“Dad, are you clear yet?” Barb demanded.
“No, sweetie. I’m trying but it’s slow going.”
He could sense her frustration. “You’ve got to hurry. Those men are near the bottom. They might smell the gas.”
“I know. I smelled it when I got there.”
“Then we need to get on with this before they figure it out. Run!”
“Give me two minutes to get clear, then light it up.”
“I’ll check back with you in two minutes.”
“No! This is an order. You spring the trap in two minutes. Don’t worry about me. We blow this chance and we’re screwed.”
She didn’t immediately answer and he wasn’t going to waste time waiting on a response. He lowered his head and charged up the hillside like he was running a set of stairs. He checked his watch and noted when his two minutes would be up. He hoped she listened and did as he asked. If they had to engage these men in the woods it was going to be a nightmare. Barb’s team could pull triggers all day but they weren’t not trained for this to go close-quarters or hand-to-hand. They would lose a lot of people and perhaps even the battle itself. That was unacceptable.
He found the fastest pace he could maintain without losing his breath and went on autopilot. He was covering ground but had no idea how much. The end was not in sight, the lip of the valley obscured. All that lay ahead of him was more trees, more leaves, and more hill.
“One minute, Dad.”
Conor pushed himself even harder. Soon he was gasping open-mouthed for breath, his legs weak, and weird lights flickering at the periphery of his vision. He wasn’t going to make it.
“Thirty seconds,” Barb said flatly.
He searched desperately for a place to hide, spotting a downed log. It was a massive oak several feet in circumference and wedged broadside to the slope. Whenever it fell, it started rolling down the hill before its progress was arrested by two standing trees. Conor dove behind it and flattened himself against the ground. He buried his face just as a shotgun-like blast cut through the night. Barb had fired the flare gun he’d given her.
Good, he thought. She’s doing what she was told.
That was his last thought before the most powerful explosion he’d ever experienced shook his world. The ground shuddered beneath him. Trees cracked, splitting, and toppling. Weak limbs, debris, and stripped bark rained down on him. A heavy branch fell from one of the trees above him and would have crushed him if not for the log he lay huddled against.
Conor shimmied out from under the fallen branch and staggered to his feet. His legs were rubbery and trembled beneath him. Dirt and leaves clung to his clothes. Sweat ran down his back and he’d not caught his breath from his death march up the slope. He shoved his night vision out of the way and stared beneath him at the hellish scene. There were burning branches and pyres of flaming leaves. The abandoned structures at the bottom of the valley were completed flattened. Conor heard no screaming and no yelling. There were no cries for help. If there were men below him, they were dead.
It was over.
“Dad?” came a hesitant voice over the radio. “You there?”
“I’m here, Barb,” Conor replied. “Un-scorched and in one piece.”
“I wasn’t worried.”
He could tell she was lying. He’d heard the apprehension in her voice and it brought a smile to his face. It was good to have people in his life who didn’t want to see him blown to smithereens.
“I’ll meet you at the beer truck,” he said. “Bring a horse. That’s about as far as I’ll be able to walk.”
“Got it, Dad. See you there.”
Conor picked up his rifle, checked the function, and confirmed the barrel was clear. He decided not to use his night vision. There was enough ambient light from the scattered fires started by the explosion. He could walk faster without the contraption on his face.
He set out at a brisk pace, walking sideways across the slope rather than climbing. He wanted to get to the gravel road and the easier hiking it presented. The only sound was the crackling of burning wood. There were no men organizing or tending their wounded. There were no taunts, threats, or yelling. Lonzo had been pumping natural gas into this valley for most of the day. Heavier than air, the gas settled there, awaiting the spark that would set it alight. That came compliments of Barb and her flare gun.
When he reached the gravel road, Conor was only about fifty yards from the top. He wasn’t really a beer drinker but he was tempted to search the truck and see if any remained unbroken. His nerves were a frayed mess. He pushed on, climbing briskly. He was ready to be out of this hole and back with his people. Then they could wrap this up. In a few days, he could be home with his bed and his fire.
