The blow to his temple stunned George and Conor twisted the rifle from his hands, tossing it away from them. George raised up, trying to clear his head, but caught a shin to the groin. He doubled over. Conor grabbed the back of his head and fired a knee upward into George’s face.
Once.
Twice.
On the third blow, George staggered, one knee folding. Conor took advantage of the opportunity and snaked a forearm around the man’s neck. He locked George into a guillotine choke and dropped to the ground. With the blood flow to his brain shut off, George was limp and unconscious in less than a minute.
When Conor was certain George was out cold, he released him and shoved the body off him. He got to his feet and took a deep breath. He was getting too old for hand-to-hand. He was lucky to have been fighting someone his own age and relatively untrained. George may have been a thug but he wasn’t a trained grappler. Conor found another set of flex-cuffs tucked into his web gear and lashed George’s hands together.
When he was done, he rolled him onto his back and slapped him a few times. When that failed to rouse him, Conor went to a pallet of bottled water and removed a bottle from the shrink wrap. He twisted the cap loose and tipped the entire bottle into George’s face. By the time the last of the contents drained out, George was sputtering and twisting his head.
“Consider that a preamble to waterboarding if I don’t get the information I want,” Conor said. “I won’t be wasting much time with you. How many men are in the house?”
“Fifteen.”
“Weapons?”
George nodded. “Mostly handguns. A few rifles.”
“Training?”
“Not really. Mumin said these were ‘virgins’ plucked from remote villages. No military or criminal records, but devout to their faith. This was their first operation.”
“What’s the layout of the house?”
George let out a long breath and tried to shake the cobwebs from his head. “Pretty much the same as Mumin’s place, just a little smaller. Living area at the front, two floors with bedrooms, and shared baths in the hallway.”
“Anything else I need to know?”
George considered. “Omar is the ringleader. He’ll probably be with the woman.”
Conor tipped his rifle up and aimed it at George’s head. “Appreciate it, mate.”
George’s eyes widened. “Wait! I helped you! I told you what you wanted to know!”
Conor shrugged. “Yeah, I know, but you should really choose your friends better next time. Can’t give you a pass. Especially since you said you were just an employee. That means you’re not valuable enough to keep.”
George opened his mouth to protest but Conor silenced him with the first shot to the head. He dropped his point of aim and put a second in George’s heart for good measure. In the heavily-insulated building, there was no chance of the shots being heard. Between Conor’s suppressor and the subsonic rounds, the cycling action of the rifle was nearly as loud as the report of the round being fired.
Conor stepped away from the body and checked the time. It was later than he thought. Afternoon already. He would have preferred to launch his attack after dark but he couldn’t wait. Each passing minute was one more that Shani spent in the hands of those men. The time to act was now.
24
Conor’s guerilla tactics were a mixture of both his training and his natural inclination toward mayhem. No one needed to teach him how to spread chaos and fuck shit up. He was pretty much born with that ability. When he was a kid, his mom would say, “Conor Maguire, you could break an anvil.” He still could, though he could break it with considerably more style and finesse than he’d used as a kid.
He exited the storage building, locking the door behind him, and making certain he still had the key. Seeing nobody moving around in the open, he ran for the barn. Most of the animals were out in the fenced pasture, but he did turn out two horses that were loitering in their stalls. He checked the farm vehicles and found they all had the keys in them. Apparently, they were confident enough in their security that the idea of a tractor-jacking didn’t concern them. That, however, was exactly what Conor had in mind.
He piled four bales of hay in the loader bucket, then doused the hay with ten gallons of diesel fuel. He went to the flatbed farm truck and dug around behind the seat, eventually finding a highway safety kit with two flares, and shoved them in the cargo pocket of his pants.
The tractor had a hand throttle that would allow it to operate without a foot constantly pressed on the pedal. It required a person in the seat in order to work though. The minute the seat sensor detected that Conor had hopped off it would shut the tractor down. He counteracted that safety measure by throwing two sacks of horse feed into the cab, then climbing in and starting the machine. When the engine was running smoothly, Conor put it in the highest gear and hit the throttle. With a lurch, the tractor sped off in the direction of the men’s building. The tractor was faster than Conor expected and he would be at the building in no time.
While he couldn’t be certain whether they heard him or not, no one appeared on the porch so he could take his time. He carefully aligned the steering. He didn’t want to hit the building straight on, instead wanting to strike a glancing blow against the broad side. Angled correctly, the powerful tractor’s bucket should slash through the thin steel panels like a razor blade through paper.
As he got nearer, Conor geared the tractor down for less speed but more power. He double-checked that he was still heading in exactly the right direction, targeting the side of the building like he was aiming a missile. He stood and the tractor engine faltered. Conor got a knee in the seat, applying his weight to keep the engine from dying.
He awkwardly tugged one of the feed sacks into the seat. Not wanting to risk that it wasn’t enough weight, he pulled the second up too. He cocked them in at an angle, hoping they’d stay put. He checked the steering again, confirming that he was headed in the right direction, then ignited a flare. Hanging from the open door of the cab, he lobbed the flare toward the bucket. The flare rolled off a hay bale but not before setting it ablaze. The fuel-soaked hay quickly roared to life with the intensity of a propane torch.
