Brutal Business: Book Three in the Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  Thomas threw open a truck door and grabbed his radio from the seat. "Please tell me that you found this asshole. I don’t hear any shooting," he said into his radio, his voice a menacing growl. “You better not let him get away.”

  Several moments passed before Jawbone’s reply. He was panting, struggling for breath as they fought their way up the nearly vertical slope of the mountain. “Negative...T...still...looking."

  Thomas grimaced and threw the radio back into the truck, sending it crashing into the dash.

  "If they haven’t found him yet, he's probably gone,” Lawdog spoke up hesitantly. “Anyone with the smarts to set up something like this would probably have enough sense to not stick around too long."

  Deciding Lawdog was probably right, Thomas broke cover and stalked toward the lead vehicle. He stepped right over the bodies of his fallen men, some dead and others receiving aid that would in no way prolong their lives. He crouched by the flat tire and studied it. He traced his finger around the side wall until he found a bullet hole. He’d seen shot up tires before, both in the Middle East and in Detroit.

  “Dammit!” He stood up and slammed his fist against the truck fender. The whole thing had been an ambush, just like Lawdog suspected. He hadn’t even put it together in his head. He thought it had simply been a flat tire and that they had the dumb luck to get shot at by some hillbilly hunter who saw them as the target of opportunity. He understood now that was not the case. This had been a setup, probably orchestrated by the Mad Mick.

  "Thomas?" a careful voice asked.

  Thomas spun to find an apprehensive Lawdog standing behind him. "What?"

  “I need to know what you want us to do here, man. What’s the mission? What’s the plan?" Lawdog was afraid to take any action without speaking to the man in charge first. He didn’t want to do anything that might set their fiery leader off. Sometimes it didn’t take much, and when he did go off it could be like a bomb. No one knew what the blast radius would be or how many people might be impacted.

  "We’re going to find this bastard," Thomas declared. He pronounced each word carefully, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world

  Lawdog was hesitant to go on but continued despite his reservations. “We need to be careful, T. He antagonized us, and that may have blinded us a little. We should probably have been on guard against something like this."

  Thomas lost it. He closed the distance, throwing both his hands up and shoving Lawdog backward. "You saying this is on me? You saying this is my fucking fault?" He was yelling now.

  Had anyone on the street ever spoken to Lawdog this way, those would have been his last words. He’d have been killed for the disrespect. Lawdog was no pushover, he was no punk, but Thomas was in charge. "Whoa there, T. That ain’t what I’m saying at all. I’m talking about all of us being on watch against stuff like this, me included. We’re soldiers. We’ve dealt with this shit before. I’m saying we need to be more careful from here on out because we know what this Mad Mick is capable of."

  "Mad Mick, my ass!” Thomas roared. “That guy needs to be more concerned about what I'm capable of. My name is gonna be the last word out of his mouth. When I’m done, the Mad Mick is gonna be Dead Dick."

  Lawdog nodded. “We’re carrying on then? Full speed ahead?”

  Thomas hung his head to the side, then glared at Lawdog like he was an idiot. "Hell yeah, we carry on. Ain’t you listened to a damn thing I’ve said?"

  "I’m listening.”

  “Then y’all get that tire changed. Redistribute the teams and let’s get the hell on out of here."

  Lawdog hesitated. “What about the bodies, Thomas?”

  Thomas shrugged. “I don’t give a shit.”

  Lawdog stepped closer and lowered his voice. "Not all those bodies are actually bodies yet, T. Those people are still alive with limbs broke off, guts hanging out and shit. What we supposed to do with them?"

  "Make’em dead."

  Lawdog could see his boss’s patience was wearing thin. Thomas was pissed off and Lawdog’s questions weren’t helping things. Part of him wanted to verify what his boss had just ordered but he understood the answer would be the same the second time. Thomas wanted them dead and it was his job to make them dead. He walked off. Thomas watched him go, his stare a challenge, a warning that he better be done with the questions.