Conor staggered onto the pavement of Route 23. The smooth asphalt felt heaven-sent after what his feet and legs had been through on the steep hillside. “Barb, you here yet?” he asked into the radio.
“On my way, Dad. It’s me, Shannon, Jason, and Sam.”
“Roger that. I’m at the beer truck and I’m going to sit down for a minute. Or fall down. One or the other.”
“Got it. There in a few.”
Conor sat for a moment but his legs started cramping, so he got back to his feet and tried to walk it off. He understood from his cycling magazines that beer could function as a recovery beverage. Maybe he’d have one just for medicinal purposes. There wasn’t enough light outside of the valley, so he used a small tactical light to examine the scene. He wandered around to the side of the truck and found two dead bodies, both Bond soldiers judging by their uniforms. He hadn’t killed them, so this must have been some beef between the two men. Or perhaps Thomas had killed them. Men like those in The Bond would require a strong leader. This could have been how Thomas kept them in line.
Ignoring the bodies, Conor sorted through the remaining bottles with the toe of a boot, trying to find something that appealed to him. There were plenty of unopened bottles. He was surprised they hadn’t frozen and broken but they probably would soon enough. He found a bottle of ale from a brewery he didn’t recognize which was good, because most of the stuff he recognized was crap. It didn’t have a twist-off lid which he took as a good sign. It just so happened that his Donnie Dunn knife had a bottle opener built into the pommel. God Bless that man for his foresight.
Just as he drew his knife he was struck with a powerful, full-body blow from behind, driving him hard into the side of the truck. The bump helmet protected his head but he struck his shoulder and was blinded by a wave of pain. He lost his footing when he stepped on a rolling bottle and went down in the pile of shattered glass. He could feel it slicing into his forearm and his legs as he sat down hard. He cursed from the pain.
He’d dropped his light but caught a flash of scorched camouflage fatigues from the corner of his eye as he twisted to face the threat. There was movement above him and he threw his arm up in a defensive gesture, blocking a blow from the stock of a rifle. Someone had tried to knock his head off like it was a tee ball on a stand. Conor latched onto the stock and tugged the rifle toward him, throwing his attacker off balance. His knife remained in his hand and he lashed out at the camouflaged legs with heavy slashing blows, the razor-sharp blade whistling as it cut through the air. Each swing of the knife twisted Conor’s body, grinding the glass into him, and powering his fury.
The soldier let go of the rifle and staggered backward. Conor attempted to bring the rifle to bear. He saw the soldier going for his handgun, forcing Conor to fire off a burst before either of them were on target. The soldier dived to his right, away from Conor’s line of fire. Conor chased him with rounds while staggering to his feet. He couldn’t fight from his back. He needed to be mobile. Chunks of glass sliced through the palm of his glove, adding a new spice to the complex stew of pain simmering in Conor’s body.
That second where Conor was transitioning from sitting to standing allowed the soldier to get off a single, rushed shot. The bullet punched through the refrige
rated truck body only inches from Conor. Everything felt like it was moving in slow motion. The man had a clear shot because Conor was caught off balance and off target. He was a sitting duck, even if only for a second. The man’s next round would hit him and he could only hope the armor caught it.
But the man’s handgun didn’t fire.
In a split-second Conor could see why. His attacker had his gloved hand too high on the grip and the glove had snagged the slide. It hadn’t cycled and hadn’t chambered a fresh round.
The man’s eyes went from his M9 to Conor as he tried to figure out if he had time to manually rack the slide and get off a shot before Conor killed him. Conor knew he didn’t. He was on target now and could squeeze off a round instantly.
“Are you Thomas?” Conor asked.
The man nodded, only his head moving.
“Thought so.”
“Are you the Mad Mick?” Thomas asked.
Conor nodded.
“Somehow I knew that too. How’d you get that stupid name, anyway?”