Conor grabbed his rifle, put a foot on the step, and hopped off. At the reduced pace, it was an easy landing and he managed not to break a hip. In a few short steps, he was in control of his pace and ran for George’s van. It was parked directly in front of the men’s building and was the only concealment available to him. He might get a little ballistic protection from the engine or the steel wheels but most of the van was thin sheet metal or glass. He couldn’t depend on that to save his life.
He’d barely reached the van when the front door of the building opened. A man appeared in the doorway, brow furrowed as he tried to figure out the source of the growing noise. He immediately spotted the tractor barreling down on him. The man yelled and raised a handgun. He shouted threats but there was no reaction. He fired desperately at the cab, punching holes in the glass to no effect.
Uncertain as to what might happen when the flaming tractor hit the building, the man unleashed a terrified squeal and fled, hopping from the porch, and took off running. Conor whipped around the back of the van and dropped the running man with a double-tap.
While his eyes were averted from the building, the tractor made first contact, the bucket slamming into the metal siding at a steep angle. There was a screech like nails on a blackboard. Steel against steel. The sharp cutting edge of the bucket sliced through the siding at chest level. Conor heard studs snapping when the siding began to rip away. As it scraped alongside the building, the tractor dropped flaming, fuel-soaked hay in its wake. Soon the fire was spreading to the framing. Shortly after, walls were burning.
Shouts were pouring from the door as the tractor began to inflict its damage. A few bold men rushed outside trying to see what was going on, trying to determine if there was some way they might stop the attack. Conor let them come. As soon as
they were out of sight of the front door, he dropped each of them with a single shot.
Black smoke poured from the door of the building. Conor wondered if the fire had spread to a mattress or sofa. It was that kind of dense, acrid smoke. The level of chaos inside the house accelerated. More screaming, more yells, more shouted instructions. Panic.
Two men with rifles came running from the house, not pausing on the porch this time but leaping off and running past the van. Conor thought they were coming for him but they passed him by and hauled ass toward the storage building. They must have been looking for George. Conor fired and his well-aimed .300 rounds sent the men tumbling.
Conor did a tactical reload and spun back toward the fight. Although he’d lost track of the men he’d killed he knew he had a long way to go. There were more of them inside and he expected them to come pouring out at any moment. The structure was fully-engulfed now and this fire wasn’t going to die until it burned out. The men couldn’t stay inside for much longer and there was no back way out.
A bearded face appeared in the doorway, shouting. It took Conor a second to realize the man was calling out to his friends, shouting their names. Someone had finally noticed that men had been running out for several minutes but none were returning. The man craned his neck around, trying to spot his companions, but Conor had been careful to only drop them out of sight of the front door. He wouldn’t find anything from his current position.
When the man in the door got no response, he raised his handgun, flattened himself against the wall, and slipped out the open door. He eased along the wall, assuming that whatever threat there was lay in the direction of the tractor. He was dead wrong.
As soon as he turned the corner to the damaged side of the building, he spotted the first of the scattered bodies. He spun in terror, deciding he’d rather take his chances in the burning building than out there with an unseen attacker. Conor gave him a third option.
Death.
He sent a round into the bridge of the man’s nose. The hot metal slug expanded into a spinning buzz-saw of death, shredding and boring through his gray matter. His legs failed and he toppled over, a drooling, dying mess.
Another man came sprinting out the door toward the van. He had a handgun but it wasn’t aimed at anyone. His focus was on the vehicle. He whipped open the door and peered inside, pawing desperately at the dash. “They’re in here!” he called back inside. “The keys are in here!”
Two other men hurried out while the first climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Not wanting to be backed over, Conor whipped open one of the double doors at the back of the van. The driver turned to see what was happening behind him. Conor sent two rounds through the back of his vinyl seat. The driver coughed and a rivulet of blood streamed from his lower lip.
The two other men reached the van, one slinging open the passenger door while the other slid open the side door. Both stared at the driver, trying to make out was going on. They’d just been talking to him. Now his bloody lips formed words but no sounds emerged.
Conor flipped his selector to full-auto, popped around the passenger side, and sprayed a burst. The man nearest him went down hard, kicking and screaming as bullets laced his torso. The man in front tried to dive through the open front passenger door but his legs were exposed.
Conor directed a short burst toward his upper thighs. A scream told him he’d found flesh, his rounds hitting home. Conor ducked behind the van and threw a quick glance over the seats. The man he’d just shot in the legs was still stretched across the front seats. His head and shoulders were exposed between the driver and passenger seats and he was screaming bloody murder. Conor raised his rifle, dumped rounds, and the man’s cries fell silent.
He did another quick mag change, returning the empty to a pouch. No one else appeared in the door of the house but he could hear movement in there, and yelling, coughing, and choking. He had a smoke grenade but what the hell good would it do when there was already an inferno spewing hellish clouds from the door? He had other goodies but didn’t want to throw an explosive inside the building with Shani still in there.