  Lawdog made the rounds and every man who was severely injured was sent on his way to Valhalla. He felt bad about it, looking at his fallen friends, his team members, as he pulled the trigger on them. He had a hard time meeting his own men's eyes but what was he supposed to do? They knew he didn’t give the orders around here. Let them stand up to Thomas and deal with the fallout. Then their asses would be dead too.

  Besides, they didn't have a medic. All they had was first aid kits and a basic knowledge of how to use them. Everyone the sniper shot needed surgery and The Bond only offered one kind: 9mm brain surgery.

  He performed the operation as quickly and mechanically as he could, then walked off to process what he’d done. He reminded himself this was not the first time he’d killed men he knew. He’d had to do it on the streets before. It was part of his life now just like it was part of his life then. It wasn’t something he needed to feel bad about.

  Satisfied that his orders had been carried out, Thomas went to the disabled truck and impatiently watched Droopy struggle to position a hi-lift jack at one of the vehicle’s lift points. Thomas staring over his shoulder did nothing to help matters. The jack kept tipping over every time he tried to crank it.

  Thomas finally shoved Droopy out of the way and took over. "Start loosening them lug nuts. You guys are useless."

  Droopy did as he was told, fitting the wrench on the lug nuts and twisting them loose. Thomas eventually positioned one jack and then added a second to help stabilize the vehicle. He alternated, cranking one and then the other until the tire was clear of the ground.

  At the other end of the convoy, a team of somber men were tossing the dead over the guardrail and into the thicket of roadside briers. Lawdog was standing to the side, smoking a hand rolled cigarette, when Mundo walked up.

  “That a joint?”

  Lawdog exhaled smoke into Mundo’s face. Mundo was disappointed when the fragrance was that of plain old tobacco.

  "That’s some hardcore shit right there," Mundo said. “Capping your injured and tossing them over the guardrail for predators to munch on. Harsh."

  "I ain’t in the mood to talk, Mundo. What the hell you want?"

  Mundo glanced around then lowered his voice. "What you think about that shooting?”

  “The guy could fucking shoot,” Lawdog said. “Sniper-level shit.”

  “You think it’s funny he didn't disable any of our vehicles, except for the one he used to spring the trap?”

  “I ain’t really thought about that.”

  “I have,” Mundo said.

  “And what do you fucking think about it?”

  “I’m just saying, if guys were chasing me and I could shoot like that I’d probably be disabling some vehicles. Shooting engines and shit. Trying to stop them for good."

  Lawdog gave Mundo a frustrated look. "You got something to say, say it. I ain’t in the mood for your dumbass games, Mundo."

  “I just told you. If it was me up on that hill and I could shoot like that, I’d take these trucks out. He could have stopped us in our tracks but he didn’t. Only reason I can think of to not take the trucks out was if you wanted them to keep on coming. He’s just toying with us. He wants us to pick our asses up and keep going. He'd ain’t done with us yet."

  Lawdog took another drag off his cigarette and glanced nervously back toward the line of trucks. Thomas was laying into Droopy, trying to make the slow-paced man move a little quicker. "You best keep your mouth shut about these ideas of yours, Mundo. You start talking crazy shit like that and it’s going to be your ass tossed over the guardrail. Thomas ain’t in the mood to hear it. Trust me on that."
/>   "That information wasn’t for Thomas, my friend. Telling you what I'm thinking is all."

  "Your ass best be thinking about getting back to work. Now leave me the hell alone.”

  Mundo held his hands up in surrender and backed away. He was giving Lawdog a look, though. It said, don’t blame me when shit goes sideways. I tried to tell you.

  Lawdog flicked his cigarette butt into the weeds. He was aware it could start a wildfire, and hoped like hell it did. Let the whole place burn down. He didn’t care.

