” he sang, playing it up.

  Thomas grinned. “Always playing the fool, Mundo.”

  “But I do it right.” He grinned. “When I leave the signature, shit knows it’s been signed.”

  “Go for it then,” Thomas said. “You only got fifteen minutes. Don’t be starting some elaborate thing you ain’t got time to finish.”

  Mundo frowned at the restrictions put on him. �
�That’s like giving me the big box of crayons but saying I can only use seven of them.”

  “Fourteen and a half minutes,” Thomas said.

  Mundo kicked into gear, starting a timer on his watch. He recruited a couple of men nearly done with their tasks and put them to work for him. They were more than willing to help as long as he shouldered the creative burden.

  With seconds to spare, Mundo backed away from the wall, threw his hands up, and yelled, “Done!” With that, he started jogging around like a running back who’d just scored a touchdown, doing a victory dance.

  Thomas and Lawdog were leaned back against the fender of a truck, both scratching their chins like art critics studying a gallery wall.

  “What do you think, Lawdog?” Thomas asked.

  Lawdog raised an eyebrow and lowered his voice, adopting the tone he imagined an art critic might use. “I think the artist shows a newfound maturity. There’s a boldness in his stroke and a confidence in his palette that is refreshing in someone so young. I think we’re seeing a new talent on the brink of greatness.”

  “I would tend to agree with you, Professor Lawdog,” said Thomas, “but I find the lineage of his work to be somewhat derivative. We are not seeing anything new here.”

  “Y’all like it or not?” Mundo asked, stepping to the side and gesturing at the wall with a sweeping flourish.

  The plastic letters on the high storefront had been smashed free with an ax. Galvanized spikes thick enough to join landscape timbers had been used to crucify a dead man against the wall. He formed the letter “T” while the rest of the “he Bond” was spray-painted in graffiti-style lettering.

  “Come on,” said Mundo, “you gotta admit it’s eye-catching.”

  “Let’s go,” Thomas said. “We need to get out of here.”

  “What? That’s all I get?” Mundo demanded. He wasn’t angry but putting on his usual comedy performance, playing the outraged and forever-wronged victim.