The Mad Mick: Book One of The Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  Plodding along at the fastest pace an old shop-rat could manage, Conor had a lot of time to think. When there was nothing to do but put one foot behind the other, what else could you do? The mind wandered in attempt to distract from the physical discomfort. Sometimes he thought about what he was going to do to the men when he caught them. Sometimes he thought about what he might have to do to prevent something like this from happening again.

  He was starting to wonder if perhaps his entire approach to keeping himself and Barb safe was flawed. He’d hoped they could maintain a low profile and avoid contact but they had violated the basic tenets of such a strategy. They had both been wandering around outside of the compound.

  They had no guards on the perimeter of their geographic boundaries. Their community had no system of alerting each other to danger, no defensive perimeter. Conor had not wanted to do any of those things. He had not wanted to assume responsibility for so many people. He had not wanted to take charge. But that strategy–avoidance—had allowed strangers to come into their territory. It had allowed his daughter to be kidnapped.

  If he wanted to keep his ridge safe, his entire community safe, he had to become the sheepdog and drive the wolves away. The only thing wolves understood was violence, and a good sheepdog was willing to rise to a level of violence above that of the wolf. You had to be as willing to kill as the wolf was and the wolf had to be aware of this, had to be afraid.

  Conor had no problem with that. He'd been coached on violence his entire life. As a child in Ireland, the unwitting apprentice of two generations of bomb makers, he’d absorbed a lot. Not only about making bombs, but about killing and the motivation for killing. It didn't stop there, though. Conor’s relationship with violence and his understanding of the role it played in the world was a long, complicated story.

  When young Conor and his mother Moira came to the United States, they settled in the Boston area. There were a lot of Irish folks there and they were able to take advantage of connections with people who were either friends or family of people they knew back home. That helped his mother find an apartment and a job. Still, meeting people with connections to the old country was not entirely comforting. She met people who not only knew who she was but who her husband and father-in-law were. There were people in Ireland who would pay money for that information. People who lost family members to the bombs. They would see her and Conor as fair game. She realized she and her son were not safe in Boston.

  Moira worked as a waitress in a restaurant. She told her boss, a well-known local businessman named Bertie, she was interested in moving to a small town somewhere. She wanted a place where she wouldn't be known and where Conor would not be in danger from people seeking retaliation against things he had no part of.

  "I might be able to help you with that," Bertie offered.

  Ever the suspicious type, Moira had cocked an eyebrow at Bertie, assuming that all help came at a cost. Being a woman with no husband, she was pretty sure she knew what the cost would be but she was wrong. Bertie put matters of money before concerns of the flesh. He was a greedy bastard and, as the Irish put it, he’d sell you the eye out of your own head.

  "You ever thought about the mountains of North Carolina?" Bertie asked. “It’s a beautiful part of the country and damn near identical to home. Many of the families there are Scots or Irish by blood.”

  Moira shrugged. "I don't know this country well. I haven’t taken my plan to the point of picking a place to move. Moving requires money and I figured I’d have to save for a while before I could make the move.”

  "North Carolina is far enough that news from Boston doesn't make it down there," he pointed out. "That's part of why I may be able help you out."

  "I’m cut to the onions with all this talk. Tell me what you’re hinting at, Bertie Mooney." Moira had no tolerance for beating around the bush.

  Bertie had to laugh at this woman who showed no deference for who or what he was in the community. Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe she didn’t care. Perhaps she’d spent so much time around men of violence that they were not a novelty to her.

  "I have men, employees and associates, who catch a little local heat sometimes. I’ve found the best solution is to get them out of town for a couple of months until things blow over. When it happens, I have to make arrangements and find someplace to send them. It’s happening often enough that I’ve been thinking about a place of my own to send them. You could provide that place. I’d pay you a little money every month for room and board of these men. It will never be more than one or two at a time. Sometimes there won't be any there at all but you’ll get the money every month. For that money, I expect there to be a bed and a hot meal available if I send somebody."

  "Are these rumbly blokes? How do I know these men will be safe for my son to be around?" It was notable that Moira made no reference to her own safety. She was not scared of men.

  "Regardless of what crimes these men may or may not have committed, I swear I will only send you men who are good family men. Men you don't have to worry about. Men who will not present a risk to you or your son.”

  Moira processed that. “You say it’s just for a short period?”

  Bertie shrugged and held up his hands. “A few days, a few weeks, a few months. Just until things blow over and they can come back home."

  "How much would I get for this?"

  Bertie considered. "I’ll give you three hundred dollars a month. That includes room and board for whoever I might send. I think that's more than fair. You can probably even find a house in North Carolina you can rent for less than that."

  She studied Bertie and found no signs of guile or deception. She had a good sense of men and felt this one was being honest with her. She’d known him to be a good man. He’d been helpful to her and kind to her son when the lad came by the restaurant to eat.

  She extended a hand and they shook on it. "You have yourself a deal.”

  Bertie smiled, reaching into his shirt pocket to fish out a wad of bills. He licked his thumb and plucked three hundred dollar bills from the stack. He extended them to her. "First payment. You call me when you get set up down there. Send me a mailing address and a phone number. I need directions to the house and the name of the nearest airport."