  47

  Conor was running on fumes. He’d taken Modafinil once in the night to keep himself going but preferred not to hit it again. He needed to reach Barb and Wayne, but pushing himself too far without sleep would only make his judgment erratic. It would put him, and possibly others, at risk. He had more explosives in his gear and considered setting more booby traps, ultimately deciding against it. That last attack should have slowed them some. He hoped they hadn’t suffered so many losses they would turn around and go home. That wasn’t what Conor wanted. He wasn’t done playing yet.

  He stuck to the roads as much as possible, always keeping his ears open for the sound of truck engines. They’d quickly make up the time once they got on the road again. He began working the radio. His were a little better than the discount store models used by hunters. They were law enforcement grade Motorolas but the transmission distance was limited by antenna size. Getting any signal out of these mountains was going to be impossible until he was right on them.

  He didn’t let that discourage him. At each rise in the road, at each peak, at each change in the topography, he was broadcasting. “Conor for Barb, Conor for Barb.” The lack of response was no surprise but he fought to not become frustrated. He was aware that frustration was a characteristic of the utter exhaustion he was experiencing. He choked that frustration down and relied on his experience and training.

  “Keep jabbering on the radio,” he chided himself. “Don’t turn into a weepy old bastard just because no one is answering you.”

  What Conor didn’t know was that spot where he’d ambushed The Bond and Barb’s camp in Allen City were only about seven miles apart. The problem in southeastern Kentucky was that there could be a lot of hills in seven miles, a lot of obstacles to radio waves.

  “Conor for Barb, Conor for Barb.”

  No response. He checked his watch. It had been an hour since he’d launched his sniper attack on The Bond. He figured it would take thirty minutes to an hour to deal with the tire and their injured. He’d only come a couple of miles. If they worked quickly, they could be on him at any moment. That thought was not encouraging.

  He hit a sign that welcomed him to Allen City. He noted it was sponsored by the local Lion’s Club and the Rotary Club. Thank God for small town clubs putting up signs or no one in rural areas would ever know where the hell they were.

  “Conor for Barb, Conor for Barb,” he repeated.

  There was a crackle. “Dad?”

  “Barb!” Conor cheered. “Good to hear your voice, my child.”

  “Good to hear you too, Dad.”

  “Where you at?”

  “Allen City on the Pikeville side.”

  “Then I’m just across town from you. Did Wayne reach you?”

  “He’s right here.”

  “Listen, we might not have a lot of time. I had a run-in with our friends from the north this morning. I expect they’ll be on my tail soon. This is where the magic happens. Are you guys ready?”

  “We’ve done everything you asked Wayne to take care of.”

  “That’s good,” Conor said. “Is Wayne around?”

  “Right here, Conor,” Wayne said into his own radio.

  “I need you to head in my direction. I just passed a tiny little bridge that would be perfect for what we discussed.”

  “So head through town with the materials that we picked up?”

  “Affirmative,” Conor said. “As a matter of fact, bring a third person. We might need help.”

  “What do I need to do?” Barb asked.

  “I need you to have your camp packed up and have your group ready to boogie when we get to you.”

  “What about finishing these men off here?” Barb asked. “If we have them trapped in town, wouldn’t it be like shooting fish in a barrel? We just pick them off?”

  “The casualty rate for something like that concerns me,” Conor said. “I think this group is over ninety men strong. They have mortars, grenade launchers, and perhaps even rocket propelled grenades. They’ve got belt-fed machine guns and a shit ton of ammo. We’re outmanned and outgunned. They would eat us alive.”

  “I hate to run.”

  “We’re not running,” Conor assured her. “This is a strategic decision.”

  “I still don’t like it.”

  “You’d like watching your people die even less.”

  48

  Wayne didn’t waste time on a friendly greeting when he rode up on Conor. “You look like shit, man. Have you slept at all?”

  He’d brought Jason Jacks with him, who nodded in agreement with Wayne.

  Conor shook his head. “No time for it. I’ve either been engaged or on the run the entire time.”

  “You look like those meth-head mug shots you see on the news out of Florida,” said Wayne. “Your eyes are all jacked up.”

  “Excuse me for not putting on makeup to make myself more presentable.”