He contemplated his next move. Should he charge inside? Yell for Shani? What to do?
25
Shani fought to stay calm. She’d been terrified when Mumin was shot and they returned her to the men’s building. She was certain that meant interrogation, torture, and other unpleasant things she’d rather not contemplate. She wasn’t scared to die but some manners of death were much worse than others. She’d been pulled inside and shoved roughly onto the couch, which was made worse by the pillowcase over her head.
She could feel the men looming around her, sense their rage, and knew at any moment someone would strike her. Blinded by her hood, she’d be unable to prepare for the blow. It would come from nowhere and it would not be the last one. Once it started, who knew where it would end? That was the thing about mob violence. It was contagious. No one wanted to be left out. As soon as one person landed a punch, another felt they deserved the opportunity as well. Unable to defend herself or even ward off the blows, she’d be helpless.
The men had been working themselves up to that point when something struck the building. One moment Omar was screaming in her covered face, the next there was an ear-splitting screeching as something heavy rammed the building. Metal screeched against metal. Though she could see nothing, she could sense the sudden anxiety around her. These men had no idea what was going on.
“Go look!” Omar directed one of the men.
There was the sound of movement around her as men shifted in the room, trying to get away from whatever hit the wall. Wood splintered and cracked. Was something coming through the wall? It sounded as if the building was coming apart around them.
Through the thin pillowcase, she noticed the light change. Daylight penetrated her hood. Something had punctured the wall, but she didn’t know if this was the work of Conor or George. Both had reason to attack the terrorists. Then the smell of smoke and diesel fuel hit her nostrils.
“Fire,” she whispered.
“Shut up!” Omar barked in her face.
He was still there alongside her, hovering and menacing.
A man shouted that a tractor had rammed into the building.
“George!” Omar muttered. “Kill him! Shoot him!”
Shani heard men getting to their feet and rushing out the door. She had no idea how many had gone or how many remained. There was the sound of hissing flames and a growing heat against her face. A hand grabbed her by the arm and yanked her up from the couch.
“We have to go,” Omar said. “The furniture is burning.”
Her hood provided a little protection from the acrid smoke but not much. Her coughing was a small part of the chorus of coughing and choking around her. Why weren’t they getting out of this house? They would die in here and she’d die with them. Being beaten to death by the men would be horrible but she didn’t want to burn to death either.
“What are they doing out there?” Omar shouted to someone. “I don’t even hear shots. Why aren’t they shooting him? He’s just one man. Get out there and help them!”
Shani heard shots though. Her practiced ear had picked up multiple suppressed gunshots and she had an inkling those shots were why none of the terrorists had been able to stop the tractor. The men Omar had sent outside were lying dead in the yard, she knew. Then she heard more shots. Fully automatic suppressed fire. This definitely wasn’t George. It was the Mad Mick.
Omar tugged her down the hall. She already knew there wasn’t a back door to this house. They would become trapped in the inferno if they got too far from the single escape route. What was he thinking? The smoke was getting thicker. It burned her eyes and she wanted to rub them, but couldn’t. She stumbled over Omar’s feet.
“Be careful!” he hissed.
Stepping on his feet and hearing his voice told her exactly where he was positioned relative to her body. She understood that this was perhaps the
best opportunity she’d have to strike. Everyone in the house was distracted by the smoke and the attack. Omar was tugging her along behind him so she suspected he was looking away from her, his gun mercifully pointed in another direction.
Shani charged. It was exactly the opposite of what Omar expected. His body was leaning forward, tugging her by the arm. Her sudden change in direction threw him off balance and he began to fall forward.
She didn’t let up. Her powerful legs pistoned against the floor as she ducked her shoulder and pressed hard against his body, trying to tackle him by force alone. Omar attempted to twist toward her but couldn’t. She picked up speed, driving his body in front of her, and felt the pillowcase brush her hand. She pinched it awkwardly between her fingers, threw her head backward, and it slipped off.
Shani regained her visibility just in time. Omar’s feet tangled and he went down, Shani falling on top of his chest. He writhed beneath her, trying to shove her off him. However, she was an experienced grappler and he was at a distinct disadvantage. In a fraction of a second, she had her legs wrapped around his thighs, locked onto him. Her hands still bound, she drove her left elbow beneath his chin, then lodged it against his throat.
“Bitch!” Omar bellowed.
She grinned. “No, you’re my bitch now.”
His hand arced upward, smacking her in the side of the head with the pistol. It wasn’t a solid blow and she pulled herself tighter against him, making it hard for him to put any force behind his swing.
She twisted her head, keeping the pistol in her sight. Then she saw him fumbling with it, trying to line up a shot. She gave up on her choke, throwing her upper body to the left, trapping his forearm between her elbow and the wall. Omar cried out, fumbled the weapon, and dropped it. He threw a left, blindsiding her. The punch connected with the back of her head but it was a glancing, ineffective blow. He was not a strong man, nor was he experienced enough to understand how to counter a fighter pressed so tightly to him.
Northern Sun: Book Four in The Mad Mick Series Page 14