Conor smiled. “If I told you, I’d...Oh, fuck it.” He pulled the trigger and sent a three-round burst into Thomas’s head and neck. He kicked the handgun clear of the body, then confirmed he was dead. He was, as Conor was fond of saying, dead as disco.
He heard hooves clattering toward him as he picked up the light. Everyone had their weapons at the ready, concerned they may have been too late. Conor held up his hand in a wave and made sure they knew it was him.
“I’m okay,” he said. “Mostly.”
Barb was off her horse and checking him out, Shannon at her side. They helped him pull off his glove and roll up his sleeve, examining the cuts from the glass.
“Make sure no one is alive down there!” Conor shouted to Jason and Sam. “Keep an eye out for survivors. I found one already. Or he found me.”
“Is this your only injury, Conor?” Shannon asked.
Conor hesitated.
“She’s your medic, Dad,” Barb said. “You said she could handle this.”
Conor took a deep breath. “Very well then.” He turned around, unfastened his belt, and dropped his pants.
Barb played the light over the back of his sweating legs, tracked with watery rivulets of blood. Tiny shards of glass reflected back at the bright flashlight. “What the hell?”
Conor nodded toward Thomas. “He knocked me on my ass in all that broken glass. Not sure I can ride without getting some of it out. Hurts like hell.”
Shannon gave Barb a reluctant look. “Well, he’s your dad...”
Barb took offense. “And you’re the bleeding medic!”
“I guess you could always hand the job off to someone else,” Conor said. “But I’m pretty certain I can’t reach them.”
“Nah, we’ll do it,” Barb said. “Together.”
Shannon nodded.
“Do we need to be concerned about the fires?” Conor asked.
“Already on it,” Barb said. “The highway makes a fire break around most of it. There are logging roads around the rest that will serve the same purpose. I have men on them now raking leaves out of the way and watching for it.”
“Lonzo did a good job,” Conor said. “This is exactly what I was hoping would happen.”
“He’s not proud of the work,” Barb replied. “He feels guilty.”
Conor nodded. “I can understand that. It’s okay. The world needs different kinds of people at different times. This time, the world needed our kind.”
71
It turned out that Conor didn’t have to ride home on horseback. They were able to salvage half of The Bond’s trucks, including the tanker. They would distribute them to Pastor White, Pepe, Wayne, and Conor. The fuel would be split evenly. It was no replacement for what Pepe’s group had lost on the road but it would be a start. They would have food, gear, and weapons. Conor had also claimed a portion of weapons and food for Johnny Jacks. He and his family had made a significant contribution to the effort of the mission.
It took them a good part of the next day to get the vehicles in order. They had to find enough tires for every vehicle and then transfer the gear they were taking to the working trucks. Some had to be carried on packhorses. Despite the difference in travel speeds, they did their best to travel as a group. The trucks would travel a couple of miles and then wait for the horses. No one cared because they ate well and their mission had been a success.
When they finally reached Wayne’s camp, they lost a portion of their riders and a truck. The same happened when they reached the turn leading to Pepe’s camp. They were met with grief at Pastor White’s camp for the man they’d lost but there was a consolation in the fact that the man had died as part of a noble fight. They were pleased with the truck and its load of cargo.
“That will go a long way with my people,” Pastor White said. “They’re no strangers to making food last. It’s how we all live.”
“Your men did good,” Conor said. “I know there’s been tension but we worked as a team. We succeeded because everyone worked together. We couldn’t have done it without you.”
The pastor’s response was tempered by his normal stoicism. He was reluctant to show pride in his men killing, reluctant to show joy when they’d lost a soul. It was his nature and Conor was learning that about him. He couldn’t accept the bounty of the moment without acknowledging the suffering that led them there.
Jason and Sam rode ahead to warn Johnny that Conor was coming in a truck. They didn’t want him to open fire on what he might take as an enemy invasion. He was pleased with the safe return of his son and daughter-in-law, shedding a tear at their happy return.