  Wayne laughed. “What do we need to do?”

  “Did you find the fertilizer?”

  “Yep. Strangely, no looters were interested in carrying off bags of fertilizers. The stores had plenty of it.”

  “Is it the right kind?”

  Wayne rode closer to Conor and pointed to a label on the bag. “This is the kind you said to look for.”

  Conor nodded in satisfaction. “Use the wrong mix and it won’t work. The government made it a little harder for us to blow shit up.”

  “The nerve,” Wayne said.

  Conor was struggling to make his exhausted brain focus on the task at hand. He stared at the fertilizer bag like he was struggling to read it.

  “So what’s the plan?” Wayne asked, hoping Conor could get himself together enough to pull this off.

  Conor snapped back to attention. “We’re blowing up a bridge. Follow me.” He nudged his horse into a trot, heading back the way he’d come.

  Wayne followed, leading a pack horse with the fertilizer. Jason brought up the rear, his horse carrying both his personal gear and a special set of saddlebags Conor had requested. In a few minutes they were at the older bridge Conor had selected. Wayne noted that Conor was struggling, his thoughts not flowing at their normal rapid pace as he battled exhaustion. He rubbed his temples, as if that action would make the thoughts flow easier.

  “I need that saddlebag,” Conor said, gesturing to Jason.

  He pulled the bag off and started to toss it to Conor. “No, lad. Don’t throw it. It’s got homemade Claymores in it.”

  “As in Claymore mines?” Jason asked, riding forward and passing the saddlebags off to Conor in a gentler manner.

  Conor nodded. “As in explosives. As in big fucking boom.”

  “I rode out here with something like that on the back of my horse?”

  “Perfectly harmless until it gets in the right hands. Or the wrong hands, depending on which side you’re on.”

  Jason didn’t look so convinced. Conor picked up the pace and began handing out orders.

  “Jason, you haul those bags under the bridge. Wayne, I need you to come with me.”

  Jason didn’t have to be told twice. A farm boy used to hard work, he heaved one of the heavy fertilizer bags over his shoulder and began working his way down the steep riverbank to the strip of shoreline beneath the bridge. Conor ran toward an older black Ford truck. It had a bed-mounted fuel tank, the kind farmers and construction workers used to refuel their equipment. Conor crouched and put two hands where the edge of the tank overhung t
he bed. He shoved upward and the tank rocked slightly.

  “No matter how well you fasten these damn things down, they always loosen up,” Conor explained. “At least mine always do.”

  “It’s bolted down. You want me to look for a wrench?” Wayne asked.

  “No time. Just find something we can wedge in here and pry it loose.”

  Wayne went right to the cab and flipped the seat forward. He found the jack and the lug wrench fastened behind it. He unscrewed the wingnut to release the lug wrench and used it like a crowbar to pry loose one side of the fuel tank, then the other. When they had it loose, both men lifted it up and walked toward the tailgate of the truck. They paused there, resting it on the tailgate for a second.

  “It feels like it has a little fuel in it,” Wayne noticed.

  “I was hoping it would,” Conor said. “We need some for the mixture.”

  With no need to be delicate, the men waited until Jason was out of the way and shoved the fuel tank down the embankment. It slid like a sled until it smacked into a boulder on the riverbank. Wayne and Conor scrambled down the bank after it and then dragged it into place beneath the bridge.

  “Wouldn’t happen to have a funnel on you, would you?” Conor asked.

  Wayne pretended to check his pockets. “Sorry, fresh out.”

  “Then a soda bottle will have to do.”

  The men hunted furiously before Wayne located a muddy one on the creek bank and held it up for Conor.

  “Sorry to be a bastard but a two-liter would make this faster.”

  “The story of my life,” Wayne said. “Never big enough.”

  Conor laughed. It didn’t take long to find another one, a two-liter. Conor whipped out his knife and sliced the bottle around the middle, creating an improvised funnel.

  Wayne removed the fuel cap off the tank while Conor steadied the funnel in the opening.