  By that chance conversation with her boss, Conor's mother began an informal rooming house for Irish mobsters on the run from the law. A couple of times a year they would host a grandfatherly assassin, a handsome thief, or some other high-profile criminal that needed to escape the Boston underworld for a few months. True to his word, Bertie only sent men who seemed like decent family men. Conor, missing his dad and grandfather, was anxious for male influences in his life and most of these men eagerly took on that role to break up the boredom of country life.

  They told Conor stories and took him fishing. They washed dishes and helped Moira in the garden. Whether born in the United States or the old country, these were decent Irish blokes and Moira found them to be an honest and trustworthy lot. She had no idea, though, that her inquisitive son persisted in badgering each man with questions until he eventually figured out the score. He had enough street knowledge to figure out who and what these men were. By the time he was eleven years old, Conor knew the inside scoop on pretty much every major crime the Irish mob committed. The boy knew who the bosses were, who pulled off all the major heists, and most entertaining of all, who had whacked who.

  Moira understood Conor’s need for male influences in his life but she’d have been extremely upset if she understood that these men continued Conor’s education in crime, murder, and mayhem. It wasn’t their fault. Once Conor figured out why these men kept showing up, he badgered them for stories about their way of life. Once that gate was open, it was like they picked up exactly as his father and grandfather left off.

  One of the lessons that stuck with him was the significance of vengeance. You didn't let people get away with acting against you or they would continue to do so. You hit them back and you hit twice
as hard as they hit you. It was like the sheepdog and the wolf. You let the wolf keep picking off sheep and it was going to keep coming back. The only way the wolf learned a lesson was if you killed one of them and hung it at the boundary so all the other wolves knew the score.

  Conor remembered one story in particular, about an old Irish gentleman named Patrick who liked to take his great niece swimming at the neighborhood pool. There he picked up talk about a loser who spent a lot of time at the pool and always looked at the little girls a little too long, in a way that was not paternal but predatory.

  When Patrick heard the pervert had offered his great niece a candy bar, he couldn’t let it sit. After all, who knew how many children this slimeball had probably molested? Patrick didn’t want his niece to be next.

  One day while the pervert was at the pool creeping on the little kiddies, Patrick broke into the perv’s car. In his pocket, he had a baggie of crystal drain cleaner that he ground with a hammerhead until it was as fine as baby powder. Using a funnel and a teaspoon, Patrick filled the air condition vents in the guy’s car with the powdered drain cleaner. He aimed all the vents at the driver’s seat and turned the fan switch to the HIGH position. He wiped down everything he touched with a handkerchief, locked the car door, and retreated to a distant corner of the parking lot to wait for the slimeball.

  Patrick was sitting on a bench smoking a cigarette when the creep got into his El Dorado and started the engine. The next thing he knew, the guy was rolling around in the parking lot, screaming and rubbing his eyes. The guy ended up going losing his sight but he saw the writing on the wall. He got the hell out of the neighborhood and never came back.

  With that and similar revenge stories playing through his head, Conor pushed himself onward with thoughts of what he was going to do to Barb's kidnappers when he found them. There would be no restraint or mercy. It would be a sheepdog gone mad, tearing men limb from limb. It would be a display of excess and violence that would become the stuff of legend. It would make any future troublemakers think twice before crossing into the land of The Mad Mick.

  12

  Barb did not sleep. She was wide awake, sitting on the floor and reclined against the cold block wall when the door was shoved open the next morning. Harsh morning light flooded the interior of the sparse building, singeing retinas and forcing those who were awake to cover their eyes. Barb had tried to sleep at some point in the night, stretching out on the floor, but was unable to get comfortable. Where she’d been hit by the blunt arrow caused a dull pain if she moved the wrong way. Unfortunately, lying down was one of the “wrong ways” she couldn’t move.

  When her eyes adjusted to the stabbing pain of the light, Barb could see the women who’d managed to find sleep stirring beneath the white tablecloths they’d used as blankets. Barb knew she’d pay a price for her lack of sleep. She’d struggle to stay awake in the saddle and wouldn’t be at her maximum ability.

  "Rise and shine, ladies," sang an all too cheery man sent to wake them up. He brought in a fresh bucket of drinking water.

  They’d finished yesterday’s bucket last night and had not been offered a refill. Another man came in behind the first bearing a tray of meat scraps straight from the smoker. Last night, from the interior of the building, they’d heard the men outside feasting on steaks and ribs while they got off-cuts and scraps. Still, Barb was glad they were given anything at all. Maintaining their strength would be critical if they ever hoped to fight back or escape.

  She stood and walked to the tray of meat left sitting atop the empty water bucket. She grabbed a handful and went back to the wall where she sat down, tearing chunks of the meat free with her teeth. There was no knife to trim the fat away so she concentrated on taking in the calories, trying not to gag on the thick chunks of fat.

  Another five gallon bucket and a stack of napkins had served as their toilet overnight. The reek from that bucket made it difficult to eat but JoAnn forced herself. When she found she could not force all of the food down in such an unappetizing environment, she secreted away the rest in her bra, hoping she would find an opportunity to finish it later. She didn’t know where the next meal was coming from.