Shannon rushed to her father and hugged him tightly. That hug told the story and no words were necessary. Doc Marty knew by the way his daughter embraced him that she’d seen the things he warned against. She’d be different after this. It was inevitable.
“You okay, baby?” Doc asked when she finally pulled away from him.
She frowned. “It was awful. I had to pull glass out of Conor’s butt with tweezers.”
Doc Marty gave Conor a disturbed expression. “What the hell, man?”
Conor shrugged. “I couldn’t reach them. What was I supposed to do?”
Doc patted Shannon on the shoulder. “Honey, if you’re old enough to do that you’re old enough for a drink. You’re welcome to a shot of Scotch later if you want one.”
“I might have to rub it in my eyes,” she said, winking at Barb.
They unloaded the goods they’d set aside for Johnny, then helped him stash them in his storage areas.
“I think we better be going,” Conor said. “Dark is closing in and I’m sure Ragus is about to climb the walls.”
“Can we leave our horses here and come back for them tomorrow?” Shannon asked. “I’m saddle sore.”
“That okay, Johnny?” Doc asked.
“Of course.”
“Barb?” Conor asked. “You coming?”
She shook her head. Again, Conor had forgotten that she’d moved in with Johnny’s family.
“Barb, you did well out there. If you want to come back home for a few days, back to your old room, that’s fine.”
“No, Dad, I’m good. I haven’t even really had a chance to enjoy being out on my own yet. We rushed out on that operation before I even got settled in. How about I come see you at the compound tomorrow? I can bring your horses back to you then.”
Conor nodded. He closed the distance to his daughter and hugged her tight. “I’m so proud of you, Barb. You know that, right?”
“I do. I’m proud of you too. I think I raised you right.”
Conor laughed. “There are those who would beg to differ.”
72
They radioed Ragus before they reached the compound, wanting to warn him that they were in a truck instead of on horseback. He was curious about that turn of events but they said they’d explain once they were home. Ragus was indeed glad to see people again, especially Shannon.
> “I’ve been talking to the animals,” he said. “I could swear one of the goats talked back.”
“As long as it stopped at talk,” Conor teased.
They had no interest in unloading the heavy truck. They were too sore and exhausted. Conor pulled it into one of the tall shop buildings where it would be safe until tomorrow. Desperate for information, Ragus peppered them with questions and Conor felt bad about blowing him off. After all, Ragus had really stepped up to care for the compound in Conor’s absence. It was an important responsibility and he deserved to know what had happened.
Over a pot of hot tea Conor and Shannon recounted their trip for Doc Marty and Ragus. It was an emotional experience for the two who had missed the fight, both of them concerned that their family had been so exposed to danger. It took hours to relay the entire story and by then everyone was ready to turn in for the night. They all wanted to be back in their own beds in their own quarters.
“There’s a fire going in your cabin,” Ragus told Shannon and Doc Marty. “I kept it going the entire time you were gone. Didn’t know if you had stuff that might freeze. Plus it would be warm when you got back.”
Shannon rewarded him with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. The latter got a frown from her father who hadn’t seen any public affection between them. Shannon caught the expression and frowned back at him.
“Oh, you think I’m old enough for a shot of Scotch but not old enough to kiss a boy on the cheek?”
“It’s time for bed,” Doc Marty said, getting to his feet. He wasn’t ready for this.
Conor laughed. “I’m heading off too.”
“You all go on. I’ll secure the camp,” Ragus said. “I’ll bank the fire for the night, make a sweep around the property, then I’ll be heading off to bed.”
Conor smiled. “Thank you, lad. You’re growing into quite the responsible young man. I didn’t raise you but I’m very proud of you.”
Ragus beamed as Conor headed back to his room. He was back in a few seconds with a sheet of paper. He held it out to Ragus.
Brutal Business: Book Three in the Mad Mick Series Page 36