  The women rose, talking quietly, eating, drinking, and using the makeshift toilet, which had been an easier proposition in the pitch black last night. A person could at least imagine they were in a more private setting instead of sharing their bathroom with an army of other women. Barb needed to go but could not force herself to go under these degrading circumstances. She would hold it, though she might pay a price later for her stubbornness. There was no guarantee they’d stop and offer a better opportunity.

  A different man appeared in the doorway, the blinding light leaving him in silhouette and obscuring his features. "Okay ladies, here's how we’re going to do things today. Everybody has to be zip tied again with your hands in front of you so you can hold onto the pommel of your saddle. We’re also going to zip tie an ankle to one of your stirrups so don't be getting any ideas that you're going to leap from your horse and make a break for it. We’ll try this with the hoods off today but if any one of you breaks the rules, it's hoods for everyone.” He gave that a moment to sink in.

  "Should we bring these tablecloths we used for blankets?" Barb asked.

  The man reacted as if it were the dumbest question he’d ever heard. "I reckon you should if you don't want to be cold tonight. Your comfort is not my concern."

  Barb wanted to stalk across the floor and knock him on his ass but she showed some restraint. The time for that would come, and she hoped she personally would have the opportunity to deliver the blow.

  “Where are you taking us?” cried one of the women. She was holding a younger girl, a teenager, against her.

  “Why, I’m taking you home,” he said cruelly. “Oh, but before you get too excited, I mean to your new home, of course. Not your old home.”

  “I want to go home,” the teenage girl moaned.

  “Your lives started over yesterday. The sooner you realize that, the better off you’ll be. They call me Top Cat and I’m your new boss. When we get to your new home, I’ll introduce you to my boss. His name is Bryan. You’ll be fine as long as you obey Bryan’s rules. If you break the rules or get to be a pain in the ass, your stay will become very unpleasant.”

  When there were no comments, Top Cat backed out of the building. “We’ll talk more later,” he called from the doorway.

  Barb looked at JoAnn and saw nothing but fear. Were it in her nature to be more nurturing, she would try to comfort the other woman, but that was not how she did things. She would encourage fighting back, killing, and plotting vengeance. She would not encourage indulging in emotions.

  13

  Ragus managed to sleep but he was certain it was only the result of sheer exhaustion. Since meeting Conor, he always carried sleeping gear in his pack just in case he was forced to spend the night in the woods. He had a 10' x 10' backpacking tarp constructed of silver nylon that weighed next to nothing. He could use it as a ground cloth, a shelter, or even pull it over his head as a poncho if he was caught in a downpour. With no indication of rain, he laid it out on the ground and slept under a fleece blanket.

  When he awoke, he crawled to a position where he could observe Barb's kidnappers again. People were packing horses so he assumed they were preparing to take their leave. He glanced around his own position, halfway hoping he would find Conor approaching so they could end this right here, right now. He did not have the ability to take on this group of men by himself. He wouldn’t even know where to start. He was confident Conor could come up with a plan though. The man was good at this kind of thing.

  Ragus quickly bored with watching the kidnappers go about their routine, although he couldn’t let his attention completely lapse because it was critical he pick up any information he could about the group. Some men were seated at the outdoor dining area, breakfasting on water and warm beef fresh out of the smoker. Ragus took the opportunity to slip back to th
e creek and refill his water bottle and hydration bladder.

  Returning to his watch position, he used his bandana to wipe down the Henry rifle, which was looking pretty grimy after yesterday’s sweaty slog. His watch, also a gift from Conor, indicated it was 9 AM. He wondered why these men weren’t on the road already. They were wasting good daylight. The more he observed them, he came to the conclusion that it was not a strategic decision but more attributable to apathy and disorganization.

  Tendrils of wood smoke seeped from the rusty black smoker behind the restaurant. The breeze carried the scent directly to Ragus, taunting him, and it nearly drove the boy mad with hunger. He pulled a bent stick of jerky from his pack, peeled it open, and chewed, but it was no substitute for fresh smoked beef. He ate and watched, noticing one man was now moving from one cluster of folks to the next, his demeanor that of a person giving orders. Sometimes he shouted out but Ragus could not hear the words. The tone and gestures were familiar to him. It was not unlike a coach calling out instructions to his team.

  Apparently those instructions were marching orders, as the loose assembly of men began breaking down their gear, repacking it, and lashing it to pack horses. Ragus raised his rifle and viewed the activity through his low-power rifle scope. The magnification was not great but it did give him a slightly better picture of what was going on.

  A couple of men stood at the entrance to a squat cinderblock building that looked like an old garage with its rusty tin roof and mismatched paint. A man shouted inside and a woman haltingly emerged out of the door. She extended her hands in front of her and they were zip tied together. Another man led her to a horse and helped her mount, then zip tied her hands to the pommel of the saddle, then zip tied one leg to a stirrup. When Ragus returned his eyes to the building a second woman was being led off, her hands tied, another woman replacing her at the door.